#school projects gone wrong

[kizzer55555]

DP X DC School Project

So...I am part of a dp x dc Discord server under the nickname Jazz. Someone decided to post a Pinterest picture in the fanfic ideas channel. This is the conversation it created. I love this Discord server so much.

Eros:

Danny and Damain working together on school project together.

Or even Dani and Damian up to you.

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Danny and Damian just sounds so much more funny to me.

Eros:

Alrights 👌

BreKitten:

Oh my gosh, that's hilarious

Eros:

And they totally would act like this

Apricot:

crying lmao

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Damien: Why wouldn't we shop at [the expensive place]? I am an heir-

Danny: taps the paper 2k a month. You gave up your money to make me feel more comfortable.

Damien: Why would I care about your comfort?

Danny: dramatic gasp How could say that about your husband?!

Apricot:

Damian: husband?! what "husband"?!

Eros:

then proceeded to fight on types of toast and pricy vegetarian meals

Danny: look our family needs a balance diet, we can't live off vegetables alone! The very least we should mix it with some actual food like Ectoplasm.

(if Ectoplasm can be considered all kind of elements/a semi living organism since it revives things then any food brought to life should be counted as a beast of some kind)

Eros:

Also counts since Danny lived off ectoplasm for a fair bit of his life so he would see it as a food source

Eros:

Danny: me. I'm your husband, we agreed to marry to make it easier for the kids.

Apricot:

Damian: KIDS?!

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Danny: Danny Jr and Damian Jr!

Eros:

Danny: yes kids, don't tell me you forgot we had kids! I swear you'll say you forgot we have pets too!

Danny: shows the paper that says they have a pet and two kids

Jazz:

No wait, the ectoplasm comes last. Just the Wayne’s seeing Damian and this random kid fight about every single thing. Finally Damian comes home and says that they finally agreed on something.

The Wayne’s: finally. Looks like this is a good learning experience:

Damian: we have agreed to live off of Lazarus water.

Wayne’s: ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!

And the best thing is that they might not know about Danny being a halfa. So they think Damian is now corrupting random citizens.

Jazz:

Cause like, they both grew up with Lazarus water/ectoplasm and know the nutritional value.

Eros:

Indeed~

Jazz:

Great for child development too!

They both turned out great!

Eros:

Hehehe

Alright now both Danny and Damian are fully into this project now they have at least a agreed idea on food

Because the project they have is this; budget for every day living

So they have food set out

There is now trying to keep the house running and kids/pets alive and entertained

Danny agrees that with his skills he can do the majority of repairs, Damian agrees to take responsibility of the pets

They are now having an argument on how children should be raised.

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Damian is all for strict discipline, high standards of education, after school activities (he may not want his kids to be assassins but he still wants the best).

Danny's all for independence, finding your own way, encouragement and lots of love and support.

Damian: Do you want our children to grow up to be garbagemen?!

Danny: Do you know how much a garbageman makes?!

Eros:

Danny grew up around a lot of physical affection and love from his folks, except around the time of the accident/the holidays he always knew his parents loved each other very very much.

Damian comes from such an emotionally constipated house hold that he only gets the majority of physical affection from Dick

Jazz:

Lol

This is so perfect.

Danny then says something that puts Damian’s entire world view into question.

Danny: is this how you would treat our pets?!

Eros:

Damian: gasp how dare you, how very dare you!

Adonnenniel "Addy":

XD Danny, recounting the story later to Sam and Tucker: I swear, if he had pearls, he would've clutched them.

Eros:

Hehehe

Jazz:

Me imagining Damian going to Dick to complain.

Damian: can you imagine?! Raising kids and hugging them! Or saying it’s ok to fail!

Dick’s face.

Eros:

Damian complaining to his family: we might have agreed on living off Lazarus water, but now he wishes for our children to just go wild, then compared our pets to them!

Jazz:

Damian: obviously our pets would act nothing like those…savages.

Eros:

It just keeps getting better~

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Waynes are listening to this kind of like a soap opera

Eros:

Sam: wow Danny, at the very least your doing better then when you were partnered up with Val, like the majority of the time you were trying to pawn off raising the kid on each other until the flower was in danger, but I can't say much myself since Tucker pulled a Kronos.

Which opened a new can of worms; how much time were they going to take care and be there for their "kids" what kind of training would they go through

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Hehehe

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Danny: I learned from my mistakes. I wasn't ready to be a parent then.

Eros:

Their whole class and teachers are watching it like a soap opera

Eros:

The very least they get to see it live and not re counted

Jazz:

(Someone get popcorn, or they just get out their packed lunches early).

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Yes! The Waynes and Sam and Tucker get the play-by-play but the class gets to see the actual show!

Jazz:

No wait, someone records it and post it and then it goes viral. (Do they think that the Wayne’s make a lot more sense now hearing of how Damian thinks children should be raised?)

(Are there now more questions?!)

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Oooh. I can see people being even worse to Damian. Maybe pitying him because he grew up with so little love.

Eros:

Then the next day Danny brings up the issue of child raising again since Sam makes a good point.

Danny: okay so I've re think a few things, mainly on occasion the kids should get self defense classes or something like that since it would make most sense to keep them safe. But beyond work and school activities how should we spend our time with them?

Jazz:

People see the two about to continue their conversation and immediately stop what they are doing to bring their phones out.

What if this becomes one of the most popular ‘dramas’? Like, so much in fact even villains will stop what they are doing to watch?

Eros:

(because Danny comes from a physical affectionate house doesn't mean there was neglect from his folks working way too much)

Jazz pretty much raised him when it came to actual child care so Danny is determined to be there for his "kids"

Not just for the fun stuff or being pulled to random projects

Jazz:

They get super invested in this project.

Also, what if people intentionally goad them on? Like seeing them together and asking if a kid should be left alone at home or with a babysitter or what they’ll do during a blackout/tornado?

Eros:

Surprisingly it's Danny who brings a big book of plans in case if emergencies

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Yes!

Adonnenniel "Addy": - reply to students and citizens goading Danny and Damian on.

The teacher reworks their lesson plans to do an extended deep dive into home economics so that this can keep happening.

Jazz:

Absolutely.

Jazz:

Some of the emergency responses are normal like, if there is a tornado, evacuate kids to a shelter, others are strange like arguing whether you should fight the burglar or prioritize the kids. Others are just plain weird. A blackout? Both Damian and Danny will turn to face the questioner. Obviously they’ll be able to see in the dark. (Effect of ectoplasm/Lazarus exposure).

Eros:

Danny is even willing to share on the "in case of apocalypses" situations

Jazz:

Neither question why they know a massive amount of information about various world ending disasters/villains.

Eros:

Oh and how they should pack bags for school and for emergencies

Jazz:

Omg, they make a kid survival kit. Including blasters and knives.

Eros:

Danny insists they should put some of the survival kit stuff in the school bag

Jazz:

Everything a five year old should take to school.

Eros:

Ooo discussion on how old their kids should be to learn about weapons and how to safely handle them

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Danny: Eight should be good.

Damian: Eight is way too late to start!

Jazz:

The fact that both agree this is a necessary subject to teach their kids. Everyone’s reaction to hearing various ways you can kill/dismember a person and why this won’t work. Not because it’s immoral but clearly because young kids don’t have the necessary arm length to complete certain maneuvers.

Eros:

Damian: that's why we should put the kids into martial arts and gymnastics as soon as possible so  they can be flexible enough!

Jazz:

Danny: that’s why we should wait until their older and focus on their aim while young! Their muscle memory will be all wrong by the time they reach the appropriate age!

Damian: they will not always have a weapon to aim. The body is the only reliable weapon that will never fail.

Eros:

Now to add extra into the mix; Bruce and Jazz (who is now Danny's legal guardian) show up to school to pick them up as they are in a middle of an argument

Danny: and who will be the one teaching them? Because proper teachers will be expensive, at least we can teach them at home how to aim properly! It can be a bonding experience!

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Jazz: What are you talking about?

Danny: Teaching our young children proper aim.

Jazz: You will not!

Danny: I mean, you're obviously not going to teach them.

Jazz:

Damian: I can teach them perfectly fine.

Danny: what about work? You can’t be with them all the time. 

Damian: I can take them with me. We can travel around Gotham and learn to fight through experience. 

Danny: you are not taking our children to fight on the streets

Damian: what, didn’t you want us bonding?! Make up your mind!

Dick looking at Bruce. “This is your fault.”

Eros:

Danny: You're not letting our children out on the streets, they will put too many people in the hospital! You have any idea how expensive that would be!

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Damian casually dropping he's Robin?

Jazz:

Danny not even processing it.

Then casually stating he’s dead. Damian skipping that detail.

Adonnenniel "Addy":

XD They're too caught up in the roles.

Jazz:

Exactly.

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Maybe afterwards, if they think back on it.

Jazz:

Like vigilantism and the dead coming back to life is normal for them. They are focusing on the children right now thank you.

Adonnenniel "Addy":

And then they both come up with the excuse "I was just adding to lore, it was all pretend!"

Eros:

Not before this;

Damian: fine if you want to control our lives and children then we should just divorce!!

Jazz:

Danny: oh I’m controlling?!

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Do they get Alfred to be the judge to oversee their divorce?

Jazz:

Danny: fine, our kids and pets will be happier with me anyways.

Damian: don’t you dare bring the pets into this.

Damian going to Bruce to use the Wayne lawyers for this imaginary family divorce.

He will win this.

Danny actually going to Vlad.

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Vlad has been watching the whole time. He doesn't need to be brought up to speed.

Jazz:

Both of them are like, this is ridiculous. But on the other hand, my child actually asked for help from me for once.

Eros:

Hehehe

Danny uses Dani as an example of a child that is better off with him

Jazz:

Lol

Adonnenniel "Addy":

And Jazz even brings it up to Bruce that if Damian didn't get to play like this as a young kid, he might be making up for lost time, in his own intense way.

Eros:

Because that's what Danny is doing too

Jazz:

The absolute struggle both Bruce and Vlad go through on whether or not to actually do this and use up their lawyers, money, and resources.

The viral videos increase. 

Eros:

Danny getting frustrated enough that he is tempted to get Clockwork to be the judge

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Bruce gets his other kids involved? They play as Damian's lawyers?

Eros:

Yesz

Jazz:

Dick is having a blast.

Then Sam comes in for Danny’s defense.

Both Tucker, Tim, and Barbra (possibly Technis) get into a hacking war.

Eros:

Yesss!

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Yesss!

Jazz:

Cujo and Titus become best friends.

Eros:

Dani is still the example child

Jazz:

Tim is Damian’s example child.

Eros:

Peepaw Clockwork comes in a human form to judges

Jazz:

Alfred and Clockwork have tea.

And discuss their kids.

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Tim: I'm older than you! How am I your example child?!

Dick: whispers Hey, he's including you without stabbing you. Take the win.

Eros:

Clockwork: I do hope they figure this all out before their legit kids are born~

Jazz:

Yesssss.

Eros:

Danny: finally stops, going into a blushing and betrayed look at Clockwork

Damian: who doesn't know Clockwork sees the future what on earth are you talking about, we barely are keeping together for the kids we do have!

Gestures to Tim and Dani

Jazz:

Tim: I’m. Older. Than you!

Damian. Then start acting like it.

Danny: (trying to recover) tsk tsk, how can you treat your son this way?

Damian: he’s adopted.

Eros:

Danny: and she's a clone, doesn't mean they can't be loved and cared for as their own persons!

Danny: to prove a point he hugs both Dani and Tim, trying to smoother them with love and acceptance

Jazz:

Tim just looks so done with life at the moment.

Eros:

Danny: plus our pets are adopted, yet you wouldn't love them any less

Jazz:

Critical hit.

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Danny ends up adopting Tim by the end of this.

Jazz:

Lol

He wins Tim in the divorce.

Eros:

Lol

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Yesss!

Eros:

Tim gets a new dad

Jazz:

Bruce doesn’t know how to feel about this.

Eros:

This one says "I love you" and is into Tim's science projects

Jazz:

Dani’s like new sibling. Tackle Hugs.

And Danny doesn’t restrict coffee intake. He’s just as bad.

Eros:

If anything he shows Tim a whole world of coffee mixes

Jazz:

Jazz though. Jazz is a bit of a problem with Coffee.

Tim and his new dad form an alliance.

Eros:

Danny takes Tim to Frostbite to get a new spleen

Jazz:

Danny: see? I provide free healthcare.

Eros:

Then proceeds to show off Tim: This is my boi, I won him!

All while Dani is giggling and clinging to their sides

Jazz:

Vlad is looking at Bruce very smugly.

Eros:

Danny would show Tim and Dani off at school after this

Like: behold, my children!

Jazz:

It becomes public that Wayne enterprise’s CEO is Tim Fenton.

Eros:

(and since I'm going with King Danny in this)

That means due to Danny winning and Tim becoming his kid, Tim Fenton is now the prince of the infinite realms along with his new sister Dani

Cass and Steph come back from a big trip once everything is over

Jazz:

They ask what happened. 

Jason gleefully explains that Bruce went to legal war with another billionaire over an imaginary family and ended up loosing Tim to them.

Also, that Damian might have a crush.

Eros:

Jazz:

Lol

Eros:

Because he just went through one of the best non injury fights of his life with this guy

Jazz:

And lost

Eros:

Yet they do agree on a fair bit of things, and now know where their main issues are and can work on them.

Jazz:

The entire world witness this entire thing and there are going to be shippers.

Eros:

Pft imagine the Justice League hearing about this~

Jazz:

Also just think, when they eventually do get together. That high school teacher is absolutely going to brag that it was their project that started this.

Jon might have a crisis on being replaced as Damian’s best friend. Someone explains the difference between boyfriend and normal friend and Jon’s like, ok that’s fine then.

Eros:

Oh man, when Jon finds out everything that had happened

Jon would tell Conner

Jazz:

Conner hears about the clone comment.

Now Conner wants to be adopted.

Bruce “Kal-el” Wayne:

Absolutely

Danny be pulling a Bruce

Or would Bruce be pulling a Danny?

Jazz:

Omg, I just realized. Bruce Wayne lost a Custody battle.

Bruce “Kal-el” Wayne:

Major L

Eros:

To a child

Bruce “Kal-el” Wayne:

Ain't Danny technically a god?

Eros:

Still child

Who would definitely adopt Conner

BuriedReign:

Omg this is like a whole ass fic already, it’s soooo goood! I absolutely bursted out laughing at the “we plan to live off Lazarus water”

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Just got caught up and all I have to say is: 😂😂😂

Btw, I love the idea that Tim isn't legally adopted to Danny (by ghost standards, yes, not by mortal law) but he just goes with Danny cuz he's so done with his family.

Eros:

>:3

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Dani, Tim, Conner. Do we throw in reformed, de-aged Dan for shits and giggles?

Eros:

Pfft yess

And Damian only finds out about Dan after the divorce

This re sparks everything into a new battle~

Eros:

Damian is offended that Danny never told him about their other son Dan

Adonnenniel "Addy":

He wants visitation rights!

Eros:

Damian wants to win Dan, like how Danny won Tim

Adonnenniel "Addy":

That makes more sense

Eros:

Damian goes up to Dan and offers access to all sort of weapons, training/fights, being a heir to a different Kingdom, and possibly be ungrounded if he takes Damian's side in the new Custody battle

The Angst Queen:

When you catch up and burst out laughing

Also - I wanna add something

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Add, please!

The Angst Queen:

Damian would definitely pull a sword at some point - decide to attack and “miss” every time. He does not expect Danny to suddenly have an ice sword in hand. Do then they’re both going at it in a sword fight while still arguing about diaper brands

Damian - so then I attack him 

Dick - WHAT!?!? 

Damian - I know! He didn’t even have the decency to die! He pulled out his own sword! 

Dick in shock whispers - what

Damian - and he still refuses to consider Huggies! Insists on natural diapers!

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Lol

Eros:

Like when the arguments get too much they start sword fighting like the Adam's family

It's how they discuss things and keep up reaction times for both brain and body

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Do they fight in school or at the manor?

Eros:

School, just to add more to the soap opera drama

And for the bats to keep missing the live actions of it

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Yes!

Eros:

Except Babs but that's obvious to know why

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Their sword fights go all around the school, interrupting other classes. The security guards or other teachers try to stop them but Danny'll just pull them into the argument. 

Teacher: walking up to them, trying to grab the swords Now, boys, this must stop!

Danny: leaps up onto a desk, put his arm around the teacher's neck as he's still fighting Damian Hey, you look like a reasonable man. Tell me, why would you ever want to buy a waste product all for brand recognition and not cut down waste and get reusable diapers?

Teacher: That's a very leading question and calls on a few logical fallacies-

Danny: shoves the teacher away as Damian leaps for an attack

Eros:

And this is where Damian's crush really began

It's one thing to argue and have different trains of thought

It's another to have someone actually just as skilled as you in the battle of the sword and the mind

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Yeeees!

Eros:

Danny: Hopefully the castle is big enough for everyone

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Tim: You have a castle!? O_O

Conner: You have a castle!? : D

Danny: Yep!  Oh, and you two are now royalty!  Don't worry, you won't have to do anything unless you want to.

Eros:

I wonder if Tim rubs it in his other semi siblings faces

Like Steph, Jason, and Damian's faces in particular

Bruce “Kal-el” Wayne:

Does Tim take a pic of everything in the realms?

Eros:

Yes

Bruce Kal-el” Wayne:

Or try to

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Tim especially rubs being royalty in Damian's face.  He knows he should be better but damnit, Damian was/is all high and mighty about being the heir to the League of Assassins and Bruce's biological child - he stabbed Tim over it!  Tim gets to gloat a bit that he technically outranks Damian now!

BuriedReign:

Does this increase Damian’s crush on Danny? Damian tries to ask out Danny and makes it ‘rational’ by saying of course he needs to be higher ranked than Tim. While also trying to hide that isn’t the only reason why he wants to date Danny

Eros:

(make Damian unintentionally ghost speak which reveals his true emotions and reasons as to why he wants to date Danny)

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Damian: I want to date him for no other reason than to one-up my once brother.  That's it.  Nothing else involved here.  Just pure revenge.  I will not let Tim outrank me in this life or the next.

Jason: Uh-huh. flipping to the next page of Pride and Prejudice  Have fun on your denial date.

Omg, imagine Damian formally asking Danny out on a date!

And Danny's like, despite the divorce, I want to give us another shot.

Eros:

And the plot THICKENS

That's everyone's reactions 😁

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Yes!

Eros:

Where would they even go on a date?

Ooo what if they went to the museum

Or an art gallery

Bruce “Kal-el” Wayne:

Or a date to the literal moon

Eros:

I don't think Damian would survive that well

Bruce “Kal-el” Wayne:

Ecto shield giving an artificial atmosphere

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Damian would take Danny to a museum or art gallery.

Danny will chose the next date and take him to the moon.

Eros:

Then definitely the museum should be like the Glenbow Museum

This is just inside the front entrance

It's called the aurora borealis

Because they make the crystals actually glow different colors

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Ooooooh!

Yes!

Eros:

This is a full on walk through section where you learn about the stars and First Nations

Adonnenniel "Addy":

Holy shit, now I want to go to the Glenbow Museum.

Eros:

Art pieces, and they also have a section for mid evil times and even mini battle fields

The Angst Queen:

Side note - I bet Danny makes Damian work to get that date

Eros:

Definitely

[jrueships]

older white men who have to announce how much they prefer college sports over professional sports & obsess over it kinda creep me out idk

[soulless-bex]

that awkward moment when you start a school project (involving a shit tone of researches because of course it does) on a music group only for the singer to fucking die the next day

[ambunyun]

DC x DP Prompt (1)

Danny became a living planet.

It all started with Sam's ramble about environmentalism, and then she suggested creating a miniature ecosystem of their own for a school project.

One thing leads to another, Danny managed to find a ton of extinct plants and flora in the Ghost Zone, some exotic specimens scientists had never heard of before - to vegetations of alien origins.

And apparently, all of them are growable - just not in the conventional sense. Since all of them were technically 'dead' or 'extinct', they behaved like ghosts in the sense that they had cores, which meant that as long as Danny fed them ectoplasm, they could grow and develop like ordinary plants!

Just one small problem, he didn't exactly have a place to grow all of these. Until Tucker had a brilliant idea, just pick a random exoplanet and grow them there, ecto-plants could grow no matter the atmosphere or soil conditions anyway - as long as Danny was always there to supplement the needed ectoplasm. Problem solved! Danny even got to satisfy his space obsession!

On the other hand, the Justice League and Green Lantern Corp were greatly confused about a random barren planet in the same sector as Earth that suddenly became lush with all types of exotic plants, including precious plant-lives that had gone extinct from the galaxies for millennia, from Earth and other planets. Despite all readings indicating that the planet had no way of sustaining life.

This escalated when some Green Lanterns came to visit, and Danny (now a vital, omnipresent part of the planet's ecosystem) greeted them with the enthusiasm of an angry cat hissing intruders away from his favorite box. Now everyone was convinced some sort of god or spirit of nature existed on that planet and was possibly hostile.

This escalated again when some other alien civilizations realized that a random planet in the Milky Way possessed incredibly valuable plant-life that was believed to be extinct. And now they were ready to invade the sector. Now the Justice League had to scramble to protect this incredibly valuable planet from the wrong hands.

Danny, meanwhile, was completely oblivious to everything.

[choerrypuffs]

red velvet hearts.

pairing: bad boy!donghyuck x baker!reader

genre: fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

synopsis: you patch up a boy with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles, only to find out that he has quite the sweet tooth.

author’s note: why do i keep injuring hyuck in all my fics lmao??? anyways i tried to write his character a bit differently than i usually do to challenge myself so please let me know how you guys like it! also remember, ladies: this is fiction. you cannot fix him <3

warning(s): brief description of injuries, mentions of violence, maximum amounts of cringe and melodrama

playlist: all my ghosts by lizzy mcalpine ― heart eyes by coin ― close to you by gracie abrams ― sidelines by phoebe bridgers ― the alchemy by taylor swift

RECIPE 1. TIRAMISU

“This is not what I meant when I said you need your back blown out.” 

“Not funny. I almost died,” you grumble as you wrap the back brace around your torso. You hate the immediate relief you feel from the support it provides, no longer able to tell yourself that it’s really not as bad as it seems―which only makes you angrier. 

“Throwing your back out while lifting a giant bag of flour and nearly getting crushed to death by said flour is genuinely the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Yeri, your best friend (derogatory), snorts as she shakes her head. “I wish you had cameras in the storage room because I want to see that shit so bad.”

“Thank you for the brace. You can get the hell out now.” You roll your eyes. 

“So, what are you going to do now? Aren’t you swamped with orders?” Yeri asks, ignoring you completely. 

You have no clue what you’re going to do now. It isn’t just orders you have to worry about fulfilling; it’s also the freshly baked pastries that you have to sell every morning. After a year of blood, sweat, and tears, the bakery that you built from the ground up is finally starting to gain some stable business. So, of course, you chose now of all times to try to lift a bag of flour over your shoulder like you were Dwayne The Rock Johnson. 

“I think I’ll have to hire some temporary help,” you answer begrudgingly. 

“You could sound less like someone is holding you at gunpoint,” Yeri snorts, “Come on. It had to happen sooner or later anyway.” 

“I was handling things just fine on my own.”

“Were you, though?” Yeri raises an eyebrow, gesturing to your current state. 

You fear you walked right into that one. “Shut up and help me make some posters.” 

The two of you eventually manage to whip up some haphazard “Help Wanted” posters, the letters written in glitter pen and Yeri’s clumsy bubble text. You tried your best to fill in the empty gaps on the construction paper by placing Pompompurin stickers that you normally give to customers’ kids all over it. The posters look like a nine-year-old girl’s school project gone wrong, but you hope it’s charming enough to catch some attention. 

By the time you and Yeri finish hanging up all the posters, the sun is already starting to set, and all you want to do is go home and put a heating pad on your back. After saying bye to Yeri, you start making your way back to the bakery to lock up. Once you arrive, you notice a figure dressed in black slumped over in front of the door. You can see their shoulders rise up and down as they take in labored breaths, leaning against the glass door for support. 

Every rational fiber in your being screams at you to not approach the stranger alone, but it’s not like you can just leave this person at the front of your place of business. Cautiously taking a step forward, you squat down to eye level with the stranger, wincing slightly from back pain. Through the sweaty and matted mess of his brown fringe, you can see that the stranger is a young man around your age. However, his face is absolutely battered: bloody (and almost certainly broken) nose, split lip, black eye swollen shut, and a jagged cut on his cheek. If he notices your presence, he doesn’t show it, keeping his head hung down.

Gingerly placing a hand on his arm, you give him a small shake. “Excuse me? Are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?” 

His brows furrow, and he opens an eye (the only one he’s probably able to open) with a wince before lifting a finger and putting it against his lips. You notice that his knuckles are completely scraped raw. 

“Not so loud. I’m okay,” he answers. 

“You don’t look―” 

As if on cue, his stomach rumbles with a guttural growl that slowly drawls into a sputtering gurgle before dying out all together―leaving a long silence to hang between the two of you.

After another beat, he gives you a sheepish smile. “You got anything to eat?” 

You stare at him for a moment; his face is flushed, pink all the way down to his neck. 

And like a stupid horror movie character who opens the door to a room that clearly screams danger, you nod. 

.

.

.

Fortunately, he―Donghyuck, as he introduced himself―ends up not being a crazy ax murderer. 

Unfortunately, you find yourself awkwardly sitting in your closed bakery with a virtual stranger, fiddling with a first aid kit while watching him absolutely devour a piece of leftover tiramisu that you had in your fridge. If the situation wasn’t so insane, you might actually think it was pretty funny. For someone who looks the way he does, this current picture of Donghyuck absolutely doesn’t suit him―bruised chipmunk cheeks stuffed with ladyfingers and cocoa powder stuck on his split lip. 

When he’s finished, Donghyuck looks over at you with a mesmerized expression on his face, as if you just fed him ambrosia. There’s a softness to his face that you didn’t think could exist underneath all that grime and dried blood. 

“That was…delicious,” he breathes. 

“Thanks,” you snort, pushing a glass of water towards him. Unsurprisingly, he chugs it in the blink of an eye. “I still think you should get those injuries checked out, though.” 

“Nah, I’ll rub a little spit in them and it’ll be fine,” he shrugs. 

“Don’t be gross,” you sigh, scooting your chair closer to him as you set the first aid kit on the table. “Now, come here.” 

Donghyuck reluctantly dips his head, and you carefully cup his jaw for support, disinfecting and applying ointment on the cuts and scrapes on his face. You also clean up the dried blood near his nostrils and on his bottom lip, and he doesn’t flinch even when you accidentally brush tender areas like his broken nose or the gash on his mouth. Instead, he stays perfectly still, leaned back in the chair with his forearms resting on his thighs and fingers nonchalantly laced together. 

He keeps his gaze trained on something past your shoulder, and you also try your best to focus, but it’s hard to keep yourself from staring―especially when his demeanor has changed so much. He’s so calm and quiet in such a cold, ruthless manner, as if he’s physically steeling himself from pain―like he’s done this a million times before. Occasionally, you feel his eyes swipe across your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention, and it occurs to you how close the two of you are. Suddenly, you’re acutely aware of the heat of his skin against your palm and fingertips, and you rip your hand away from his jaw. 

Clearing your throat, you move onto his hands, dabbing his raw knuckles with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol before placing large band-aids on them. Despite your best efforts, it’s hard not to notice how slim his long fingers are or how surprisingly clean his nail beds are for someone who’s covered in blood. You keep your head completely bent, fighting the urge of looking up and possibly meeting his eyes. 

“There, all done,” you announce a little too loudly. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, “for the cake and for this. For helping me.” 

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t do much,” you blurt, still avoiding eye contact as you clean up the table. However, you notice in your peripheral that his gaze follows your movements, almost hesitantly, before he asks: 

“So, you’re hiring?” 

You click the first-aid kit shut, blinking a few times before turning back to him. He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

“I―yeah. How did you know that?” you ask, puzzled by such a random question. 

Donghyuck points at a poster that you didn’t even know you left here, sitting on the table right behind you. You realize that he was probably looking at it while you were patching him up. 

“That poster that says ‘help wanted.’ With the Pompompurin stickers. I’m actually in between jobs right now, so if you would have me―”

“You know Pompompurin?” you interrupt him. It’s not that important and should not stand out to you as much as it does. Yet, you can’t help but grin at the fact that someone like him knows about a tubby Golden Retriever character with a name that sounds like a mashup of the English language’s most adorable onomatopeias. 

Donghyuck trails off, stiffening as if you just found out his deepest, darkest secret. He opens his mouth slightly, trying to speak but unable to formulate a response―an excuse, rather. Instead, he just lets out an airy cough, putting a hand over his mouth and turning away from you in an attempt to obscure his face. Despite his best efforts, he can’t hide his glowing red ears and the way his earlier coldness melts away.

“I―yeah,” he responds, words slightly muffled by his hand. 

You struggle to maintain your composure as you gnaw on your bottom lip to keep from laughing. Fighting a smile in your voice, you finally say: 

“The pay won’t be that much, but you’ll get a bunch of free desserts at the end of the day. Are you okay with that?” 

It takes him a moment to process that you’re offering him the job, and you watch his eyes light up and a warm smile overtake his face. There’s still a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks, clashing with the purple bruising and swelling of his injuries. 

“I’d love nothing more.”

Suddenly, it occurs to you that Donghyuck somewhat reminds you of a tiramisu. 

He may look a bit rugged and grimey, bitter like coffee, but in actuality, underneath it all, he’s soft and fluffy (but not too sweet) like a mascarpone filling. 

RECIPE 2. BLUEBERRY PIE

“Are you out of your mind?”

You cringe away from your phone, hurriedly turning the volume down. “Damn, you don’t have to scream like that.” 

“You should be the one screaming,” Yeri hollers. “I better not come over one day and find your body stuffed in the freezer or something.”

“I thought you wanted me to hire someone!” 

“Not some random dude off the side of the street who was covered in injuries and doesn’t even have any baking experience,” Yeri hisses. 

“I don’t need him to bake. I just have him working the front counter and doing all the heavy lifting when I get my ingredient shipments,” you protest. “Did you think I would really just hand over all my orders to some random dude and go party it up in Cancún or something?” 

Yeri is silent for several seconds before asking, “He’s hot, isn’t he?”

“What?”

“So you did know what I meant when I said you needed your back blown out.” You can hear the smugness in her voice. 

“Yeri,” you say tiredly, “please be serious.”

“I am serious. You’re the one being unserious,” she retorts. “Yesterday, you acted like you would rather sacrifice your firstborn child before hiring a part-timer, and now look at you. Dickmatized.” 

“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

“So, when do I get to meet him―”

You quickly hit the button to end the call and shove your phone into your pocket, letting out an exasperated sigh. You definitely won’t be hearing the end of that for a while. Your face feels warm for some reason, and you decide that you need a coffee break. After you finish making it, you pour yourself and Donghyuck a cup. 

You peek your head out from the curtain that separates the kitchen and the front counter to see if Donghyuck is busy. He’s politely chatting with an elderly woman, and your eyes nearly pop out of your head when he takes out the entire tray of egg tarts in the glass display and wraps it up for her. The woman happily hands him a wad of bills and waves him goodbye. After putting the cash in the register, Donghyuck turns around and catches you in the middle of gawking. 

“Oh, Y/N. I was actually just about to head back there. We’re out of egg tarts for the display,” he says nonchalantly. 

“Uh, yeah, I can see that,” you whisper loudly, “Was that Mrs. Kim? Why the hell did she order a dozen egg tarts? That woman can barely finish a single cookie.” 

Donghyuck blinks, clearly confused, whispering back, “She asked for my recommendation, so I said egg tarts since no one had bought any yet, and she said she would take all of them.” 

You pause, things finally clicking. Grinning knowingly, you say, “You know, having you work the front is doing wonders for sales.” 

“I don’t understand.” He furrows his brows. 

You laugh, handing him his cup of coffee. “I’m talking about your face card, Donghyuck. You’re too handsome, so you’re flustering the customers.” 

“Are we not whispering anymore?” he asks awkwardly. “Besides, that’s not true. Look at the state of my face right now.” 

His injuries have faded significantly, but the bruising and cuts are still there. You want to tell him that superficial wounds can’t mask the warmth in his caramel-brown eyes, the fullness of his cheeks and the sharp jawline, and the air of mystery that enshrouds him and draws people in. 

But you don’t. 

“Well, for someone who’s only been working here for two weeks, you’re doing superb. Injuries or not.” 

And it’s true. You’ve always preferred to work alone because you’re the only one who understands how you want things done. You naturally assumed it would be a hassle and a waste of time to try to explain to someone else when you could just do it yourself, but Donghyuck never seems to need an explanation. In fact, he knows before even you. 

He gets to the bakery three hours before you, cleans and preps all the equipment you need for the day, unloads the ingredient shipments, and is already manning the front counter by the time you arrive like it was no big deal at all. He also seems to have a sixth sense of knowing when you’re about to do something you shouldn’t be, even though you downplayed your back injury. He’s somehow always there―moving all the stuff you keep on the top shelf to somewhere within your reach even though you insisted that the rickety wooden step stool you use is perfectly safe, cleaning up a glass beaker that you accidentally shattered, taking out the trash during his breaks, checking in on you when you skip lunch. He even turned down his first paycheck, saying it’s repayment for patching him up and feeding him. 

Donghyuck is so perfect that sometimes you wonder if you’re being set up, like maybe he’s secretly embezzling money from the cash register―which would be a more viable theory if he didn’t drive an Audi to work everyday. 

“Thanks for the compliment. And the coffee,” Donghyuck says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He gingerly takes a sip and makes a strangled noise, a mixture being choking and retching, before slapping a hand over his mouth. 

“Are you okay? Was it too hot?” you ask worriedly. 

“No, it’s just…really bitter,” he mumbles, words muffled in his hand. 

“Oh,” you blink, “Sorry. I drink black coffee, so I forgot to ask if you wanted creamer and sugar. Come on, there’s some in the back.” 

The two of you head to the kitchen, and you watch him dump an exorbitant amount of creamer and sugar in his coffee, the dark roast swirling into something more akin to milk tea.

“You know, there might be some chocolate milk in the fridge if you’d rather that,” you tease. 

His head shoots up, those doe eyes lighting up. “Really?” 

“No,” you trail off awkwardly, “Sorry, I'm just messing with you.” 

It’s a bit adorable that you can visibly see him being disappointed in there not being chocolate milk before growing embarrassed, looking down at his cup. He turns away from you, but you can see the flush on the back of his neck. 

“You really have a sweet tooth, huh?” you laugh. 

“Pretty lame, right?” 

“Why would that be lame? You’re talking to someone who owns a bakery, in case you forgot.” 

Donghyuck smiles at you, and it’s sugary sweet like buttercream frosting. He looks at you like you just said the most wonderful thing in the world; in fact, he always makes you feel like that, no matter what you say or do. “I guess you’re right.” 

“What’s your favorite dessert?” you blurt, needing a distraction urgently. 

He pauses briefly. “I don’t think I have one.”

That actually surprises you. “You don’t? Even though you love sweets so much?” 

He laughs, the sound harsh and rough, and it almost makes you flinch. “I’ve never really had an opportunity to have many until now.” 

There’s clearly weight behind his words, but you know you’re not in a position to ask any further. A selfish part of you wants to be important enough to him that you are in a position to know more, but you’re all too aware about him very purposefully keeping you at arm’s length. 

“Well, you have plenty of time to find out,” you quickly continue, pretending not to notice. “Actually, I’m going to a blueberry farm tomorrow because I’m thinking about adding blueberry pie to the menu. When I get back, I’ll bake one for you, and you can be the first to taste test it!” 

“You’re going by yourself?” Donghyuck raises an eyebrow. 

“Of course. Who else would I go with?” 

“Me. I’ll go with you,” he replies immediately. 

“But it’s, like, a forty-five-minute bus ride to the farm. Plus, coming with me to get ingredients isn’t part of your job description anyway,” you explain. 

“I can’t come with you on my own free time?” he asks, tilting his head. “Besides, I’m worried about you overexerting yourself with that back injury. A bumpy bus ride definitely isn’t going to help, so I’ll drive us there.” 

“You’re going to drive that fancy ass car to a farm? You do realize it’s going to be dirt roads, right?” You cross your arms. 

“I think I’ll live. Besides, what makes you think this is the only fancy ass car I own?” He gives you an amused smile. 

“You’re joking, right?” You stare at him. 

He hesitates for a moment. “Yes.” 

“That doesn’t sound―”

“What time are we leaving tomorrow morning?” 

“...Seven.”

.

.

.

Unsurprisingly, Donghyuck picks you up right on time, not a minute too early or late. As the universe would have it, it rained the night prior―meaning all the dirt roads are now rivers of mud. You wince every time you heard a splat of mud hit Donghyuck’s pristine white car, but he seems to pay no mind to it. The two of you arrive at the farm within twenty minutes (he found a shortcut), and because you came so early, you get the entire farm to yourselves. The staff arms both of you with a large wicker basket each before setting you loose onto the massive property. 

“Okay, make sure to pick the fat ones. The small ones are super tart, so avoid those,” you instruct Donghyuck. “We’re going to fill these baskets to the brim and get our money’s worth.” 

“You got it, Captain.” He salutes. 

You give him a determined nod and a thumbs up before turning to your respective side and beginning to pick the blueberries. The two of you work without much fanfare or conversation, and it’s a silence that lingers between you comfortably. It reassures you to hear the sound of the bushes rustling from Donghyuck working; his companionship alone relaxes you. 

Eventually, when the sun starts peeking through and the weather grows warmer, both of you decide to take a break. You find a spot in the shade before sitting down, pulling out snacks and bottles of water from a backpack Donghyuck brought along. 

“I have a surprise for you,” you tell him, trying to hide a smile. “Close your eyes.” 

He eyes you suspiciously but does so anyway. You fish out a handful of unripe blueberries wrapped in a handkerchief from your pocket and feed some to him. His reaction is nearly instant the moment he starts chewing them; you watch as his face puckers up from how sour they are and his entire body shrivels into itself, a shudder running through him. He’s polite enough to not spit them out, but you’re not polite enough to resist pointing and laughing at him. Throwing your head back, you laugh so hard that your stomach starts to hurt. 

“Oh my God, your face!” 

“Ugh,” Donghyuck groans, taking a big gulp of his water. “I should’ve known you had sinister intentions from the start.” 

“I didn’t think you’d react like that,” you finally manage to say after catching your breath. “You really can’t handle anything except for sweet stuff.” 

“Are you having fun bullying me?” He rolls his eyes. 

“So much fun,” you say in a sing-song voice. 

Donghyuck tries to continue feigning annoyance, but he can’t help the low chuckle that rumbles in his chest. His eyes always soften when he looks at you, and his gaze is intimate like a lover’s―gentle, tender, unwavering, and vulnerable. But his warmth is always fleeting, and he only allows you glimpses of it through the unmoving walls that he’s erected around himself. 

You wish he wouldn’t indulge you so, terrified you’ll try to cross the line he’s drawn between the two of you. 

“What are you thinking about?” Donghyuck asks, trying to read your expression

“About the delicious pie I’m about to make when we get back,” you smile. 

“I see,” he responds, though it’s clear he isn’t convinced. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“You better be. This is how I’m paying you back for driving me here,” you nod. 

“Instead of that, pay me back by telling me what your favorite dessert is,” he suddenly says. “I do still want the pie, though.” 

“That was random,” you snort. “Why do you want to know my favorite dessert?”

“Because you asked me, but you never told me yours.” 

You suppose he has a point, but you find it ironic that he wants to know more about you when he refuses to offer you even a modicum of information about himself. Despite this, you tell him anyway because you are obviously the fool here. 

“If you must know, it’s red velvet cake,” you sigh. 

“Why?” 

You don’t answer at first, carefully thinking about if you’re ready to be vulnerable in front of him―still a virtual stranger. A virtual stranger who loves sweets. A virtual stranger who is a bit of a messy eater. A virtual stranger who knows Pompompurin. A virtual stranger who worries about you even when he’s not on the clock. A virtual stranger who gently tells you to be careful whenever you try to do something dangerous, whispering, “I’ll do it instead.” A virtual stranger who allows his luxury car to be caked in mud for you. 

“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life,” you finally say. “I baked it for my mom’s birthday, and I think I ended up being more excited than her.” 

Donghyuck stays quiet, gauging your reaction. 

“I was in college, studying to be a doctor like everyone else in my family. So, like a dumb young person who thought that dreams were more important than money, I dropped out of college and went to culinary school. My parents told me I was ruining mine and their lives, disowned me, yada-yada―a bunch of depressing stuff, you know. Eventually, I graduated, took out a huge loan, and opened up my own bakery. Worked a bunch of part-time jobs until my business could stand on its own. Now here I am. Still in debt, though,” you laugh awkwardly. “But I’m not doing too shabby. I was able to hire you, so at least I have a little cash to spare.” 

He still doesn’t say anything, so you find yourself starting to ramble. You’re really not sure what possessed you to trauma dump on him like that. 

“You know, a lot of people talk shit about red velvet cake because they say the only thing that makes it special is the red food coloring,” you hurriedly explain, “but that’s not true. The cream cheese frosting is super important too. Also, I always say love is the most important ingredient of all. As a baker, you’re kind of baring your heart to the customer, and isn’t it kind of cute that red velvet cake is red like a heart? Okay, please say something now or else I think I’m going to projectile vomit.” 

Donghyuck reaches over and brushes a sweaty lock of hair out of your face. His fingers brush over your temple, which makes you sharply suck in a breath. You almost lean into his touch, but you catch yourself. His hand slightly lingers on the side of your neck, like he wants to bring your face closer, but he eventually pulls away. 

He searches your face, and you’re not sure what he’s looking for―if anything. Rather, perhaps he’s not searching. Perhaps he’s committing your features to his memory, as if the way you look right now is something he wants to remember forever. 

“You’ve worked hard, Y/N,” he says softly, voice slightly hoarse. “This is long overdue, but congratulations. You achieved your dream, and don’t let anyone ever discount that. Not even yourself.” 

You wonder how long you’ve waited to hear that. You’re not even sure you knew you needed to hear that. But when Donghyuck says it, it hits you just how long and hard you’ve worked all on your own without a single break. Throughout the years, you’ve really only ever heard, “I’m sorry that happened.” When was the last time someone congratulated you? When was the last time you congratulated yourself? 

You surge forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face in his shoulder. Donghyuck cradles you against him, one hand wound tightly around your waist while the other is tangled in your hair. You can feel his chest rise up and down as he holds you. He smells like lavender soap and a bit earthy from being outside, and the warmth of his skin against your cheek makes you want to close your eyes and fall asleep in his arms. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“No, thank you,” he murmurs into your hair. 

You’re not sure why he’s thanking you instead, but what you are sure of is that you’re crossing the line, taking a step towards him and wondering if he’ll meet you halfway. 

.

.

.

“Tada!” you announce cheerfully, setting down the freshly baked blueberry pie onto the table. 

Donghyuck claps excitedly. “Holy shit, it looks amazing.” 

“I’m still trying to figure out the right portions for the filling, so let me know if you think there’s too much or little,” you tell him as you hand him a slice. 

Without even answering you, he stabs his fork into the pie and almost eats the entire slice in one bite, seemingly unbothered by the steam still rising from it. 

“Be careful. You’re going to burn your tastebuds off. I’m not letting you eat it for shits and giggles, you know. This is for research purposes.” You cross your arms. 

“It’s perfect, Y/N. I’m serious,” Donghyuck says after swallowing. “The filling isn’t too sweet, and the crust is airy and light.” 

“Well, alright, Gordon Ramsay. I think we’re going to be adding a new menu item then,” you smile. “Think you can get Mrs. Kim to buy a dozen of these?”

“I don’t think she’ll need much convincing with how good these taste.” 

“You’re so easy,” you tease. “All I need to do is feed you. Anyways, I’m going to clean up here, but you should head home. It’s getting late, and you wake up way earlier than me.” 

“I’ll help,” he insists. 

“Go,” you order, pointing at the door. “I can handle it.” 

He looks conflicted but eventually relents when you threaten to physically kick him out. Before he leaves, he turns back to you and says, “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Why do you keep thanking me?” you laugh. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had this.”

“What? A blueberry pie?”

Donghyuck pauses, a slight wonder in his expression, as if he’s realizing his answer for the first time as well.

“Peace.” 

And you think maybe this is a step forward for him too. 

RECIPE 3. CREAM PUFF

It’s quite surreal how easily and naturally you and Donghyuck fall into a routine together. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, two weeks becomes two months. You’ve learned the little things about him, like how he always swipes some icing before you can fill up the piping bag or that he’s not a coffee drinker at all (more of a hot cocoa person) or that he purses his lips when a dessert he’s testing tastes off (no matter how hard he tries to hide it) or that he involuntarily sticks his arm out in front of you when he wants to stop you from doing something you shouldn’t. 

You also notice that he sometimes comes into work with injuries. They’re not nearly as bad as the first time you met him, but it’s hard to ignore a bruised cheek or bloodied knuckles. He always has a reason for them, whether it’s tripping down the stairs or accidentally falling down and scraping his hands on the concrete. You can tell by the way he laughs it off that he doesn’t plan on telling you the truth, so you laugh with him. The two of you, having taken only a step towards one another, find yourselves completely immobile now. 

He always does this: envelops you like a cloud but disappears the moment you reach out for him. 

You’re honestly not sure why he’s still here. Your injury has long healed, and he clearly doesn’t need the abysmal pay you’re giving him. He feels like he’ll slip away at any moment, fleeting like a warm spring breeze, and you suppose time flies by when you know it’s limited. Despite knowing that, you can’t help but desperately want him to stay. 

“I think it’s cute how hard he’s working,” Yeri randomly says one day as she eyes Donghyuck prepare orders in the front. He’s in the middle of a lunchtime rush, so he doesn’t even notice the two of you watching him like weirdos.

“Well, that’s what I’m paying him to do,” you reply, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh, I think the money is the least of his worries here,” she hums, taking a sip of her coffee. 

She has a point, but you’re pretty sure she’s implying something else as well. Just as you go to ask her what exactly she means, you hear a loud clatter. Flinching, you turn your attention back to Donghyuck and realize that he’s dropped a tray on the floor. However, the tray is the last thing on your mind when you see the expression on his face. It’s a mixture of horror, anger, and almost sadness―like he’s finally come face-to-face with whatever he’s been running from. It makes your blood run cold. 

Donghyuck is looking at a boy around his age; the boy has dark hair, a mole under his eye, and a grim expression. More importantly, he’s covered in injuries too. 

“Who is that?” Yeri whispers. “Why does Donghyuck look like he’s seen a ghost?” 

Maybe because he has, you want to tell her. 

Donghyuck grabs the boy's arm, squeezing so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and mumbles something to him. When he turns around and meets your eyes, he looks pained and fearful as if you witnessed something you shouldn’t have.

“Is it okay if I take my break early today?” he asks calmly, though the tremor in his voice gives him away. 

You nod hesitantly, unable to force yourself to speak. You watch him as he drags the boy out; when he passes you, you can tell how tightly his body is wound right now. His jaw is clenched, a muscle spasming as he tries to control himself, and every step he takes seems labored. He’s running on pure adrenaline right now, like he’s physically steeling himself. 

However, you don’t think he’s ever appeared so incredibly alone before. As you watch his back disappear further and further from your view, you’re unsure if he’ll ever return, and you never imagined how terrifying that would be. 

.

.

.

The cream puffs aren’t rising.

You’re crouched in front of the oven, watching the dough remain flat and lifeless. You should’ve known better than to attempt to make cream puffs on such a shitty day, especially when pastries like these are so sensitive to the environment and atmosphere. Even though you know you should probably just scrap them and try again, you wait for just a little longer, hoping that maybe if you wish hard enough that they’ll magically start to rise. 

But then again you suppose that no matter how hard you try, no matter how careful you are, no matter how perfect the batter is, no matter how much time you spend time piping them, no matter how much you want them to rise, they won’t. 

You decide that Donghyuck isn’t like a tiramisu at all; he’s sensitive and delicate and elusive and frustrating like a cream puff. 

“Y/N, they’re burning.” 

Losing your balance and nearly falling over, you gasp loudly. You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t even hear Donghyuck walk into the kitchen, nor did you smell the undeniable scent of something being burnt to a crisp. 

“Oh, fu―!” you curse, hurriedly opening the oven and casually suffocating both you and Donghyuck with a hot plume of air. Sputtering, you look around and grab a random rag from the sink before reaching for the cream puffs. 

“Wait, stop!” Donghyuck stops you with an outstretched arm, his hand pressed to your side. “Let me do it.” 

He gently takes the rag from your hand and removes the tray of charred cream puffs from the oven, dumping them into the trash before putting the tray in the sink and running some water on it―just how you like it. 

Letting out a relieved sigh, he turns back to you and asks, “Are you okay? It’s not like you to make a mistake like that. You didn’t get burned anywhere, did you?” 

When you don’t answer immediately, Donghyuck rushes forward and grabs your hands, carefully examining your fingers and arms. “Wait, are you hurt? Where? Tell me where you got burned. We have to cool it down with some lukewarm water. And don’t just say you’re fine. Burns are not a joke, Y/N―why are you looking at me like that?” 

His hands are calloused and rough, and you can still see scabs from where he tore his knuckles, yet he touches you like you’re the delicate one. He’s covered in fresh and old wounds, yet he looks so panicked at the thought of you having a scratch. 

“Shut up,” you whisper furiously, ripping your hands away from him. “From now on, don’t ask me another question. It’s my turn to ask you questions.” 

He blinks, a bit stunned by your reaction, but it’s clear he knows what you’re about to say. He goes to reach for you again but decides against it. “Okay.” 

“Who was that guy?” you demand. “Why are you always covered in injuries? Why did you lie to me? Who are you?” 

“He’s an old friend,” Donghyuck starts quietly. 

“Do you treat all your friends like that?” 

“When I don’t want to see them.” 

You wait for him to continue.

“Before I met you, he and I and a few of our other friends worked…odd jobs for cash,” he explains, and he looks like he’s choking on every word. “The jobs usually entailed us hurting people and also getting hurt. I did a lot of shit I wasn’t proud of. At the time, I didn’t really care. It was just nice to feel something, whether it was the adrenaline rush from doing the punching or the pain from being punched. I got a bunch of money, bought a bunch of expensive stuff, but none of it mattered. Eventually, I just felt nothing again. I didn’t even have the energy to loathe myself anymore. So, I took one last job, got the shit kicked out of me, and then I left. That’s when you found me―”

He inhales, and his eyes flicker towards you. He gazes at you so longingly, as if you were impossibly out of his reach, that you can’t help but involuntarily take a step towards him. 

But he steps back. 

“I thought that working here would make me feel like a human being again, but I didn’t realize how much I would―” He pauses again. “I thought working here would be a nice reset for me, but I naively thought that I could completely leave my past behind. My friends eventually found me, and I guess I care about those reckless assholes more than I thought because they managed to convince me to take on a few more jobs with them. That’s why I’ve been coming to work with injuries. But I’m done. I cut them off for good when they walked into this bakery. I don’t want…I don’t want our past to tarnish this place. I want to keep this place a beautiful, warm, and pure safe haven that you worked so hard for it to be. That’s why I lied to you, Y/N. I’m a coward to the bone, and I was envious of you. I was ashamed to admit it to you. You, who had the courage to chase after your dream. You, who had the kindness to help a good-for-nothing asshole like me. I only want you to have happy memories from now on, and I am not one of them.” 

“Are you going to leave?” you ask softly. 

“I probably should,” he answers shakily. 

“What’s stopping you?” 

“Just…one reason.” 

“When you say it like that, it makes it sound like the reason is me.” 

Donghyuck laughs bitterly, and his eyes drag across your face like every movement hurts him.

“You know it’s you. It’s always been you.” 

When you reach for his hand, he turns away like just the warmth from your body heat burns him. So instead, you take a step back. 

“I won’t ask you to stay, Donghyuck, I won’t chase you. I’m going to wait right here, and it’s up to you if you're going to meet me halfway.” 

RECIPE 4. RED VELVET CAKE

When your alarm clock goes off the next morning, you seriously consider just not showing up to work. It’s not like you can be fired for being a no-show when you’re your own boss, after all. 

And it’s not like you have any employees who will be expecting you. 

You’ll just apologize to Mrs. Kim and your other regulars later. You’re allowed to have a day where you just rot in bed and feel sorry for yourself. 

However, no matter how much you tell yourself that, you find yourself crawling out of bed and getting ready anyway. You can’t seem to brutally crush that small glimmer of hope that Donghyuck might still be there, no matter how hard you try. When you see yourself in the mirror, you recoil in horror. Your eyes are almost swollen shut from the amount of crying you did last night, and your face is sallow and lifeless. 

So much for putting on a brave face, you think wryly to yourself. You tried so hard to look tough, when in reality, you bawled your eyes out and even considered praying to God for Donghyuck to stay. It’s a humiliating and humbling reality check. 

“Stand up right now,” you sharply tell yourself in the mirror. “He’s just some guy. Get it together.” 

You do your best to clean up your appearance and make the trek over to the bakery. It takes another internal pep talk before you can make your way to the door. After you finally walk up, you see that the lights inside are off. Your stomach sinks, and your eyes start to burn. Even though you’re holding the handle, you can’t bring yourself to open the door. It’s an outcome that you expected, yet you wonder why it hurts so badly. 

“You liar,” you mumble to yourself, “You said you only wanted me to have happy memories.” 

Once you make your way inside, you numbly head towards the kitchen, trying to remember what exactly you have to do today. Oh right, now that he’s not here, you also have to make sure all the ingredients are prepped first. 

When you walk into the kitchen, you do a double-take. 

The whole place looks like it’s been completely ransacked: used pans and utensils piled up in the sink, two opened boxes of cake mix, containers of ingredients without lids on on the tables, random lumps of flour and egg shells strewn about― 

And right in front of the oven is Donghyuck, flour in his hair and frosting on his nose. He’s holding a cake stand with…you think it’s supposed to be a cake on it? The shape is mangled and haphazardly cut, but it has echoes of a heart. The frosting is a hot mess, as if a bird with diarrhea shat all over the cake. The batter is clearly underbaked and makes the cake look gooey in a bad way. 

“Um, I promise I’ll clean all of this up in a second, but I wanted to surprise you,” Donghyuck starts awkwardly. “It’s not perfect, but I tried making a red velvet cake for you.” 

You stare at him, still not sure how to react. 

“You once said that baking is like baring your heart to the customer and that love is the most important ingredient of all,” he laughs softly to himself. “I think love is the only ingredient I managed to get right, but I’m baring my heart to you now, Y/N. I’m sorry I hid everything and lied to you, but I’m in love with you. Hopelessly so. All my life, I’ve chased a feeling, not knowing what it was. But now I do. I don’t think I knew how to feel until I met you. I never once thought I would ever have a purpose in my life, but you make me want to be a normal, proper member of society. Your dream is my dream. I want to wake up at 5AM and sell egg tarts with you for the rest of my life, if you’ll have me.” 

Donghyuck sets the cake down on a table in front of you, and you notice that his fingers are dyed red from the food coloring. It almost reminds you of when you first met him, except his injuries have been replaced with red food coloring, flour, and cream cheese frosting. 

“This cake is terrible,” you smile, “how did you butcher it that badly when you used cake mix?” 

You watch him blush all the way down to his neck, as he sheepishly looks away. “Don’t make fun of me. I really tried my best. I stayed up watching tutorials―” 

Leaning across the table, you cup his face with both hands and kiss him, brushing your thumbs across his cheekbones. He tastes like frosting, hot cocoa, and your prayers being answered. The way he kisses you back is bruising, dizzying and knocking any coherent thought out of your head, his hands finding your hips and anchoring you to him. He kisses you like you’re the sweetest and most wonderful thing he’s ever tasted.

When you finally pull away, it takes you a moment to regain feeling in your legs. Donghyuck presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing against yours once again as the two of you try to catch your breath. 

“I think I’m going to have to fire you, though,” you whisper. “You know, with me being your boss and all. The power dynamic is too weird.” 

He hums, pausing for thought. “Then how about I become your business partner?” 

“What?”

Donghyuck reaches into his pocket and fishes out his wallet, pulling out a shiny and fancy-looking credit card. He hands it to you without much fanfare. 

“I have a lot of money, you know. So I’m going to invest in your business. Use it as you’d like,” he casually announces.

You stare at him, your jaw hanging wide open. He never tried to hide from you that he was rich, but he never told you that he was rich rich. 

“Well, damn! Why didn’t you show me this earlier? I would have forgiven you a lot sooner,” you tease, slapping him on the arm. “Are you sure you want to give this to me? I’m quite the gold-digger, you know.”

“When I told you to use it as you’d like, I meant me as well,” Donghyuck replies, shrugging.

“You’re insane.” You hope he can’t tell how much your face is burning up. 

“I guess I am,” he laughs, and you don’t think he’s ever looked so free. You want to tell him that you hope he only has happy memories from now on too. You want to tell him that you’ll rewrite all of his scars with sugary and fluffy desserts so that they won’t ever hurt again. 

And for the first time in your life, you feel it too.

Peace. 

EXTRA

“So, have you figured out what your favorite dessert is?” 

Donghyuck stirs slightly, groaning, as he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. He slips his hand under your shirt (well, technically it’s his shirt) and rests it on your bare hip bone. 

“Why aren’t you asleep?” 

“Because I’m curious.” 

“If I answer, will you let me rest?”

“Depends on how good your answer is.” 

“Blueberry pie. That’s my answer.” 

You smile against the crook of his neck. 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life.” 

[timmydraker]

During a Gala for raising awareness about women’s healthcare, a few heroes show up in both costume and civilian persona.

Wonder Woman is proudly walking around in a Greek style toga and talking about how the women of her home land care for one another and never doubt each others word on health issues. She is shamelessly challenging the men in the audience to better understand the women they claim to love and advocate for.

She’s the most obvious one in attendance, though if you look closer you will see Raven and Miss Martian talking with a the most obviously sexist group of men and making them all sweat bullets.

Others, like Zatana and all of the Bat kids, are in their civilian uniforms.

The most important guest in this line up, in the sense that her husband is making Bruce pout like an angry kitten, is Dinah.

Because Dinah is there to make a speech so naturally her husband Ollie is there to support her.

Yet when the speech is done and the wandering around begins, Bruce watches as Ollie hangs around one person like they’re old pals.

Tim Drake, Bruce’s most professional son during public events, is laughing and clinging to Oliver Queen like he’s some kind of celebrity or cousin he only gets to see once a year. The blond man had his arm around the younger Luke a parent and is chatting away with Tim as the two half talk with business partners and other socialites or so obviously just between themselves that the other people politely leave them to it.

Bruce had never seen Tim so relaxed at a Gala, the growing young man usually taking the time to go full business and organise meetings, deals or just the usual routine of holding reputation.

Yet there is Oliver Queen acting like they’re old friends.

Like Tim is his son.

Naturally, Dick and Barbara notice how Bruce is glaring at Queen and trying to hold back a frown of genuine hurt and jealousy. Part of them feels bad, but Tim and Oliver Queen are both made for this world, so it makes sense they get along in it.

But then Diana, who doesn’t mean any harm and is just talking to Bruce Wayne about how she approves of his work on the ecosystem casually leans down and whispers to him as Batman, “It’s always so nice to see how those two get along.”

Bruce’s eye twitched a little and he doesn’t bother trying to feign curiosity and grumbles out, “explain.”

Wonder Woman laughs loud and cheerful, which the room is now sued to hearing and jsut assume Brucie Wayne is trying to flirt with an Amazon which is not at all surprising.

“Oh, Bruce. Haven’t you noticed how Tim follows Jim’s round whenever they are at the tower? He’s like a little duckling. One time I heard him asking if Ollie wanted to come to his school event to see his science project!”

She goes on to talk about how Ollie must seem like an uncle to him and doesn’t pay attention to Bruce’s internal spiral.

By the end of the night Bruce looks like he might start crying, though only his children can see that.

Tim and Ollie finally make their way towards him after having a talk to some older woman about something or rather and Bruce puts on a mask quickly, acting as if he isn’t about to strangle Oliver Queen as they get ready to leave.

Dick steers Damian away and asks Duke to get the girls and wait in the car, knowing full well Bruce is going to embarrasses himself.

Rather quickly, Tim picks up on his distress and pulls away from Ollie’s side hug and approaches Bruce, “Is something wrong?”

Bruce smiles a terrifying thing, full of teeth and hidden malice, “Not at all. Tell me, when did you two get so buddy buddy?”

Oliver pales a little, but luckily Dinah is there to stop him from saying the wrong thing.

With a smooth voice she speaks, coming forward to press a kiss to Tim’s head and then back to her husband, “Tim and Ollie met at one of the Drake’s charity events years ago. This really was lovely, but we must be going, I don’t trust the younger kids to bot cause you or with Captain Marvel.”

With that there gone while Bruce is faced with the fact that Oliver may ah e met one of his babies before him.

But Tim isn’t a fool and he loves his dad, so he hugs Bruce around the waist and clings to him like he’s ten instead of twenty two. He leans back just slightly and gives a cheeky grin with a softness in his eyes, “I love you, dad.”

Dick coos while Barbara snaps a photo as Bruce squeezes his son and somehow manages to not cry.

[puppysuh]

so… we all know how i feel about meanie!haechan, but what about nerd!haechan who’s never seen or touched a pussy in his life but is surprisingly really freaky?

if you’re wondering why i’m so obsessed with him, just watch a couple of clips of him from the university festival performance. those glasses… ouh get him in me NOW!

you approach him because you feel bad for him. he’s always alone, nose in a book or fingers tapping rapidly at his laptop, and whilst your girlfriends like to make fun of him for being such a loser, you’re surprisingly quite intrigued by him.

when you approach him the first time, you begin to see what your friends mean. he’s shy, his glasses falling down his nose as he avoids eye contact with you like the plague. he’s right to be cautious; what are you, the campus sweetheart, doing talking to him, the guy who’s rumoured to only shower once a week and lock himself in his room to jerk off to cheap porn?

you should be laughing in his face, ridiculing him for being such a freak of nature but no, instead you stand in front of him, voice sweet like honey whilst you twirl your hair and await his responses with bated breath. and when he finally looks up at you, into those beautiful eyes he spent so long avoiding, he’s completely gone, and he decides that he must have you.

nerd!haechan would overthink your interaction for the next week. seriously, why were you talking to him? did you like him? did you want to get to know him better? or worse… did you just want sex? that’s what most people are after nowadays anyways, so he begins to train himself up for the next time he talks to you.

instead of avoiding your group like a disease, he begins following you discreetly, taking note of everything you like. that coffee shop just opposite your dorm? he’s memorised your order. your seat in the library? he scares off anyone who tries to sit there by sitting directly opposite it, only moving when he sees you come through the door. and he’s stalked your social media too; all of your highlights are screenshotted and placed into a special album in his phone, reserved solely for you.

he also has another album, a hidden one, full of… other photos.

at first glance, it looks normal. a picture of you at the beach holding an ice cream, or another of you posing in a party dress. all standard highlight posts, posts nobody would suspect nerd!haechan would jerk off to almost every night, glasses fogged up as he memorises every curve of your body, toes curling as he focuses on the way your tongue flicks out to lick the top of the ice cream, a dribble of white cream running down your chin.

he doesn’t know how he manages to face you at school, but he does anyways, and when you finally ask him for some ‘tutoring’, he happily accepts, pushing his glasses up on his nose and trying to divert his eyes away from the cleavage displayed by your dangerously low cut top.

he’s surprised how quickly you jump on him the moment you get through the door of his apartment. you probably think you’ve caught him off guard, slamming your lips into his and grinding your hips forward against his crotch. you think you’re doing charity work, fucking the college loser so nobody else has to.

you couldn’t have been more wrong.

you see, along with his extensive jerking sessions to your instagram posts, haechan has been doing some studying, and not the academic kind. he knows how to make you feel good despite never having a chance to, and when he lifts you up against the door and presses your back flat against it, you’re nothing short of shocked.

“you thought i didn’t know?” his voice is quiet, and whilst his tone carries little to no conviction, it travels straight to your core. “i’m your little passion project, right? fucking the loser so you can feel less bad about yourself.”

before you can open your mouth to answer, he’s pushing his hips upwards into your clothed core, and any protests are replaced by a soft whine. “haechan, that’s not—”

“shut. up.” he thrusts forwards again, and the back of your head meets wood, arms wrapping around his neck as shocks of pleasure roll up your spine. “i’m not some fucking charity case.”

it’s safe to say he’s rendered you speechless. you look down at him, and where before you saw an unkempt loser, now you see someone hungry with lust, and you like it. “kiss me,” you breathe, and he complies, his mouth crashing into yours as he carries you across his living room.

you’d always wondered if he would keep his glasses on during sex, and that night, you got your answer. they slide down the bridge of his nose as his rams his cock into your cunt at a dizzying rhythm, one hand clasping your wrists together above your head, the other rubbing at your clit furiously.

“say you were wrong,” he grunts, sounding almost pained as he repeatedly bumps the tip of his cock into that spot that makes you squirm. “say i’m good, better than anyone you’ve ever had.”

“you’re s-so good!” you can barely speak— barely even breathe, not with the way his hand moves from your clit and to your throat, forcing your chin upwards to look at him. “f-fuck, ‘m sorry, haechan.”

and for the first time since you met him, he smiles a genuine smile, one that almost seems deranged, obsessive. “that’s right,” he says, “the best you’ll ever have.”

a/n : i’m so obsessed with the idea of him being borderline evil its insane. please feed me more haechan delusions guys i think i might love him 💔💔

edit : I MADE A PART 2 check it out if you love me (or nerds)

[neferaskingdom]

♡ It's Not You, It's Your Pants | CL16

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: Girl roasts Charles Leclerc’s tragic pants online, then accidentally crashes into him in Monaco. Cue spilled coffee, fashion rants, and an existential crisis about how her life turned into a Wattpad fanfic in under five minutes.

A/N: Just a random crack idea I had after seeing Charles' pants on Pinterest.

CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

The pants in question:

Monaco was as glamorous as your Instagram feed had led you to believe—blue skies, sparkling yachts, and streets that looked like they’d been personally polished by billionaires. You’d come here for a break from your intense fashion studies, soaking up the vibes (and let’s be honest, hoping for a celebrity sighting). And maybe—just maybe—you’d catch a glimpse of a certain F1 driver whose face had become a staple on your social media, along with some questionable fashion choices.

It was your first time here, a small vacation before diving back into the hectic world of fashion school. Your excuse? Inspiration. But honestly, you just wanted to escape to the Côte d'Azur and sip some coffee.

But you weren’t just an F1 fan. You had your own little corner of fame on Instagram. As a fashion student with a decent following, your niche was breaking down and rating celebrity outfits. Recently, you’d gained serious attention for a video where you roasted none other than Charles Leclerc—the beloved racing prince of Monaco—for wearing, and you quote yourself, “blue baggy pants that looked like they were in a fistfight with a bunch of scissors.”

It wasn’t personal; it was business. And the fact that the pants had star-shaped rips in them? Your comment was basically a public service announcement.

“Look at these pants,” you’d said, holding up a screenshot of Charles sporting his, ahem, questionable fashion statement. “I mean, what are we even doing here? Are these pants or a craft project gone wrong? Who looks at a pair of baggy jeans and thinks, ‘You know what’s missing? Giant star-shaped cutouts for maximum confusion!’”

As you strolled through Monte Carlo, cappuccino in hand, you scrolled through the comments on your viral video.

“Not gonna lie, I kinda miss when Charles used to wear those skinny jeans that made him look like a confused hipster.”

“ARE WE JUST NOT GONNA TALK ABOUT THE STAR CUTOUTS?!?!”

“I think Charles Leclerc has been taking fashion advice from his 8-year-old self. Stars? Really? Babe, it’s not the 2000s anymore.”

“Not the hero we deserve, but the one we need—thank you for saying what we were all thinking about those pants.”

“Leclerc’s stylist should be fired, immediately.”

You chuckled at one of the memes someone had made—a zoomed-in shot of Charles in his infamous star-cutout pants, captioned: “I’m a star, literally.” Honestly, the internet was undefeated.

Mid-laugh, you rounded a corner, not looking where you were going, and—WHAM—collided with someone solid, causing you to spill your coffee, drop your phone, and let out a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a scream.

“Oh my God! I am so, so sorry!” you babbled, fumbling to grab your phone off the ground.

“No problem, really—”

You froze. That voice.

You didn’t need to look up to recognize that slightly accented, velvety smooth tone. The universe had decided today was the day it turned your life into a Wattpad fanfiction.

Charles Leclerc was standing right in front of you.

And not just standing. He was smiling—that damn heart-stopping smile—and then something in his expression shifted. His eyes narrowed slightly as if he was trying to place where he knew you from. You, meanwhile, were contemplating whether it was possible to will yourself into nonexistence through sheer force of embarrassment.

“You’re…” Charles blinked and then a glint of recognition flashed in his eyes. “Wait, you’re the girl from that Instagram video. The one about my pants.”

If your life was a movie, this would be the part where someone hit pause so you could have a full existential crisis. Unfortunately, reality didn’t work like that, and all you could do was stare at him, jaw slack, as your brain tried to reboot.

“I, uh… well…” you stammered, unsure of how to explain to the very person whose fashion choices you’d roasted in front of millions of people that it wasn’t personal.

Charles tilted his head, his smile widening. “You really didn’t like my pants, huh?”

Oh God. This was happening. This was actually happening.

“I mean, it’s not that I didn’t like them…” you began weakly, still trying to wrap your head around the fact that you were currently being confronted by Charles freaking Leclerc. “It’s just… they were, you know, kind of…” You gestured vaguely toward his legs as if that would somehow help explain your deep-seated hatred for the star-ripped monstrosities.

“Kind of what?” he asked, clearly enjoying watching you squirm.

You took a deep breath, deciding to just go for it. “Okay, look. They were confusing. Like, were they pants? Or was it some weird attempt at turning your legs into a constellation? I couldn’t tell. They had star-shaped rips, Charles. also, why were there so many weird cutouts? Are they… windows? Are your pants ventilated?”

Charles let out a snort, clearly struggling to keep it together. “Ventilated?”

You nodded, gaining momentum now. “Exactly! They look like they’re half-torn on purpose, but not in a cool, grungy way. It’s like someone started cutting them up and then gave up halfway through. And the bagginess? Charles, I don’t even know where to begin. It’s like you bought them two sizes too big, but then tried to fix it by adding rips. And it just… doesn’t work.”

Charles burst out laughing, his hand covering his mouth as he tried to rein in his amusement. “You really think they were that bad?”

You blinked at him, dead serious. “Charles, those pants looked like they got into a fight with a pair of kindergarten scissors and lost.”

He was full-on laughing now, and you felt a small victory in that. At least he wasn’t offended. Although, considering how often people talked about drivers online, he probably had thicker skin than you’d given him credit for.

“I have to admit, I didn’t think anyone would notice the stars,” Charles said between laughs, wiping away a tear from his eye. “But you? You gave them a whole five-minute segment.”

You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. “I didn’t mean to turn it into an entire rant! It just… it snowballed.”

Charles grinned at you, his expression softening a bit. “No, it was funny. I saw the video. My brothers couldn’t stop laughing. Arthur sent it to me like five times.”

You blinked. “Your brothers… sent you the video?”

“Yep. They even gave the pants a name. They call them ‘the constellation pants’ now.”

You couldn’t help it. You snorted. “You should burn those pants. Like, immediately.”

He looked down at his legs, pretending to think it over. “They’re not that bad.”

“Charles,” you sighed, suddenly feeling a wave of passion wash over you. “Those pants were an abomination. They weren’t just bad—they were like an insult to pants everywhere. Like, what even were they? Baggy, ill-fitting, with random star-shaped rips? Did they start out as pants or was it some kind of tragic attempt at upcycling? Because I swear to God, it looked like a fabric store exploded on your legs.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting you to dive headfirst into a passionate rant about pants, but there was no stopping you now.

“And don’t get me wrong,” you continued, gesturing wildly. “I’m all for experimental fashion. I love a good risk. But those pants? They looked like you lost a bet to a five-year-old. I’ve seen better craftsmanship at a kids’ summer camp sewing class. They were offensive, Charles. Offensive to pants, offensive to legs, and offensive to anyone with eyes.”

Charles looked back up at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Okay, but what’s so wrong with adding a little personality to my wardrobe? Stars are cool.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, shaking your head. “Not when they’re cut out of your pants, they’re not!”

“Fair enough,” he said, still smiling. “But now you’ve got me curious. If I did burn the pants, what would you suggest I wear?”

Was this a trick question? Was he seriously asking you, the random fashion student who insulted him online, for fashion advice? What was your life?

“Well…” you began, mentally assembling an outfit in your head. “For starters, how about something that doesn’t look like it belongs in a bad 2000s boyband? Maybe some slim-fit jeans that actually fit properly. And—oh!—ditch the weird rips. You’re Charles Leclerc, not a rejected *NSYNC member.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed by your decisiveness. “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I’m just saying… you’ve got the face, the career, the whole package. You shouldn’t let the pants drag you down.”

Charles grinned, leaning in slightly. “So, you think I have the whole package?”

Your brain screeched to a halt. Did he just—? Did Charles Leclerc just flirt with you?

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, star boy,” you shot back, smirking despite the fact that your internal monologue was currently having a breakdown. “I’m only here trying to fix your fashion sense.”

Charles chuckled, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. And that’s when the next bomb dropped.

“Well then, maybe you can help me shop sometime?” He said it so casually, like he wasn’t currently turning your entire existence upside down with one smooth sentence. I THOUGHT CARLOS WAS THE SMOOTH OPERATOR.

“I—wait, what?” You blinked rapidly, wondering if you’d heard him correctly. “Did you just… ask me to go shopping with you?”

He smiled again, that devastatingly charming smile that should probably come with a warning label. “Yeah. I mean, you clearly have strong opinions about what I wear. Might as well put them to good use.”

Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. This was fine. Everything was fine. You were standing in the middle of Monaco, and Charles Leclerc—your internet crush since forever—was asking you to go shopping with him. Totally normal. Just another Tuesday. Nothing to freak out about.

Yet your inner monologue was screaming, “MY LIFE IS A WATTPAD FANFICTION, WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”

“I, uh…” you stammered, trying to process this. “Are you serious?”

“Of course,” Charles replied smoothly, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve got to fix my ‘constellation pants’ problem, right? Who better to help me than the girl who went viral for hating them?”

You were pretty sure your brain had short-circuited at this point. But somehow, you managed to respond, your voice steady despite the fact that your insides were doing cartwheels. “I mean… I guess I could do that. If you really want fashion advice.”

Charles nodded, then casually pulled out his phone. “Great. Let me get your number, and we’ll sort something out.”

You stared at him. Was this real life?

He handed you his phone, and you slowly, robotically, typed in your number, still half-expecting to wake up from this fever dream.

After you handed it back, Charles shot you a grin that could probably melt steel. “So… how about lunch tomorrow? We could discuss your fashion intervention plan.”

Your internal monologue was now full-on screaming. WHAT IS THIS LIFE?

“Lunch? Uh… sure?” you replied, feeling like a character in a rom-com who was two seconds away from tripping over their own feet.

“Perfect,” he said, his smile widening. “I’ll text you.”

And just like that, Charles Leclerc—the man whose fashion sense you had ruthlessly destroyed in front of the entire internet—waved goodbye, leaving you standing there in a daze, wondering if you were hallucinating or not.

Your life? Officially. Unreal.

[c4tluver02]

group project

wc: 3.5k

summary: You and Steve get paired up for a group project. You dread it and Steve can't help but want to figure out why?

cw: r has long hair, shy!reader, r has female anatomy

a/n: i think this is the longest ive written? we all cheered!!

The start of your senior year has gone smoothly so far. You woke up on time, nothing went wrong with your makeup, and you made it to school with no issue. After parking you met up with a friend who had called you earlier to tell you she already had ‘hot school gossip’. Classes started in 10 minutes so it gave you two times to talk. 

“Okay, so you know how Kelly dropped out?” She started.

You nod ready to hear the rest of the story until you hear a loud yell from the end of the hall. Both of you turn your heads to see King Steve and his group of friends. Tommy was jumping up and down and Steve was rolling his eyes laughing at him. Grinding your teeth at their obnoxiousness you turn your attention back to your friend. 

“If I am in any class with those fools I might just have to walk out.” She says still gazing over the group. 

“We’ve made it this far without, let's hope for one more good year!” You respond sarcastically. 

Suddenly the bell rings. You’ll have to get the details on Kelly during lunch. You and your friend part ways and you head towards the first period class. 

After being here for three years already, you have the place down. It doesn't take you long to find out where your class is and luckily you're early enough to pick a good seat. Another hope you have is the absences of a seating chart. But with all these hopes you risk not being lucky at most. 

Everyone starts walking in, the class is filled with chatter and still the seat next to you is empty. Class starts in exactly one minute, it looks like you got lucky with this one. Allowing your attention to be soaked up by the teacher, introducing herself, you miss how someone sneakily got into the seat next to you. 

Feeling a presence, it doesn't take you long to turn your head to see who it is. And of course the luck didn't last long, here he was in all his glory. King Steve sat perched on the stool next to you, messing with his hair and setting down his backpack. Nothing is being taken out and he looks rushed. 

Trying to look around for any other empty seats, but they were all taken. The teacher started yelling out names for attendance and afterwards let the class know that the seats you are in are the ones you'll be in for the rest of the year. You’re quick to drop your head into your hands and Steve takes notice of it. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. 

You are surprised he would even bother to care but maybe you look ill and he probably doesn't want to be near someone like that. It is hard for you to wrap your head around it and all this thinking makes you pause. 

“Yeah, I'm okay.” You nod.  It comes out after a few seconds which definitely doesn't help your case. 

The thought that he doesn't even think the reaction was about him tells you pretty much all you need to know. But thankfully he doesn't ask you anything more, the rest of the class is the teacher speaking and for once you’re grateful for it. 

–

During lunch you were quick to inform your friends that your first period of the day would be shared with Steve Harrington and the sad looks you got made it all worse. It wasnt that you hated Steve, his charm got him through every door and if we were being real he didn't hurt to look at either. It was no surprise why so many girls tried to get with him but in a class you're not someone Steves going after. If anything he was gonna ask for your homework to copy and because you have no backbone you’d probably give it to him. 

So truthfully Steve wasn’t some bad guy, he was just bad for you. 

And each day Steve came in he was almost late to class. Watching the clock has become somewhat of a fun game for you, waiting to see what time he gets here each day. Some days he arrives with 30 seconds to spare before he's officially late. Others make it with a full 50 seconds remaining. And each time he sits next to you he offers a small smile. It wouldn’t be weird if it was anyone else doing this, however, this was Steve we were talking about. Steve who sleeps with a new girl each week and only thinks with the, rumored 8 inches?, in his pants. 

Still, always being polite, you give him a smile back. It never lasts long and your body always turns back to the teacher but it’s still there. This is what Steve holds onto. But if you knew the things he was saying about you to Tommy your face would turn bright red. 

–

“She barely even looks at me. Like did I turn ugly overnight?” Steve asks dramatically. He's eating lunch with his friends and for some reason you aren't throwing yourself his way. It’s not like Steve necessarily wants that but he’s surprised it isn't happening. 

“Maybe she’s already dating someone else?” Tommy asks, digging into his burger like he hasn't eaten in days.

“Nah I already asked Carol and she said she was single. I swear I give her smiles and each time she turns away.” Why wouldn't you talk to him? Steve thought his super power was being able to make anyone like him. He was just that type of guy, likeable, fun, easy to talk to. And here you were writing him off like he was some loser. 

“I dunno man.” Steve sighs as Tommy talks with food stuffed in his mouth. “She could like the other gender.” He says with brows raised, the last part comes out in a low voice like it was some scary secret.

Maybe Steve should have just kept the topic between him and Carol. He needs a plan to talk to you. Something about the way he knows nothing about you makes him all the more intrigued. He had completely missed your name during roll call on the first day of school, the teacher doesn't even do it anymore. Which in any other case would mean that Steves skipping the class, but he couldn't, because then he’d miss you. 

–

The next few weeks Steve tries more and more to up the conversation between the two of you. You’re often quick to cut it short or give clipped answers. Neither help Steve and his mission to befriend you, or at the very least get to know you. 

When he got to class he gave you the classic Steve Harrington smile and the one you gave back made his heart skip a beat. It always did. Now Steve hasn't said it outloud but you were someone he could see himself falling for. Your long hair matches so nicely with the pretty smile you flash. And the way your bra sometimes pokes out from your shirt is never lost on him. 

Class was boring so far, all the teacher had talked about was some book stuff, Steve had zoned out for most of it. But then hands were being raised and that was quick to wake him up. The teacher was pointed at tables to group up and you and Steve had been paired together. Apparently there's a group project due for the midterm. Each pair had to make a presentation and Steve’s smile was big. This was his moment to talk to you, maybe even get you out of this school for dinner or something. You however looked a little less happy than Steve. Over the few weeks you’d grown to unfortunately not hate him. He was nice to you despite all the horrible things you've heard from other girls. Maybe it was all gossip or maybe you just had to wait for the right moment for him to use you and move on. This group project seemed like the right moment for that, forcing you to do the work and slap his name on it. Sounded convenient. 

Although what really surprised you was when Steve came up to you during lunch. You were completely unaware as your back was facing his table but the wide eyes from your friends made you turn around. 

“Hey Steve.” You say kindly but still a hint of shock in your voice. 

“Hey! So, uh, I was wondering if you wanted to come by my place to start working on the project? I know we have a few weeks but I think it would be good to get an overall idea of what we want to do.” He tries to make it come out with confidence but with all these eyes on him he stumbles. 

Your eyes only grew wider as you looked back at your friends as if they could tell you what to say. Barely a month of school has gone by and it started with you never having a word with Steve to now you going to his house. To say you were shocked is an understatement. 

“Okay, yeah, we can do that. Could you write down your address for me?” You ask while simultaneously grabbing a pen and paper.

Steve tries to write neatly but his chicken scratch still comes through. It's legible and really that's all that matters. 

“So how does Saturday at 12 work?” Steve asks once he's done. 

“12pm on Saturday works perfectly.” You smile. He gives you a nod and waves a small goodbye ending the conversation there. He hopes that when you're at his place you’ll feel more open to talk or Steve will feel more open to keep the conversation going. 

–

Saturday comes sooner than expected. With school starting back up so does homework and for some reason they are drowning you in it. Barely any room for down time the weekend is like a breath of fresh air. You can finally sleep in and be lazy. Well, you would be if you didn't have to go to Steves. Speaking of your room is a mess from you trying to find an outfit. Not wanting to come off too casual but also not wanting to look like every  other girl that threw themselves at him.

The drive to his house was short and it took you a second to actually get past the anxiety of knocking on his door. With all the courage you could muster, you gently knock on the large door which Steve is quick to open and greet you with a big smile. 

“Hey sweetheart, perfect timing I just got some snacks for us all ready to go. You can come in.” He says waving his hand towards him, signaling to walk. 

You hope he can't see the way the pet name affected you. He’s never called you that before, maybe he doesn't even know he did it. 

Shutting the door behind you Steve places a small hand on your back to guide you through his large house. 

“It’s all still in the kitchen, I just need to bring it over here.” He says bringing you both to the kitchen. 

“Are your parents home?” You ask looking around for them.

“No, they are gone for the week on some business trip.” 

You give him a small ‘oh ok’ as you help with the bowls of food. One has chips, the other has cookies, and the last one has grapes. 

“I didn’t know which you’d like so I just thought all three could be nice.” The gesture is sweet, and he's right, they all look good. 

Placing all three bowls on the table in the living room he sits on the couch and you follow through with the same action. He grabs a grape and pops it in his mouth. 

“Can you catch a grape?” He asks, he’s doing a lot of the talking but you don’t really know what to say. Too shy to start a conversation that may lead nowhere.

“No, but I don't think I've ever tried.” Steve can see that you're even more timid outside of school than you were in school. A new territory doesn't bring you out of your shell. 

“It’s pretty easy. When you throw it just follow the grape with your eyes and then once it comes down catch it!” He throws the grape into the air and catches it with ease. You can’t help but wonder if he's trying to impress you with these little tricks. 

You throw a grape into the air and move your head towards it with an open mouth but it lands in your lap. 

Embarrassed with your fail, you pop it quickly into your mouth. It is a crunchy grape and super sweet at the same time. It must be nice to be rich and have nice grapes, you think. 

“Here throw and I'll catch.” Steve says handing you a grape. 

“You just saw my throw, I don’t know how good this’ll be.” Your brows are furrowed and Steve laughs. 

“You got this, c'mon I’ll catch it I promise. Won't let you down.” His head is thrown back and he has a steady eye on the grape in your hand. 

He’s so locked in and ready it makes you smile. Doing what he asked, you turn to face him and throw it in the air. It’s not exactly far enough which makes Steve pull himself forward. He catches it but not without his hands landing on either side of your thighs, a little close in your personal space. 

He doesn't move his position as he crunches down on the fruit. “See? Told you I’d get it.” The smirk that appears on his face is evident and you fight everything in you not to inspect every mole on his face. 

“You wanna try?” He asks, still not moving. Why isn't he moving? 

“I think I’d do even worse.” You respond shyly. Steve isn’t in love with all this negative self-talk; he needs to do something about it. 

“You just threw a grape and it was great. There's no hurt in trying right?” You aren't sure why he's filled with compliments for you but whatever he’s doing is working. Each word pumps you with confidence and you agree to do it. 

“Just try and copy what I did, eyes on the grape, lean to wherever it goes, and boom you got it.” He states simply. 

You can't help but roll your eyes at his explanation. It obviously wasn't as easy as he's making it out to be and the embarrassment from your first try is still in you. 

“Ok grumpy, ready?” Steve says light-heartedly with a laugh. 

“Just throw it Harrington.” You say tilting your head back, getting serious. 

You’ve never called him that before and Steve can’t say he hates the way it sounds coming from your lips. The serious tone doing wonders for him he almost forgot your demand. 

Following through, he throws it and you lean out a little and catch it. It’s perfect for your first try and Steve’s loud cheer is proof of it. 

“You did it!” He says all smiley.

“I did it!” You’re on your knees now with fists up in the air. Your laugh fills up the room and Steve thinks it might be the best sound he’s ever heard. 

“Do you wanna try with a chip?” Steve asks, he really just wants to sit and talk. 

“As good as I am at this newfound skill, I think we should probably get started on the project.” You say biting into a cookie. Steve nods in agreement, he’s probably being a bad partner right now but he doesn't really care too much. 

“So what did you have in mind?” He asks. You’re leaning your head against the cushion of the couch and eating a cookie he made just for today. His heart might devastatingly break if he doesn't get to kiss you sometime soon. 

“I don’t even know, I think maybe doing it on one of the required books could make it easy?’ 

“Okay smarty pants, that's a great idea.” Steve says, poking a finger into your hip. It tickles which makes you giggle. “That way when we have to read the book we’ll already understand it.” He finishes and you're still smiling from the complement. 

“Exactly! We can kill two birds with one stone.” You’re done with your cookie and it’s as if Steve could read your mind and he hands you another one. 

“We need to go to the store to pick up all the supplies. Along with the books, you think she’d lend us some copies early?” He asks, thinking about how stubborn the teacher is. 

The thought of Steve already planning another meet up for you two makes your body feel like it's on fire. It’s obvious that you would need to see him again for the project but now you’re going out shopping with him. 

“I think she would if she knew it was for the project. If all else fails add the library to the list after the store.” 

It falls silent after that, the plan fully set and now it’s just a fight of who asks who. Steve doesn't want you to go and if he asked, you would say the same. An hour and a half has already passed but it feels like you’ve been here for 10 minutes. But the sun is setting and you did tell your parents you’d be home at a certain time. 

“Steve, what time is it?” You say it gently, not wanting it to come off like you're dying to leave or something. 

He quickly glances at the watch on his wrist and tells you it’s 6pm. You know your family is waiting on you to eat dinner but the feeling of leaving Steve here all alone makes your heart physically ache. 

“What are you doing for dinner?” 

“Oh, um maybe mac and cheese? I dunno, I have to go shopping. My parents barely left me with anything.” He says it with a laugh at the end, he doesn't want to sound pathetic. 

“Would you like to come to mine and eat dinner with me?” This is a bold move coming from you and Steve knows it. Which is exactly why he thinks it's all just a pity move. 

“Oh, no, no I don't want to impose on your family dinner. I swear it’s all good I’m used to it when my parents are gone.” 

You let out a small huff. You’re not great at asking for things like this and he’s not taking the hint as easily as you’d hoped. 

“I am trying to invite you because I want to hang out more, Steve.” Maybe the direct approach will work, you’re already this far into asking. But still your head is hanging low in case of any rejection. 

“Oh.” It’s all he says.

“Okay nevermind. Thanks for having me.” You’re quick to grab for your shoes and get up but Steve places a hand on your thigh before you fully get off the couch.

“No, that's not, I didn't mean it like that.” His hand is still burning on your thigh. “I just didn’t think you liked me that much.” 

Your eyes soften and guilt starts biting at you. “I do like you. I just didn’t know you, I guess.” The shrug you give is paired with a small hand on top of his own, still resting on your thigh. 

Normally Steve would make a joke about how you ‘like like him’ but he doesn't. Because you're not some girl he plays around with, and to gain your trust is something Steve is ready to fight for. Which means he's gonna go about this in the right way, no cutting corners, nothing to make you think this is a one time fling. 

Which is why he declines your extremely sweet invite. Steve will meet your family when you can proudly talk about him across the table to your parents. He’s not gonna be some boy you bring home but someone who will come over when the time is right. 

Before you leave Steve gives you his number and for the next few nights you two talk for hours. Only hanging up when your mom calls you down for dinner. It’s nice learning all these things about Steve, each fact fighting against the awful rumors being told about him. And with each time you two meet up to work on the project, the less school work gets done and the more flirting comes out. You’re getting braver and Steves getting softer, a perfect pair. 

It’s never a lazy complement or a small hug. It’s only ever full of passion and heartfelt. You learn that Steve can’t keep his hands off you, always one on your thigh or tangled with your own, he is ridiculously generous with the compliments, and never fails to call you something deathly sweet. 

The shyness within you fades as your bubbly personality shines, Steve can only be enamored by you. And he isn't afraid to show it during your first period together. Each day the two of you get closer and closer and soon enough Steve is able to go to that family dinner as you introduce him as your boyfriend.

[chereid]

೯⁺ 𖥻 𝓗 𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗜𝗦 𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗜'𝗠 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗬𝗢𝗨 ! ᰋ

ꨄ︎ 𝒫 airing : : 𝒮pencer reid x female!reader

ꨄ︎ 𝒮 ynopsis : : you get drunk on a night out and gush about your boyfriend━━SPENCER REID. he picks you up, takes care of you, and reminds you that you're deeply loved.

ꨄ︎ 𝓒ontents : : drunk!reader. female!reader. jj and reader are friends since high school. fluff. spencer being the most boyfriendest boyfriend ever & ever. both are down bad for each other. mentions of having sex. boys of tommen quote mentioned!! johnnyshannon quote mentioned!! cringe. cheesy. grammatical errors. ooc(?). reader wears a dress and heels. reader is part of the bau but isn't mentioned. english isn't viana's first language. not proofread.

ꨄ︎ 𝓦ord count : : 1.4k

ꨄ︎ 𝓒ase file shelf.

ꨄ︎ 𝒲hispers of viana : : so... it's always drunk! spencer,, what about drunk!reader, chat!?!?( joksies, i love love love love your works sososo much,, i haven't read the nsfw ones but i love them because yes. they're definitely good. ) going back to my oldoldold writing style because i miss it. anyways, this is probably like, my first , first, first s.reid fic in months. the ones i've posted yesterday were made in,,, february-ish,, so this is probably bad-bad-bad. i'm vv sorry in advance!! + how do you guys make friends here lawd. oh, oh, and again, english isn't my first language,, so forgive me !!

the dress you chose wasn't exactly comfortable, and the heels were the type that made you wonder every step of the way. they were cute in the mirror.of course, but after standing for about ten minutes, it seemed like your feet were dying. nonetheless, you'd promised jj you'd attend. and when she mentioned that some of your old high school friends would be there. the ones she still kept in contact with━━you thought it couldn't hurt. it had been an eternity since you let loose, and jj promised you'd be home before midnight. besides, SPENCER said he didn't mind.

"go," he said to you that morning, stroking his thumb over your knuckles the way he always did. "you need a break. and besides, you're with jj, so i'm not concerned.

you weren't even going to drink. really. that wasn't the intention. but then more and more drinks would come and there would be low lights and everyone would laugh and laugh and laugh like it was time machines and it was senior year once more and there were no bills to pay or the need to procrastinate school projects or heartbreak or anything like that. only music and giggles and sparkly eyeshadow and glossy lips.

jj laughed next to you, her wedding ring glinting in the bar lights like a miniature disco ball. they were congratulating the girl for getting married and having kids.

one of the girls leaned in, already a little drunk, her voice teasing. "so what about you?" she said. "you dating anyone?"

you blinked at her, wobbling a bit in your seat, your drink halfway to your lips. "mmhmn," you hummed contentedly. "boyfren. beautiful. so, so intelligent. like, utterly intelligent. my spencer."

jj gagged on her drink. "oh boy."

your friends leaned in, curious now. "wait, that's his name? spencer? is he cute?"

you breathed in sharply, eyes wide. "cute? noooo. he's celestial. like.. a star. with a phd. and fluffy hair. and cheekbones. and when he speaks, it's like... sexy wikipedia."

you laughed, tugging jj's arm for support. "he knows everything. and remember everything i say. even the stupid things. like one time i said birds don't have knees? and he said they do, but he said it all soft and sweet like i hadn't just said the most wrong thing ever."

"he has, like, eighteen phds! it's insane. but it's spencer, so it's not insane."

jj snorted. "he's got three phds."

you brushed her away. "three is basically the same as eighteen. he totally has eighteen."

everyone at the table burst into laughter. jj leaned over and whispered, "you're so gone."

“mhmn. 'm so gonna marry him.”

soon, the heels became your worst enemies. you dropped your chin dramatically onto jj's shoulder and groaned, "jayjjjeey. my feetsies hurt. the heels are murdering me. it's, like, medieval battles down there."

“maybe remove them?" jj suggested, raising an eyebrow.

"then i'll be short," you huffed, offended.

jj rolled her eyes and got out her phone. "i should probably call your boygenius before you start rambling about his hands again."

"his hands are so nice though!"

"yeah, yeah. i know." she began dialing.

spencer answered on the first ring. "jj?"

"hey━━" she began, but didn't get a chance to finish.

"spencer!" you yelled into the phone. saying the “e” in his name longer than it should be.

he stopped in his tracks. "is she━━?"

"she's drunk," jj answered, half-sorry, half-amused. "she's fine, though. just. ridiculously drunk. here."

you pulled the phone away from her like it was your personal offender. "hi, hi. hi again" you drawled, stretching it out like the best song. "guess who?"

"hmm," spencer muttered, tone gentle. "i'm going to go say the love of my life?"

you squealed. loudly. "oh my god, you're so cute. spencer. your voice is like.. silk. but, like, smart silk. is that a thing?"

he was grinning into the phone now, though he was already getting up to grab his jacket. "did you have fun tonight?"

"mhm. so much fun. they asked if i have a boyfren and i was like 'duh' and they were like 'is he cute?' and i was like 'no. he's an actual greek god with brown eyes and a brain that could take over the world.'"

you were slurring more now. even over the phone, he could hear how your words tangled together.

"do you want me to come get you?"

you stopped as if you needed to think very hard. then you spoke softly but loud enough, "yes. yes. come and get me. please. i want to see your face. want to touch your hair. want━━to━━wait. jj! jj, he's coming!"

behind him, he heard jj say, "alright, just sit down and don't trip over, please."

twenty minutes later, spencer entered the bar, eyes sweeping until they found jj and the table of your old friends. he nodded at jj as greeting.

one of the girls blinked. "oh wow. you didn't say he looked like that."

"he's like a hot professor," another whispered.

you saw him. stood up way too fast. stumbled right into his chest.

"spence!" you cried, arms flinging around his neck.

he caught you quickly, his arms tight at your waist. "careful," he breathed, his nose buried in your hair.

you whirled away to your friends as if you'd just won a prize. "he's taken! so taken. all mine. back off."

they all erupted into laughter. jj put her hand across her face, trying so hard to prevent herself from losing it. "okay, casanova. let him breathe."

you didn't listen. your lips began leaving kisses on his cheek, his jaw, the edge of his neck, and his face flushed deep red.

"let's get you home," he said softly, scooping you up into his arms like you were nothing.

"bye guys!" you waved extravagantly. "jj i love you! and you're all so pretty!"

you wrapped both of your arms around his neck even as he attempted to put you into the car.

"baby," you mumbled, holding on. "don't go."

"i'm not leaving. i'm just buckling you in."

"you sing," you commanded as he removed your heels.

he hesitated. "sing what?"

"science lullaby."

"you want me to sing. the laws of thermodynamics?"

you nodded seriously. "yes. they comfort me." his voice did. but the same thing.

when you did finally get home. well, technically his place but now it felt like your home as well━━spencer attempted to get you to put on your heels again so that you wouldn't dirty your feet and so he could lock the car. you complained but wore it anyway.

once inside, you kicked them off like they'd personally offended you. "they betrayed me."

he stooped to put them down tidily beside the door. when he stood up, you were propped against the wall, bottom lip protruding.

"come on," he groaned lovingly, sweeping you up into his arms.

you breathed onto his shoulder. "you're so strong. do you work out? or are you just. spencer-y?"

he chuckled, carrying you into the bathroom. "let's get you cleaned up."

he sat you down on the side of the tub and picked up your makeup wipes. "close your eyes."

you did, scrunching up your lips. "kiss me."

"after i remove the mascara," he grumbled.

his hands were soft, tracing slow, gentle circles. "you always get this little smudge right here," he said, swiping under your left eye. "you never see it. but i do."

"you notice everything," you sighed, in awe.

"i do," he said again, softer.

he handed you your toothbrush then and stood over you like a hawk. "don't swallow it."

"you're like a sexy dentist," you said, toothpaste running down your chin.

he wiped it away. "you're going to regret all the things you said tonight."

after brushing, he put you into one of his large shirts and carried you to bed.( after making you urinate ). you held onto him like a koala, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

"love you," you breathed.

"love you too," he whispered, sweeping your hair aside.

you kissed him, slowly and deep, your hands fumbling with his shirt.

"baby," you muttered on his lips. "i want you."

he pulled away, his breathing ragged. "you're drunk."

"so?"

"so i'm not doing anything until you're sober."

you pouted. "but i want to."

"i know. and i love you. all of you. not drunk-you. tomorrow, okay?"

you scowled but nodded. "for keeps?"

"for keeps."

you wrapped into his chest, exhaling as your body relaxed into the blankets.

and even when your breaths grew slower and your hand remained tucked over his heart, spencer didn't sleep━━not yet. he simply watched you, drawing invisible shapes on your back, committing to memory the precise curve of your smile even in sleep.

even drunk, you loved him.

and god, did he love you too.

© reidscherrygirl

[halfmoonaria]

her words, not mine

pairing: top!tara carpenter & sub!female reader

summary: you and tara kept things simple, no complications—until she made one.

warnings: smut (18+) fingering (r receiving), secret relationship, office sex.

author’s note: i haven’t proofread this one so..

Tara liked control.

She always had. Even as a child, she found comfort in order. It wasn't just about neatness or routine—it was about knowing.

Knowing that things were in their right place, that nothing unexpected would throw her off balance. Her toys had to be arranged a certain way. If someone moved them, she'd notice instantly. Her bookshelves had gone through endless reorganizations—not because she couldn't decide on a system, but because she needed to find the best one.

Genre made sense, but what if she wanted all her favorite books together? What if she needed to sort them by spine height so they looked even? What if, what if, what if?

She liked puzzles. Not because she enjoyed the picture at the end, but because she liked solving something that had a clear answer. She liked math for the same reason. Two plus two would always be four, no matter what. There was no uncertainty. No surprises. Just rules that made sense, that she could rely on.

She learned early that people weren't like that.

At school, group projects were a nightmare. The moment the teacher assigned one, Tara's jaw would clench, already anticipating the frustration. No one ever did what they were supposed to. No one ever cared as much as she did. So she took over. Not because she wanted to, but because if she didn't, things would fall apart.

People didn't appreciate that.

They called her bossy. Controlling. Too serious.

But what was wrong with wanting things done right? What was wrong with making sure things were finished on time instead of hoping someone else would magically pull through at the last second?

She stopped caring what people thought of her.

By the time she was a teenager, she had already accepted that if she wanted something done properly, she had to do it herself. And that suited her just fine. She didn't need anyone else. She had her plans, and she followed through on them, no matter what.

Tara never half-assed anything. If she committed to something, she owned it.

It was how she got through college at the top of her class. While other students partied, Tara studied. While others procrastinated, she finished assignments weeks in advance. Not because she was a genius, but because she refused to let herself fail. She didn't do 'good enough.' She did more.

And when it came time to enter the workforce, she carried that same mindset with her.

The first job she landed was nothing special. Just a stepping stone. She knew that the moment she walked in. But while others treated it like just another paycheck, Tara treated it like an opportunity. She learned fast, adapted even faster. She memorized company policies inside and out. She figured out what made people listen, what made them respect her.

She wasn't the boss. Not yet. But she knew she would be.

So she worked. And worked.

Late nights, early mornings, weekends sacrificed in the name of something bigger. It wasn't enough to be good at her job—she had to be the best. She studied the people above her, watched how they operated, learned from their mistakes. She climbed the ladder so quickly it made people's heads spin.

By the time she got to the top, no one could say she didn't deserve it.

Now, she was the one in charge. The one who gave orders instead of taking them.

Her office ran exactly the way she wanted it to—strict, efficient, with no room for distractions.

Or at least, that's how it was supposed to be.

But then there was you.

Tara didn't notice you at first. Not in the way she would later. You were just another name on a new hire list, another employee she expected to follow orders and do their job. You weren't the first person to work under her, and you wouldn't be the last.

But you were different.

She saw it almost immediately. While others hesitated around her, unsure whether to tiptoe or challenge her authority, you never wavered. You didn't shrink under her sharp tone or the weight of her expectations. You never sighed when she gave you extra work, never rolled your eyes when you thought she wasn't looking.

The others tried to hide their exasperation, their thinly veiled frustration whenever she demanded precision. It was in the subtle way they hesitated before saying yes, ma'am, in the tight-lipped expressions they wore when she sent them back to redo a report that wasn't up to her standards. They obeyed, but with reluctance. Even the best among them still carried that underlying sense of just let it go, it's not that serious.

But not you.

You followed every instruction to the letter, not just meeting her standards but exceeding them. If she asked for paperwork, it was on her desk before she even had to remind you. If she wanted reports sorted in a specific way, you did it without question. Not once did she have to send something back because it wasn't done right.

You did everything her way. Everything she wanted.

And you never complained.

At first, she told herself that was all it was—just appreciation for competence. Respect for someone who took their job as seriously as she did. But then she started to watch you.

She noticed things she had no business noticing.

The way your fingers tapped lightly against your desk when you were deep in concentration. The way you chewed on the end of your pen absentmindedly during meetings. The way you bit your lip when you read over a document, eyes narrowing just slightly as if you were committing every word to memory.

It was ridiculous. Inappropriate. Unprofessional.

And yet, sometimes—only sometimes—she would catch herself looking lower.

It wasn't intentional. At least, that's what she told herself. But her gaze would flicker downward, lingering for a second too long. It didn't matter that you never dressed revealingly. You could be wearing the most modest blouse imaginable, and still, her eyes would betray her. The way the fabric hugged you just enough, the way it shifted when you moved—it was infuriating how easily her mind wandered.

She scolded herself for it. She was better than this. Smarter than this.

You worked for her.

And yet, no matter how many times she told herself it was nothing, that it didn't mean anything, the thought was always there. Looking isn't doing anything wrong. Thinking isn't acting.

As long as she never did anything about it, there wasn't a problem.

Right?

...Right?

Tara told herself it would pass.

That it was just a phase—an overactive mind, too many late nights, nothing more.

But the longer it went on, the worse it got.

Because you made it hard.

She had control over everything. Everything. Her schedule. Her business. The way people spoke to her, the way they listened when she gave orders. Control was what she did. It was what she was.

And yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't control this.

Couldn't control the way her eyes lingered on you when you weren't looking. The way she caught herself anticipating your presence, your voice, the way you carried yourself so effortlessly through the office. Couldn't control the way her mind drifted at night, replaying insignificant moments as if they meant something.

But you—you were controlled.

You followed the rules. You knew how to navigate her world, how to move within the strict lines she had drawn. You did everything right. Everything she wanted.

And it infuriated her.

Because no matter how much power she held over you in that office—no matter how much control she had over everything else—she couldn't control what you were doing to her.

She tried to push it down. Buried it beneath long hours and stricter expectations, forced herself to focus on anything but the way her breath caught when you got too close.

It didn't work.

Because eventually, there was that night.

It was late. The office was empty, save for the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint glow of computer screens still in sleep mode. She hadn't planned to stay so late, but neither had you.

And she hadn't planned on letting her control slip.

But it did.

And once it happened the first time—once that line was crossed—there was no going back.

The headache had settled in hours ago, a dull ache at the base of Tara's skull that no amount of pinching at the bridge of her nose had managed to fix. The office had been silent by then—just the faint buzz of a light she had kept meaning to replace, the occasional creak of the building settling.

She should have gone home.

But the end of the day had always felt like a void, like the moment she stepped outside, she would have nothing but time—time to think, time to dwell, time to let her mind wander places it shouldn’t.

So she had stayed.

A few reports had still needed reviewing, a contract had been waiting for her signature—excuses, really, but enough to justify the extra hours. She had skimmed through the papers in front of her, rubbing at her forehead as she had tried to focus.

Then, a soft knock against the doorframe.

Tara had looked up sharply, her thoughts scattering like glass.

And there you had been.

You had smiled, the same polite, professional smile she had seen a hundred times before. The kind of smile you had always given her when you had stepped into her office with a file in hand or a question on your lips.

But that night, it had felt different.

Or maybe that had just been her.

Because it had been after hours. Because she had been tired. Because her body had been tense and restless in ways she hadn't been proud of, and now you had been standing there, looking at her like you always did, and for the first time, she had felt like she couldn't look away.

"Ms. Carpenter..." Your voice had been soft in the quiet space, hesitant but not nervous.

You had shifted slightly, holding up a folder with one hand. "I was finishing up the reports from the vendors, but there were a few inconsistencies in the invoices. I thought you might want to go over them before I send them back."

Tara had swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

Of course. Work. That had been why you had still been there. Why you had approached her. Why you had spoken her name so softly it had sent a shiver down her spine.

She had nodded, forcing herself to look at the folder instead of at you. "Right. Leave them on my desk."

But you hadn't moved right away.

And Tara had realized, in that small pause, that this had been the moment where it all had started to go wrong.

You had nodded at her words and stepped forward, placing the folder neatly onto her desk before turning to leave.

And Tara had watched you go.

It had been instinct, at first. A passing glance that had lasted a second too long.

The way you had walked—unhurried, confident but not cocky. The way your skirt had hugged your hips just enough to make her grip tighten around her pen. She had never let herself stare before, but she had been exhausted, her thoughts already slipping past her usual restraint, and for a brief, fleeting moment, she had let herself want.

Just as quickly, she had forced herself to look away.

Of course she hadn't said anything. Of course she had stayed silent, eyes snapping back to the papers in front of her, pen dragging across the page as if that could erase the fact that, for one split second, she had almost wished you had stayed.

But the knowledge that you were still somewhere in the building—that it was just the two of you, alone in the dimly lit office—was enough to make her pulse thrum a little too fast.

She had tried to push it down. To ignore the sudden heat simmering beneath her skin, the restless energy that made it impossible to focus on the words she was supposed to be reading.

But her hands had felt unsteady.

Her grip on the pen had been too tight, her skin too warm, her breathing a little too uneven. She had even flexed her fingers, pressing her palms flat against the desk as if she could ground herself, but nothing had helped.

And it had been infuriating.

Because this wasn't what control felt like.

Control was certainty. Control was discipline. Control was her thing.

This? This had been something else entirely.

Tara had exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down her face before glancing at the clock. It was late. Too late.

She had decided then—before her thoughts could spiral any further—that it was best to go home. If she was feeling this off, this hot and restless, she was probably coming down with something. Maybe a fever. That would explain everything.

With that excuse firmly in place, she had snapped her laptop shut and started gathering the scattered papers on her desk.

And that had been the exact moment you had walked in again.

She had frozen, just for a split second, fingers still curled around a loose stack of documents, before forcing herself to relax.

The same soft smile. The same perfectly put-together demeanor. A thinner folder in your hands.

"Ma'am," you had said, voice smooth, effortless, sending something sharp and electric straight through her spine.

She had swallowed, gripping the papers a little tighter.

You had stepped closer, holding out the folder. "I finalized the edits on the quarterly report, but I wanted to double-check if you wanted me to send it to the board as is, or if you'd prefer another review first."

Tara had barely heard a word you had said.

She had tried to listen—to focus—but she had still been picking up the last of her things, still forcing herself to act normal, and that had already taken every ounce of willpower she had left.

You had glanced at her desk then, at the way she had been straightening up. Something in your expression had shifted, a flicker of hesitation before you had spoken again.

"Did you want me to close up?"

Your voice had been softer that time, more casual.

And it had been a simple question. A normal one. But for some reason, the sound of it had made something deep in Tara's stomach tighten painfully.

She had nodded, too quickly. "Yeah, that would be great."

Her voice had been neutral. Measured. Like she had barely been paying attention.

But she had been paying attention.

Too much.

Because she had still been pretending to organize the papers in front of her, still trying to do something so she wouldn't have to think about the fact that her whole body had felt wound too tight.

And then you had said it again.

"Yes, ma'am."

And that had been the last drop.

Tara had never let herself indulge. Never let herself do more than look—and even that had been rare, controlled, brief.

But suddenly, none of that had felt like enough.

Suddenly, control hadn't mattered at all.

Tara hadn't planned it.

She hadn't thought about it—not really, not in a way that acknowledged what she was actually doing.

She had just moved.

One second, she had been standing there, still gripping the edges of her desk like it could somehow ground her, still trying to will away the heat in her chest, the tightness in her stomach. And then, suddenly, her hands had been on you, her lips pressing hard against yours.

It hadn't been careful. It hadn't been slow or thoughtful or rational—it had been instant. A desperate attempt to make it all stop.

Because if she kissed you, maybe the thoughts would go away.

If she kissed you, maybe the tightness in her chest would finally ease, maybe the heat in her stomach would stop twisting itself into unbearable knots, maybe she could get her control back.

And for one agonizing second, as she had felt your breath hitch against her lips, she had been terrified that she had ruined everything.

That you would push her away. That you would look at her like she had crossed a line. That you would pull back, storm out, and cost her everything—her reputation, her position, everything she had worked for.

But then you had leaned in.

Not quickly, not in a way that screamed urgency or recklessness.

You had just looked at her—wide-eyed, surprised, the soft glow of the office lights making your lips look even more kissable than they already were.

And then you had kissed her back.

Tara had barely registered the sound of a sharp inhale, barely processed the way her pulse had thundered so hard it almost hurt, because suddenly, her back was hitting the desk, and her legs were wrapping around your waist like she needed you closer.

She had needed you closer.

Everything had been fast—desperate.

The sound of her desk chair scraping back, the crash of a stapler and loose papers hitting the floor as she grabbed at you, pulled at you, let herself want.

She had never been this desperate before.

But she had clung to you like she needed you to breathe, grinding up against your hips with reckless urgency, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, lips parting against yours as her fingers tangled in your hair.

She had felt electric.

Like her whole body was on fire, like every part of her was wired too tight, coiled up with months of restraint she hadn't even realized she had been holding.

And then your hands had slid down.

Slow. Intentional.

You had pushed up her skirt, fingers grazing along the inside of her thigh.

Tara had gasped—actually gasped—her nails digging into your shoulders, her body arching up into your touch, her mind blanking completely when your fingers pressed against her.

She had never let go like this before.

But with you, she hadn't wanted to hold back.

She remembered everything.

Every sound. Every touch. Every second she had let go.

She remembered the way her legs had trembled when your fingers pushed inside her, how she had gripped at your shoulders, nails digging in like she needed something to anchor herself, to keep herself from completely falling apart.

She remembered how wet she had been, how embarrassing it should have been, how it only made you move faster, made your touch rougher, made her hips chase the pressure.

She remembered the way she had moaned—loud, desperate, shameless. How she hadn't even thought about keeping it down, about the fact that anyone could have still been in the building, about anything except the way your fingers curled just right inside her.

She remembered your mouth.

How it had found the skin of her neck, her jaw, the shell of her ear. How you had sucked at her pulse, kissed down her throat, whispered things against her skin that made her throb.

She remembered the burn of her desk against her back, the way her blouse had ridden up as she squirmed against the wood, the way her thighs had ached from being spread so wide around your hips.

She remembered how her own voice had sounded—breathless, high-pitched, needy.

She had never sounded like that before.

She had never let herself sound like that before.

But she had wanted it. She had needed it.

And when she came—legs shaking, mouth open in a silent cry, forehead pressing into your shoulder—she had realized something that terrified her.

For the first time in her life, she had lost control.

And it had felt so fucking good.

After, there had been silence.

No awkwardness, no words, no need to fill the space with anything but the sound of hurried breaths and rustling clothes. Tara had smoothed down her skirt, fixed the buttons on her blouse with slightly unsteady hands, and watched as you did the same. Neither of you spoke about what had just happened.

And maybe that was for the best.

When you left the office, you didn't look at her any differently. You didn't linger in the doorway, didn't hesitate, didn't ask what it meant. You just said Goodnight, Ms. Carpenter—like you always did—and walked away.

Tara didn't say anything back. She had just sat there, perched on the edge of her desk, feeling HOT all over, feeling something that wasn't quite regret but wasn't satisfaction either.

That night, she couldn't sleep.

She had tried. She had needed to, but every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the way your lips had parted against hers, the way your body had pressed against her own, the way you had taken without hesitation, without letting her control a single moment of it.

And that was what stuck with her the most.

She had never let that happen before. She had never let anyone else dictate HER. Not at work, not in life, and definitely not in bed.

But she had.

And the worst part—the best part—was that she had liked it.

She wanted it again. She knew that much.

But if it happened again, it had to be her way. Her rules. Her control.

Because this wasn't who she was. She wasn't reckless, she wasn't impulsive, and she wasn't someone who let her own employee bend her over a desk without thinking.

If she was going to do this again, it would be different. It had to be.

And it happened again.

It shouldn't have. Tara had told herself that. She had laid in bed the night after that first time, forcing herself to believe it had been a mistake—one she wouldn't repeat, one she couldn’t repeat.

But then, not even a full day later, she had found herself alone with you again. And just like before, she hadn't thought. She hadn't stopped herself.

It kept happening after that.

At first, there had still been some semblance of restraint. A tension she tried to hold onto, an unspoken boundary she convinced herself still existed. But then it became a routine.

She didn't call you into her office for work anymore.

There were no excuses, no flimsy justifications—just a glance, just a moment, just a shift in the air between you that made it clear what you were both there for.

It happened almost every day.

And if a day was missed? It was made up for the next.

Tara hadn't expected it to get that far. She had thought maybe it would be like some passing phase, some moment of insanity that would fade with time.

But it hadn't.

And what made it worse—what made it better—was that it didn't just happen after hours anymore.

It happened during the day. During work.

Behind a locked office door, when the sun was still high and the sounds of the office still filled the space beyond the walls, you would take everything she gave you. Let her be the one in charge. Let her have the control.

And maybe that was why she let herself keep going. Because even though this was the one thing she shouldn’t be doing, at least in this, she still had control.

Most of the time.

Because there were still moments—rare ones, fleeting ones—where you took it back. Where you reminded her of that first time, of what it had felt like to be completely at someone else's mercy. And when that happened, she told herself she hated it.

But that was a lie.

It always started the same way.

A glance. A shift in the air. A moment where the tension between you sharpened, like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap. And then it did.

Tara would push you up against the door, lips crashing into yours before the lock had even clicked into place. She was always desperate in those first moments, always acting like she had spent the entire day trying not to think about this—about you.

Her hands would be on you immediately, slipping under your blazer, shoving it from your shoulders. Your blouse was next. She had learned how to work the buttons quickly, how to get you bare in seconds. She never wasted time.

Her mouth would trail down your neck, your collarbone, as she backed you toward the desk. She had done it enough times to know the perfect angle to sit you on the edge, to stand between your legs, to push your skirt up just enough to let her fingers tease along the inside of your thigh.

She liked teasing at first, watching you shift against the desk, watching your body react before she even really touched you. But she never made you wait long.

Because she couldn't.

Because the second she slipped her fingers inside, she always realized just how wet you already were. For her. From nothing but the anticipation. And that drove her insane.

Tara knew exactly what you liked by now. She knew the pace, the rhythm, the angle that made your body tighten, that made your fingers grip the edge of the desk like you'd fall apart otherwise. She knew when to slow down, when to speed up, when to press her thumb against your clit just right. She knew how to get you to say her name exactly the way she liked it.

But it was never enough.

Not for her.

Because by the time she felt you clenching around her fingers, by the time she felt you coming undone, her own body was aching for more.

And you always gave it to her.

She barely had time to catch her breath before you were tugging her blazer off, pulling at the buttons of her blouse, pushing it off her shoulders. Your hands always moved differently than hers—slower, more deliberate, making her feel seen in a way that made her shiver.

When you pushed her onto the desk, when you kissed your way down her stomach, she never stopped you.

She couldn't.

Because by then, she was gone. The moment your mouth was on her, the second she felt your tongue against her, she lost everything else—her control, her thoughts, her pride.

All that was left was this.

Your mouth, your tongue, your fingers pressing into her hips, holding her there as she gasped and writhed and tried so fucking hard to keep quiet even though she never fully could.

And it was in those moments—when you were on your knees between her legs, when she was unraveling, moaning, shuddering—that she knew the truth.

She could tell herself whatever she wanted. That she had the control. That this was just another thing she handled the way she handled everything else.

But it was a lie.

Because the truth was, when you had her like this—when you had her completely—you could do whatever you wanted to her.

And she'd let you.

Only until she decided she was done letting.

Because no matter how good it felt to give in to you, to let herself forget, to let herself be taken—Tara never forgot for too long who was really in charge.

Like now when she had you right where she wanted you.

You were on her desk, legs spread around her hips, your back arched slightly from the cool surface beneath you. The usual casualties of your encounters—a few scattered papers, a pen rolling off the edge, the ever-present risk of knocking over her coffee—were long forgotten. The only thing that mattered was the way Tara was inside you, her fingers buried deep, her palm pressing against your clit with every slow, deliberate thrust.

She watched you, dark eyes fixed on the way your body moved against her hand, on the way you clenched around her fingers with every roll of your hips. It wasn't enough for her to just have you like this. She needed to see what she was doing to you. To feel it in the way your breath hitched, in the way your fingers dug into the edge of the desk like you needed something—anything—to hold onto.

You were grinding down against her hand, chasing the friction she was only half-giving you, and that alone made her smirk. It was always like this. Always you getting so desperate for more, even when she was the one giving it to you.

Her free hand skimmed up your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh before sliding higher. She tugged at your blouse, pushing it further up your stomach, exposing more of you to her. Not that she needed to—she had already seen you like this more times than she could count—but she liked it. Liked having you spread out for her, flushed and desperate and completely at her mercy.

Her pace didn't change, even though she knew you wanted her to move faster, to push you over the edge. But that wasn't how this worked.

Not with her.

It had started the way it always did. With Tara deciding she wanted you and making sure she got you.

She had been restless the night before, shifting beneath her sheets, unable to sleep because every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was you. The way you looked when you dropped to your knees for her. The way your lips parted when she pushed her fingers deep inside you. The way you whimpered her name when you were close—breathless, desperate, completely hers.

By the time morning came, she knew she wouldn't be able to make it through the day without doing something about it.

So she did.

She had barely been in the office an hour before she made sure you'd end up exactly where she wanted you. She didn't call you herself—she never did. That would've been too obvious. Instead, she had one of her employees, someone whose name she barely remembered, find you and let you know that she needed to see you in her office.

It was routine. Expected. If Tara Carpenter called someone to her office, it was for a reason, and when she was finished, they'd leave.

No one ever suspected that when you went in, you didn't come back out right away.

That by the time you did, your blouse was just a little more wrinkled, your legs just a little shakier, your lipstick just a little smudged.

Now, Tara had you exactly where she wanted you.

You were gasping beneath her, moaning into her mouth, your forehead pressed to hers as her fingers fucked you, deep and slow, the way she knew drove you crazy. Your breaths mingled—hot, shaky, desperate. She could feel the tension in your body, the way your thighs clenched around her, the way you needed her to move faster, to give you more.

And fuck, she loved this.

Loved the way you looked right now—eyes hazy, lips parted, skin flushed. Loved the way you sounded—soft moans mixing with shaky breaths, filling the space between you.

Loved knowing she had done this to you. That she could have you like this whenever she wanted.

Your hand fumbled for her tie, fingers curling around the silky fabric she had chosen that morning—the one she only wore on certain days, for reasons only she knew.

It was loose around her neck, slightly loosened from the heat between you, but not enough to ruin the sharp, put-together look that drove you crazy. You wrapped the material around your fingers and tugged, not hard enough to choke her, just enough to make her feel it—to pull her closer, to make her fingers push deeper inside you, dragging a desperate whimper from your lips.

Tara exhaled through her nose, slow and heavy, her lips parting just slightly as your mouths hovered against each other. Your breath tangled together, hot and uneven, your gasps mixing in the small space between you.

You felt burning—all over, inside and out. Every brush of her fingers, every shift of her wrist, every slow, torturous drag of her touch sent another wave of pleasure coursing through you, tightening in your stomach, making your thighs tremble around her hips.

Your lips barely moved against hers when you whispered, "I love when you wear a tie."

Tara let out a slow, shuddering breath, like she was feeling your words as much as she was hearing them.

And fuck, she was.

Because the second you said it, she felt it—low in her stomach, pulsing between her legs, sinking into her chest like an intoxicating warmth that she never quite knew how to handle. Your voice, the way you said it, the way you looked at her as you did—it sent a fresh spark of heat through her veins, made her fingers curl inside you on instinct.

You gasped at the sensation, a choked sound escaping your lips as your thighs tensed around her waist.

Tara smirked, just a little, her confidence spiking at the reaction she pulled from you. "Oh yeah?"

Her voice was lower now, thick with satisfaction, teasing but dark—like she already knew the answer. Like she just wanted to hear you say it, wanted to watch the way your face twisted with pleasure when you admitted it.

Your stomach tightened, and you pressed down against her hand, chasing the pressure, the friction, the pleasure.

Her fingers curled deeper.

Your breath caught.

"Yes, ma'am."

Tara sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth, her entire body reacting.

Her fingers stilled inside you for half a second, but only because she felt it—really felt it. Like the words sent a jolt of electricity through her veins, like they cracked something open inside her.

Her stomach clenched. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily. A deep, primal kind of satisfaction settled low in her gut, making her pulse throb in the worst, most intoxicating way.

You saw it happen. You felt it happen. The way her muscles tensed, the way her throat bobbed with a quiet swallow, the way her eyes darkened—heat flickering in them like a barely restrained fire.

And then she exhaled, slow and heavy, before letting out a quiet, dangerous laugh.

Her smirk returned—wider, more dangerous, dripping with the kind of power she knew she had over you.

Her fingers moved again.

And this time, she was ruthless.

Tara's eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail—every messy, undone, wrecked part of you.

Your hair, which had started the day in a neat ponytail, was loose and disheveled now, strands falling around your face and sticking slightly to your skin from the heat between you. It framed your features perfectly, making you look even more ruined, even more gone under her touch.

Your shirt—crisp and professional when you arrived—was a mess. The top buttons had been carelessly undone, either by you in desperation or by her when she pulled at the fabric to get her mouth on your neck earlier. The soft lace of your bra peeked through the open collar, teasing her, taunting her. And fuck, if she wasn't already losing her mind, that definitely would have done it.

She dragged her eyes back up to your face, breathing heavily, watching the way your lips parted, the way your lashes fluttered, the way your forehead pressed against hers like you needed the contact to stay grounded.

And fuck, she wanted to ruin you even more.

Her fingers moved again, curling deeper, pressing harder—just to see the way your body jerked in response, just to hear the way your breath hitched in your throat.

But then—

A sharp knock at the door.

The handle rattled.

You both froze.

A voice—muffled through the wood but clear enough to snap you both back to reality.

"Ms. Carpenter?"

Your stomach dropped.

Tara's body tensed between your legs, her fingers still buried deep inside you. Your breath hitched in your throat, your entire body humming with the worst kind of anticipation—stuck somewhere between panic and overwhelming need.

Tara didn't move. Didn't pull away. Didn't stop.

She turned her head slightly toward the door, her expression unreadable, her breathing slow and controlled. And then—very deliberately—her fingers curled again.

You gasped.

Tara smirked, her fingers still moving inside you, slow but deliberate, as she turned her head slightly toward the door. Of course she knew who it was. She always knew.

"Yes, Derek?" she called, her voice perfectly even, professional—like she wasn't currently fucking you on her desk.

And then—

She pressed deeper, her fingers curling inside you, her palm pressing firmly against you as she quickened her pace. The sharp, overwhelming pleasure sent a jolt through your body, making your legs tighten around her waist, your breath stuttering.

The moan slipped out before you could stop it—loud, desperate.

Tara reacted instantly.

Her hand clamped over your mouth, the warmth of her palm pressing firmly against your lips, muffling the sound. Her grip was just tight enough to be controlling, just enough to make it clear—you had to stay quiet. Her dark eyes locked onto yours, a silent command flashing in them. Behave.

On the other side of the door, Derek kept talking, oblivious.

"I just sent over the reports you requested, Ms. Carpenter. I wanted to go over the projections for next quarter—"

Tara's fingers dragged inside you, slow and deep, pressing against the spot that made you tremble. Your whole body clenched around her, your hands gripping at her arms, nails digging into the fabric of her blazer. Your muffled whimper barely escaped against her hand.

She leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. Her voice was impossibly soft, teasing.

"Be quiet."

Your thighs twitched against her hips, your entire body working against you, betraying how desperate you were for more.

Derek continued, still unaware. "There were a few discrepancies I thought you should look at before we move forward with—"

Tara's fingers curled, pressing deeper, her wrist flexing as she fucked into you with slow, devastating precision.

Your entire body shook. Your head tipped back slightly, your lashes fluttering, your breath coming out in sharp, stifled gasps against her palm.

Tara's smirk deepened, her lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth. She felt every little movement, every twitch, every uncontrollable reaction you had to her.

"And?" she prompted smoothly, as if she weren't currently ruining you.

Derek hesitated on the other side of the door, then cleared his throat. "Uh—actually, may I come in and show you?"

Tara exhaled a soft, knowing laugh, like she found the idea ridiculous. Because it was.

She didn't stop. She didn't slow down. If anything, she only pushed harder, deeper—testing you, taunting you.

"I'm currently speaking with Ms. L/N," she said, her voice steady, unshaken, the perfect contrast to how wrecked you were against her.

She knew what she was doing to you. She knew how close you were. And she knew you couldn't do a thing about it.

Her fingers curled again, sharper this time, hitting just right, and your entire body shuddered. Your nails dug into her arms, your hips jerking forward, desperate for more.

Tara pressed her forehead to yours, her eyes locked on yours, watching you come undone in her hands.

Her smirk widened.

"I'll be ready in just a second."

Her voice was steady—controlled, composed—but you could feel the way her breath hitched against your lips, the way her fingers pushed just a little deeper, chasing something she wasn't even sure of.

And then, just as you hit that peak, just as your body clenched around her fingers, she pulled them out.

Not slow. Not gentle. A calculated retreat, leaving you trembling, gasping, still teetering on the edge.

She brought her fingers to her lips, holding your gaze as she sucked them clean, and something about the way she did it—just a little slower than usual, just a little less smug—made your stomach twist.

Then it was gone.

She smirked as she straightened your skirt, smoothing it down over your thighs like she hadn't just had her fingers buried inside you. Like you weren't still sitting there, trying to catch your breath.

"Fix your shirt," she murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

It was normal. The same teasing aftercare she always gave.

And yet.

There was something in the way she stepped back too quickly. The way she turned away before you could see her face. The way she ran a hand through her hair like she was trying to shake something off.

It wasn't obvious.

But it was enough.

And later, when everything changed, you'd realize that maybe it had started here.

___

Tara had been acting weird.

At first, it wasn't anything obvious. Nothing anyone else would notice. But you did.

Because she hadn't called you into her office.

Not once.

Days passed. The longest you'd ever gone without her pulling you aside, without the press of her lips against your skin, without her hands gripping your waist, pulling you close, taking what she wanted. The silence stretched between you, thick and unspoken, but you felt it every time you glanced toward her office door and saw it closed. Locked away. Off-limits.

Still, everything else seemed normal. Or at least, it should have.

Tara walked the halls like she always did, head held high, voice sharp and sure when she spoke. In meetings, she still nodded at your input, still approved your reports with the same efficient flick of her pen. But the moments in between—where her gaze should have lingered, where her fingers should have trailed along your wrist as she passed by—were gone.

It didn't make sense.

You saw her in the break room, standing by the coffee machine like usual, but she didn't acknowledge you beyond a brief glance. Not a smirk. Not a word.

In the hall, you brushed past her, felt the heat of her presence right there, but she didn't stop you. Didn't pull you aside. Didn't so much as glance over her shoulder.

And yet, sometimes, when she thought you weren't looking—you swore she was watching.

But it wasn't the same.

Because before, when her gaze had lingered, it was heavy with intent. With want. Now, when your eyes met, something unreadable flickered across her face before she quickly looked away.

Something wasn't right.

Something had changed.

And it wasn't like you could just ask her.

That wasn't how it worked.

You didn't get to knock on her office door and ask if you could come in. Didn't get to slip her a note or send an email saying, Why don't you fuck me on your desk anymore?

That wasn't your place.

That wasn't the deal.

Tara called the shots—literally. She decided when, where, if. And for weeks, that had been fine. More than fine. She wanted, she took, and you let her, because it worked. Because she always wanted. Because there was never a reason to question it.

Until now.

Now, the days dragged on in silence, and you didn't understand.

How do you go from every day—every single day—to nothing?

At first, you told yourself she was busy. Of course she was. She was the boss. She had a company to run, responsibilities, meetings, deadlines. She couldn't always make time for you. That was reasonable. That made sense.

But then—shouldn't she have at least acknowledged it?

Even if she couldn't pull you into her office, couldn't press you against the door, couldn't have you falling apart beneath her hands—shouldn't there have been something? A glance, a smirk, a comment under her breath when no one else was around?

Anything?

But there was nothing.

Just silence.

And it didn't make sense.

Tara had stopped calling you in.

That much had been obvious from the start.

That was the first thing you noticed—the first thing that made no sense.

It happened so suddenly that, at first, you didn't even realize it. Maybe it was because you were busy with your own work, caught up in the never-ending tasks that came with the job. Or maybe, deep down, you just hadn't wanted to notice.

But the absence of it became impossible to ignore.

Days passed. Then a full week. Then another.

And still, nothing.

No glance in your direction when you walked by her office. No subtle nod, no small, barely-there smirk that told you to close the door behind you. No teasing remarks under her breath as you followed her inside. No whispered orders. No lingering looks.

You had told yourself it was fine.

Tara was the boss. She had responsibilities. She wasn't exactly available every second of the day, and it wasn't like the two of you had some set schedule—this was never something you had planned in advance. It had always been unpredictable, sporadic. Sometimes you'd see her multiple times in a week. Sometimes you'd go days without so much as a touch.

That was normal.

That was how it worked.

But this...this was different.

Because it wasn't just that she didn't have the time.

It was like she had chosen not to.

And then, there were the other things.

The moments that should have been insignificant, the ones you would have ignored completely if they hadn't felt so off.

Like the way she suddenly couldn't look at you.

You noticed it one afternoon, passing by her office at the exact time she would normally call you in. It was almost muscle memory at this point—the way your body tensed slightly, the way your pace slowed just enough to see if she would give you a look, if she would signal for you to step inside.

But she didn't.

Instead, she kept her eyes locked onto her computer screen, her fingers tapping against the desk in an anxious rhythm.

And it wasn't just that she didn't see you.

It was that she wouldn’t.

She had seen you from the corner of her eye—there was no way she hadn't. But instead of even acknowledging you, her shoulders went stiff, her expression blank, like she was forcing herself to focus on anything else.

You almost stopped walking.

Almost said something.

But what the fuck were you supposed to say?

And then, a few days later, you tested it.

You had found a reason—something small, something professional, something completely work-related. It wasn't an excuse, not really. You had needed the information. She had to answer.

So, you had gone up to her desk, waited for her to glance up at you, and asked.

And she had answered.

But only in the shortest way possible, her voice clipped, her tone completely detached, like she had no interest in having the conversation at all. She gave you just enough to satisfy your question, nothing more, then immediately turned back to her computer as if you weren't even there.

There was nothing playful in it. No teasing, no lingering glances, no flicker of amusement in her eyes. Just a sharp, calculated disinterest.

And then there was the break room.

Late at night. The office almost empty.

You had been standing by the coffee machine, half-expecting—no, half-hoping—for her to say something when she walked in.

A tease. A smirk.

Something.

But she didn't.

She didn't even acknowledge you.

She walked past you like you weren't even there, went straight for the cabinet, grabbed a mug, poured herself coffee, and left.

No glance in your direction. No hesitation. No reaction.

And you had just stood there, fingers wrapped too tightly around your cup, heart pounding in a way you didn't understand.

You had thought, for a while, that the worst part was the silence. How quickly she had slipped out of your reach—like all those nights, all those moments, had meant nothing at all. Like she had just...moved on, and you were the only one still stuck in place.

At first, you had tried to reason with it. Maybe this was just how things were now. Maybe it had always been inevitable. You weren't entitled to her attention, after all. You weren't owed anything.

But knowing that didn't make it any easier.

And lately, it had started to feel heavier—the quiet, the distance. Like you were walking on a fault line, waiting for it to crack beneath your feet.

But it never did.

Not yesterday. Not today.

Today had passed like all the others. You had come in, sat at your desk, gone through emails and reports, answered questions, filled out forms—played your part, just like always. But it wasn't just another day, not to you. It had been a week now. A full week of nothing.

No call into her office. No lingering glances. No accidental touches.

You had still looked for it, though. Every time you heard footsteps, every time your phone buzzed, every time you passed by her door, you felt that flicker of something—hope, desperation, whatever it was—only for it to be ripped away just as fast.

And it wasn't just about the sex. It wasn't about the heat of her hands or the way she used to look at you like she needed you. It was the absence of it all. The absence of her.

The office had started to empty now, the low murmur of voices fading as people packed their things and headed home. Someone laughed a few desks over, lighthearted, easy. The scent of coffee had gone stale in the air. Phones still rang in the background, but fewer now. The usual hum of the place—the life of it—was winding down.

But you were still here. Still waiting.

And she still hadn't called for you.

Until she did.

It was just as you were reaching for your phone, pretending to check something that didn't matter, that you heard the soft click of a door closing down the hall. You barely had time to register it before footsteps approached—heels tapping against the tile with a steady, unhurried rhythm.

You glanced up just as the sound reached your desk, and there she was—Sophie, from marketing.

She was around your age, maybe a little older, with sharp, dark eyes and a practiced kind of friendliness that never felt too forced. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, her makeup was still intact despite the long day, and she carried herself with the kind of effortless confidence that made her good at her job.

She had just come from her office.

You knew it before she even said anything—before she stopped beside your desk, before she tucked her phone into the pocket of her blazer, before she shot you a look that was neither warm nor cold, just neutral. Indifferent.

Then, with no warning, no weight behind it, she said, "Ms. Carpenter wants to see you."

No glance in your direction. No hesitation. No reaction.

Your grip tightened around your pen.

For a second—just a second—it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Your heartbeat, slow and dull all day, suddenly jumped in your chest, rattling against your ribs like it had been waiting for something. Waiting for this.

It was automatic, the way you straightened up. The way your breath caught. The way you felt yourself reacting before you could stop it.

Because finally.

Finally.

She wanted you.

It should have been obvious what this was. It should have been clear that this wasn't an invitation, that it wasn't some whispered promise of relief. But you had gone days without hearing her say your name, without feeling the weight of her attention, without even knowing where you stood.

And now, she was calling you in.

You weren't expecting an apology. You shouldn't have expected it to begin with.

But this—this was something.

You swallowed hard, nodding stiffly as you grabbed your notebook—an instinct, an excuse, something to hold—and stood. Sophie was already gone, her heels clicking away, already moving on with her day.

But you were stuck there for a moment, standing beside your desk, fingers pressing into the cover of your notebook, heart pounding so hard it almost made you dizzy.

This was it.

You had been waiting.

And now, she wanted you again.

You moved without thinking.

The path was familiar—down the hall, past the break room, past the framed awards and corporate slogans lining the walls. It was the same walk you had made so many times before, the same quiet stretch of polished floors and low conversation, the same flicker of overhead lights casting everything in that soft, sterile glow.

It felt like routine. Like muscle memory. Like something ingrained in you, something you had done over and over until it no longer required thought.

But today—today, something about it felt different.

Maybe it was the way your pulse hadn't settled, the way each step felt just a little too careful, like you were trying not to let yourself get ahead of anything. Or maybe it was the fact that, for once, you had no real idea what was waiting for you when you got there.

Not that it stopped you.

You reached the door too quickly, or maybe not quickly enough.

It was closed.

Of course, it was.

You hesitated only for a second—just long enough to take a slow breath, to steady the way your fingers twitched at your side—before lifting your hand and knocking, light but deliberate.

The response came almost immediately.

"Come in."

Her voice.

It sent something through you, something automatic and unshakable, something that made your stomach tighten in a way you shouldn’t have let it.

You exhaled, turned the handle, and stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the first thing you noticed was that she wasn't standing.

She wasn't waiting for you. She wasn't already crossing the room, wasn't reaching for you, wasn't closing the space between you before you could even get your bearings.

She was sitting.

She was perched at her desk, one leg crossed over the other, pen in hand as she finished writing something in the notebook before her. There was a chair in front of her desk, positioned deliberately—waiting for you.

That was new.

Your gaze dragged over her, slow, searching—like you were trying to find something familiar, something that would make this feel normal again.

Her blazer was still on, though it looked slightly looser, like she had been tugging at the collar absentmindedly. Her hair was the same, dark and perfect, framing her face in a way that made her unreadable.

And then, finally, she looked up.

Her eyes met yours, and for a second, she just held your gaze, expression unreadable. Then, she offered a polite nod, her voice measured.

"Welcome."

Her tone sent something uneasy down your spine.

You barely had time to process it before she added, smoothly, "Ms. L/N, would you mind closing the door for a second?"

For a moment, you just stood there.

Closing the door wasn't unusual. It was something that had happened plenty of times before.

But not like this.

Not like this, where your fingers curled around the handle, where you turned and pushed it shut yourself. Normally, it wouldn't be you closing it at all. Normally, the weight of it against your back would come from her, from the way she would back you up against it, from the way she would kiss you like she needed to.

This—this didn't feel like that.

Nothing about this felt right.

You turned back to face her, but you could already tell.

There was something in the way she was sitting, something that made your stomach tighten. She wasn't relaxed. She wasn't leaning back in that easy way she sometimes did, wasn't watching you like she already knew what she wanted from you.

Instead, she looked... uneasy.

Her hand twitched slightly before she brought it up to adjust the sleeve of her blazer, fingers brushing over the fabric like the motion would somehow steady her. Her lips pressed together, and then, finally, she lifted a hand—gesturing to the chair in front of her.

"Would you please sit down?"

Polite. Too polite.

The words landed in your stomach like a stone.

You hesitated, but only for a second—then, with a quick nod, you muttered, Yes, ma'am, before lowering yourself onto the chair.

She was watching you.

Or, at least, she had been.

As soon as you met her gaze, she looked away—eyes dropping down to the desk, hands shifting against the surface like she wasn't quite sure what to do with them.

Something about it sent a sharp, uneasy feeling through you.

Tara Carpenter didn't fidget. She didn't look away.

And yet, here she was—sitting in front of you, fingers pressed against her desk, avoiding your eyes like she couldn’t meet them.

Something was wrong.

You sat there, watching her, trying to piece together what this was.

It couldn't be anything serious.

At least, that's what you told yourself.

Maybe it was just a minor issue with some paperwork you had sent in—something from last week, or maybe even three days ago. Maybe there had been an error somewhere, some formatting issue, something that had made its way up to her desk. It wouldn't be the first time. She might just be calling you in to correct it, to give you that sharp little look, to let you know in that dry, amused way of hers that she expected better.

Or maybe—maybe it was about this.

About you. About her.

Maybe she was going to say it had to stop.

Maybe she was going to tell you that she couldn't do this anymore, that she had been thinking about it for a while now and it was too risky, too complicated. Maybe she was going to sit there, all composed and professional, and tell you that this thing—this thing that had felt so effortless, so natural, so right—had to end.

Your throat felt tight.

But even that didn't explain the way she looked.

Tara Carpenter wasn't a nervous person.

You had seen her in meetings, handling high-stakes deals with nothing but a smirk and a raised brow. You had seen her walking the floor, speaking in that firm, confident tone that made people straighten up when she passed.

And beyond that—beyond the person she was in the office, beyond the way she commanded attention in a room—there was you.

You had seen her in ways no one else had.

You had seen her with her head thrown back, her lips parted, her hands fisting, You had seen her hair messy, tangled from fingers pulling through it. You had seen the smooth glide of her bra slipping from her shoulders, the slow reveal of bare skin beneath dim office lights.

You had seen her unravel.

So why, why, was she looking like this?

Like she was trying to hold herself together.

Like she was the vulnerable one.

Tara inhaled sharply.

She started to speak, then stopped—lips pressing together like the words weren't quite right.

Then, after another second, she tried again.

"It has been brought to my attention—"

But she cut herself off, exhaling through her nose, shaking her head slightly.

That wasn't it.

She tried again.

"I wanted to discuss—"

Another pause.

Her fingers tapped against the desk. She let out a short breath, dropped her gaze for a moment, then lifted it again.

You just sat there, waiting.

Feeling the weight of it, the heaviness in your chest growing stronger with every second she spent not saying it.

Tara let out a slow, unsteady breath.

You weren't sure you had ever seen her like this before.

She had always been so sure of herself—whether it was in the office or when she was pressing you against the door, her mouth on yours, her hands sliding beneath your clothes. There was never hesitation, never DOUBT. And yet now, sitting across from you at her desk, she looked...unsteady. Like she was losing her grip on something she had been trying so hard to hold onto.

She tried again.

She parted her lips, inhaled like she was about to speak, but no words came out.

Another pause. Another exhale, shakier this time.

You just sat there, silent, watching her.

Afraid to say anything. Afraid to move.

And then, finally, she spoke.

Her voice was measured, like she was trying too hard to keep it even.

"There have been—" She stopped, her jaw tightening. Then, after a beat, she continued, forcing the words out this time. "There have been concerns regarding—"

Another pause.

Her fingers twitched against the desk.

You could tell she was frustrated—frustrated with herself, frustrated with whatever this was, frustrated with how impossible it was for her to just say it.

And then she did.

Sort of.

She started talking—not stopping herself this time, not cutting herself off—but none of it made sense.

"I have to consider the overall professionalism of this workplace," she said, her hands fidgeting slightly, like she didn't know what to do with them. "And it has come to my attention that... certain dynamics could be viewed as compromising to that environment. As a leader, I have to ensure that all professional relationships remain, well, professional, and given the circumstances, it has been deemed necessary to take appropriate action in order to maintain the integrity of this organization and uphold the standards expected within a corporate setting."

The words kept coming, all strung together, tangled and stiff and unnatural.

Like she had put together a bunch of professional-sounding phrases and hoped they would add up to something real.

But they didn't.

Because none of it explained why she was looking at you like that.

Like she was barely keeping it together.

Like this wasn't just business to her.

But Tara kept going.

She kept talking, even as her voice wavered slightly, even as her fingers twitched against the surface of her desk, even as her eyes darted around the room, landing anywhere but on you.

"I've had to take into account the... potential risks of certain workplace interactions and the possible implications of, um... interpersonal relationships that could—" She cut herself off, her jaw tightening, like she was annoyed with herself. Then, a quick inhale, a forced recalibration, and she tried again. "There are expectations that need to be upheld, and I can't allow—" Another pause. Another shift in posture. "It's important to set clear boundaries in order to ensure that the workplace remains an environment of—"

She was stringing together words that, on their own, might've sounded reasonable.

But put together like this?

Like a desperate attempt to say something that justified this?

It was ridiculous.

Your brow furrowed slightly as you just stared at her, struggling to follow along, struggling to even comprehend what the hell she was getting at.

And she wouldn't look at you.

Her fingers tapped against the desk. Her posture was tense, rigid. Her eyes flicked toward the papers in front of her, then the window, then the floor—anywhere but at you.

And then, finally, she finished it.

Her voice was quiet but firm, like she had to force herself to say it.

"...Which is why I've decided that I'm going to let you go."

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Your brain stalled, like you had misheard her, like maybe she had just said it wrong, like maybe if she tried again it would make sense.

But she didn't.

She just sat there.

And all you could do was stare.

The second the words left her mouth, you saw it happen.

Something in her cracked.

Her expression wavered, that firm, professional look she had been trying so hard to maintain slipping away the moment she heard herself say it out loud. And for a second—just a second—her face was bare. No control, no composure. Just guilt.

It was in the way her fingers twitched against the desk, the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the way she tried to get that same firm expression back, but it was already too late.

It was already slipping.

And she knew it.

You didn't react right away.

The words hit you like a slow-moving train—impacting in pieces, each one slamming into you harder than the last.

Your breath came out unsteady, like your body didn't quite know what to do with this.

She had just—

No.

She didn't just say that.

She didn’t.

"What?"

The word spat from your mouth before you could stop it, sharp and incredulous, like your body rejected the very sound of it.

Tara flinched just slightly—so slight you might've missed it if you weren't looking so closely. But you were.

And you saw how her eyes immediately dropped to her hands, suddenly fascinated with her own fingers, as if you weren't sitting right in front of her, burning holes into her skull.

She didn't respond.

She didn't say a single word.

Your pulse slammed against your ribs, a roaring sound filling your ears as you sat there, waiting. Waiting for her to say something, anything, to fix whatever the fuck this was supposed to be.

But she didn't.

And the silence only made your anger grow, burning through your veins, pressing hot against your chest.

Your chair scraped back just slightly as you leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

Still nothing.

She wouldn't even look at you.

She just kept staring down at her hands like she wanted to disappear into the desk, like she already regretted everything she had just said, everything she had done.

Your breath came out sharp, clipped. "So that's it?"

No reaction.

Nothing but the sound of the office clock ticking in the distance.

The bitterness came creeping up your throat before you could stop it, before you could even try to swallow it down.

"You called me in here just to sit there and ramble a bunch of shit that doesn't even make fucking sense—"

Your voice faltered, not because you doubted what you were saying, but because you didn’t doubt it.

You had been sitting here for minutes, minutes, trying to decipher whatever the hell she had been saying, and yet, none of it—not a single fucking thing—had led to this.

This wasn't a warning. This wasn't an adjustment.

This was you're fired.

This was get out.

And you didn't even get the decency of a real explanation.

Your voice came back stronger, rougher, laced with disbelief.

"—just to fucking fire me?"

You let the words hang there, hoping—daring—her to look at you again, to at least own what she was doing.

But she didn't.

She just sat there, barely moving, barely breathing, guilt written all over her face.

Her head hung low, her hands stiff on the desk, her shoulders tight with something that almost resembled shame.

She didn't have to look at you to know what she'd see. She heard the anger in your voice, felt it in the way the air shifted between you, thick with disbelief.

And for a second, she looked like she might say something—her lips parted slightly, like she was searching for the words, but then she hesitated.

Her mouth closed.

She figured it wouldn't do any good.

Your voice came next, clipped and sharp. "On what basis?"

Tara flinched at the formality, the sheer professionalism of your tone despite everything.

Unprofessionally enough, she still didn't answer.

She looked up at you briefly, just a fleeting glance—but regretted it immediately when she saw the way you were looking at her.

Like you knew.

Like you weren't fucking stupid.

Your voice cut through the silence.

"I didn't fuck you well enough, is that it?"

Tara's whole body went rigid.

Her breath caught in her throat, fingers twitching slightly against the desk, but she didn't move, didn't react, just sat there, stiff.

"Not hard enough?"

Her eyes flicked to the door as if she were checking—praying—that nobody was standing just outside.

But you weren't done.

"You chose somebody else to do my work instead?"

The meaning was clear.

Your tone was clear.

And Tara panicked.

Not outwardly, not obviously, but you saw the way her lips parted like she wanted to object, to say something, only for nothing to come out.

The way her hands clenched just slightly in her lap.

The way her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, barely, almost shaking her head—but it was so light, so small, it wasn't even convincing.

Then why was it?

Why was she doing this?

Your patience snapped.

"Then what is it, Tara?"

Her name came out like venom, spat from your lips like an insult, like it wasn’t supposed to be spoken by you at all.

And she felt it.

She felt the way it burned coming from you.

She felt the way it stripped away every ounce of authority she had left.

And for the first time since she started this—since she said those words—Tara felt small.

Tara still didn't answer.

Instead, she took a slow breath, trying to steady herself, before straightening her posture like it would somehow make her seem more in control. But the way she held herself was stiff, unnatural—like she had to FORCE herself to sit upright, to look like she was handling this professionally when she so clearly wasn't.

Then, without meeting your eyes, she started shifting through the papers on her desk, her fingers slightly unsteady as they flipped through each one. It was like she was buying herself time, like if she just focused on the paperwork, she could pretend this wasn't happening.

"I understand this might come as a shock," she said finally, her voice careful, like she had to pick each word as she went. "And I know it's short notice. But I want you to know that I appreciate everything you've done for this company."

Your stomach twisted.

The way she was talking, like she was trying to soften the blow without actually explaining anything, only made you feel worse.

Tara didn't acknowledge the fact that she was skipping over the real issue. She kept her eyes down, finally finding the paper she had been searching for and sliding it across the desk toward you.

Then, after the briefest hesitation, she reached for a pen and set it carefully on top.

"I just need your signature on this."

Her voice was quiet, hesitant.

It was the first time she had said something direct in the entire conversation, but even then, it wasn't an answer. It wasn't an explanation.

It was just a demand.

It was real.

This was real.

You were being fired.

And she wasn't even going to tell you why.

Your fingers twitched slightly as they rested against your thigh, the weight of the realization crashing over you like a slow, suffocating tide. All you had gotten was a mess of words strung together, words that barely made sense next to each other but had been forced into sentences anyway, as if saying something—even if it was nothing—would make this feel more justified.

You let your gaze drop to the paper in front of you, your eyes skimming over the fine print, the legal jargon meant to make this look official. Termination of employment. Effective immediately. Company policy compliance. You could barely process any of it. The words blurred together, shifting in and out of focus, and you weren't sure if it was because you weren't trying HARD enough to read them or if it was because your eyes were beginning to sting.

Tara was actually doing this.

You were actually losing your job.

A dull, empty ache settled in your chest, something worse than anger. Something heavier. Because now that the initial shock was starting to wear off, now that the confusion and disbelief had settled into something more solid, you felt... sad. Not just because of what was happening but because of who was doing it.

It didn't make sense. It didn't feel real. But it was.

You could feel Tara watching you, her eyes fixed on you like she was waiting for some kind of reaction—maybe bracing herself for it. And when you finally forced yourself to look up, meeting her gaze, you could tell immediately that she felt it.

She looked guilty.

Gut-wrenchingly guilty.

For the first time since this conversation started, she didn't immediately look away. Maybe it was because she saw the water in your eyes. Maybe it was because she realized what she was actually doing. Maybe it was because, deep down, she regretted it.

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't speak.

Her throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

And you didn't care anymore.

Clearly, she had made up her mind. Begging wasn't going to change anything.

So you clenched your jaw and spat, "Fine."

Tara's face shifted, something flickering behind her eyes—something almost soft, almost surprised. Like she had expected you to fight harder. Like she had wanted you to give her some kind of reason to stop this, to take it back.

But you didn't.

Instead, you reached for the pen, flipping it between your fingers once before pressing it to the paper, signing your name in sharp, deliberate strokes. You didn't bother reading any of it. You didn't care what it said. It didn't matter anymore.

The second you were done, you slid the paper back toward her side of the desk. Tara's eyes never left you, not for a single second, even as she reached for the document. She was gripping it too tightly, her fingers pressing into the paper like she was trying to keep them steady. She looked like she was trying not to cry.

She glanced down at your signature, lips parting like she wanted to say something else—something more. But instead, all she said was, "Thank you for your cooperation."

The words sounded hollow.

Your stomach twisted at how easily she said it.

A humorless laugh slipped past your lips, sharp with sarcasm as you leaned back in your chair, tilting your head slightly. "You're really good at this, huh?" you mused, voice laced with venom. "I'm guessing I'm not the first person to sit in this chair while you use words like compliance and company policy to make it sound like you actually know what you're doing."

Tara's expression faltered.

You could tell she knew you were lying, could tell she knew just as well as you did that she sucked at this.

But she didn't acknowledge it.

She straightened her posture, smoothing her hands over her desk before speaking again, voice carefully composed. "You'll be expected to vacate your position by the end of the day," she said, slipping right back into that stiff professionalism. "You'll have until tomorrow morning to collect any remaining personal belongings from your office space before your company access is revoked."

Her words meant to sound formal, meant to sound like she had control. But the slight shake in her voice, the way she hesitated before certain words, made it painfully obvious that she didn't.

You just stared at her.

And Tara swore she saw your eyes darken.

Then, suddenly, you stood, the legs of your chair scraping loudly against the floor as it nearly tipped over behind you.

Tara flinched slightly at the sudden movement, her fingers curling against her desk.

You met her gaze one last time, your expression unreadable.

And then, with a voice cold as steel, you spat, "Fuck you, Tara."

The words felt heavier than anything else you could have said.

And then you turned and walked out, leaving her sitting there, hands still gripping the desk, face still stuck in that tense, guilty expression—watching you go.

Tara didn't call after you.

She didn't try to stop you.

She just sat there, frozen in place, watching as you disappeared through the doorway like you had never been there to begin with.

The silence in the office was suffocating.

She let out a slow, shaky breath, fingers twitching as she reached for the document you had just signed. Your name stared back at her, bold and unforgiving, ink still fresh against the stark white paper. Her grip tightened around it, knuckles paling, and for a moment, she just stared.

You hadn't even looked at her before walking out. Hadn't hesitated. Hadn't faltered.

It was done.

And yet, as the echo of your footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving her completely, utterly alone—Tara had never felt less in control.

[frflyavenue]

Exam Stress - Matz ver.

Pairing: Boyfriend!Matz x Stressed!Uni student!Reader

Warnings: MDNI (18+) — Stressed reader, sleep deprived reader, university exam season, crying, eating, fluff and smut, fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving, m receiving, f giving), vaginal sex, spit-roast, threesome smut, slight power dynamic, soft dom!Hongjoong, switch!Seonghwa, lots of praise

Author’s Note: Giving you guys this update early as compensation for not posting anything on Tuesday—First time writing smut, so let me know what you guys think! UYT chapter 3 still on track to be updated tomorrow <3

WC: 5.1k

School sucks. You’re a great student, one of the best performing in your major, and, according to your boyfriends, the hardest working person they’ve ever seen. You’re positive they’re just gassing you up because they love you, but you’re happy that your work is at least recognized. But it’s getting towards the end of the semester, meaning the whole University is filled with students working overtime. Exams are just around the corner, major essays and projects are being finalized and the party hubs of the city have died down as students rush to get their grades up enough to pass. You’re doing well in your classes, of course, but the end of the semester is always a rough time.

You’ve been working non-stop for the last few weeks, studying for your exams and trying desperately to finish your thesis paper for one of your classes. You lost count of how many hours you’ve worked in the library over the last few days, staying until they close around midnight and going home just to keep working. And while you’ve been able to handle the stress and exhaustion, today it all seemed to come to a head.

You haven’t slept more than a total of 10 hours the last four days, and you haven’t eaten nearly enough to sustain yourself. But honestly, the hormones from the stress were enough to suppress your hunger, so you didn’t pay it much attention. You’re exhausted, honestly, yearning to lay down in bed or even just curl up and sleep on the floor of the library, desperate for rest. But you don’t have time. You huff, slamming your laptop shut, earning a few glances from the other students working the library. You don’t dare look at them, stuffing your laptop in your bag with a sigh. You snatch it up and turn to leave, completely silent as you drive yourself to your apartment.

You fumble with your keys lazily as you try to open the door, finally sighing as it squeaks open. You slip into the apartment, taking off your shoes at the door and heading to the bedroom you share with your two boyfriends. Seonghwa, hearing you, turns around with a warm smile to greet you.

”Hey darling, welcome home. We missed you.”

You look up at him, but the second you see his warm expression, you feel your throat tighten, so you quickly look away. “Ah, yeah, I missed you guys too.” You clear your throat. “I have to work on my paper, so I’m gonna go work for a bit.” You don’t wait for him to respond to walk away to the solace of your bedroom.

Seonghwa walks with his mouth slightly agape as you turn your back to him, not able to say anything. Almost immediately after he gathers his thoughts, he rushes over to the living room, where Hongjoong is splayed out on the couch working on a song. He gently tap his shoulder, and Hongjoong removes one side of the headphones to hear.

”Joongie… I think something’s wrong with our Y/N.” He says worriedly, and Hongjoong snaps his eyes up from the screen to look at him.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Seonghwa runs his hand through his hair, clearly worried. “She came in so quiet, and her face seemed so tired… she hardly acknowledged me when she walked in.”

Hongjoong’s expression grows thoughtful, his eyebrows scrunching slightly. Your recent stress hasn’t gone unnoticed by your two boyfriends for the last few weeks. They’ve watched your eyes grow more and more tired every passing day, and while they’ve tried their best to bring you little snacks or cheer you up with little kisses to your temple when you’ve been working for a while, they’ve mostly let you to your work, not wanting to disturb you. But for Seonghwa to be this concerned now… Hongjoong trusts his boyfriend in thinking that something’s wrong. “Okay… why don’t you go talk to her, hm? I don’t want to overwhelm her with both of us, but I want to check on her.”

Seonghwa hesitantly nods, and Hongjoong presses a comforting kiss to his forehead before letting him go visit you.

You hardly register the knock at the door until it creaks open, and you freeze up, looking over at him with wide, guilty eyes. There are tears streaming down your face, your nose running and your sleeves wet from wiping your eyes. Seeing him, with his beautiful, elegant face twisted in concern taking in the sight of you, you only feel worse. You turn away, desperately attempting to dry your tears as he approaches. You hiccup helplessly as he turns the office chair around so you’re facing him, optnig to hide your face in your hands.

Seonghwa steps closer so he’s standing between your legs, gently pulling you into him. You let your face, still covered by your hands, lean into his stomach, feeling one hand resting protectively on your back while the other rests on the back of your head, his thumb rubbing comforting cicely into your hair. Almost immediately, you let go to wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face deeper into his tummy and sobbing against his hoodie.

Seonghwa feels himself tear up at the sound, his voice softly shushing you while he cradles your head against his body. He doesn’t move, holding you just like that, not planning to ever let you go.

Hongjoong, hearing the gut-wrenching sound from the other room, sneaks into the room, standing behind Seonghwa and rubbing his back. The taller man is blinking back tears, his hands holding you close to him as you let out pitiful sobs of frustration and exhaustion, sounds he’s never heard from you in the two years you all had been dating. Hongjoong, too, feels his throat tighten, distracting himself by silently comforting Seonghwa in the meantime. The three of you remain like until the sound of sobs dies down to sniffles, and Hongjoong moves to kneel next to your chair. He places a hand on your thigh, gently rubbing there.

”Hey, beautiful.” He whispers softly, gently easing your hands down for you to look at him. You do, your swollen eyes meeting his. “Hey… there she is…” His voice is soft and quiet, almost as if he’s talking to a kitten. You're grateful for it, the sound not overwhelming your mind.

You snuffle, leaning into his hand when he moves to cup your cheek. “I-I’m sorry…” you squeak out, and he immediately shakes his head, shushing you.

“No, no ‘sorry’. I can speak for both of us when I say that Seonghwa and I want you to be happy. But part of that means taking care of you when you’re sad, hm?” He just watches you for a moment, gently holding your face in his hands as he kneels in front of you. “…What’s the matter babydoll?”

You close your eyes and try to clear your blurry eyes, opening them again to look down at his loving face. “I… I just got frustrated.” You explain, your voice wobbling pitifully. “I’m so tired, and I have so much to do. But I feel stuck on this stupid paper, and I have to finish it, and…” You trail off, your throat burning as tears slip silently down your delicate cheeks and onto Hongjoong’s delicate hands.

Hongjoong nods, gently wiping the little drops of water away with his thumb, not breaking his gaze. “It’s okay, we’ve got you now. We’re going to go take a break, baby.”

You open your mouth to refuse, but Seonghwa shushes you before you can say anything. “No, no, he’s right Y/N. You need to eat and take a break, or you wont be able to get anything done anyways.” He pauses. “My mom always used to tell me that productivity is subjective. Sometimes, the most productive thing you can do is take a break, eat some good food, and get some sleep. Right now, that’s exactly what would be most productive to you, understand?” His voice is gentle but firm, and his tone gives you no choice but to tentatively agree.

Hongjoong smiles proudly up at Seonghwa, dropping his hands from your face and standing up, offering his hand to you. You take it, letting him pull you up. You sigh longingly as Hongjoong closes your laptop shut, and Seonghwa places a guiding hand on your back as he walks you three to the living room.

While it pains you to step away from your work, you immediately feel relieved as Seonghwa pulls you with him onto the couch, instinctively finding your position on his chest as he lay down with his head resting on the cushy armrest. His hand tangles in your hair, the other rubbing your back up and down in slow, repetitive motions. The steady thumping of heart under your cheek is enough to make you come undone, and your shoulders relax.

Smiling fondly at the sight, Hongjoong sits next to your tangled bodies, opening his phone. “We’re ordering in tonight. What are you feeling, pretty girl?”

The corners of your lips twitch up, though you don’t bother to open your blissfully closed eyes. “Pasta?” You respond, the thought of noodles making your mouth water.

Hongjoong laughs and pats your butt affectionately, ordering you guys a few of your favorite pasta dishes to share.

In the meantime, Seonghwa struggles with the remote, trying to put on a cute animated movie to cheer you up. Finally figuring out what buttons to press, he finds a selection of studio ghibli movies and let you take your pick. Hongjoong calls in to order the food while the two of your start the movie, and as soon as he’s done, he walks back over to the couch. You turn around so you’re laying on your back against Seonghwa’s chest, his arms wrapping around your waist while you reach your arms out to Hongjoong. He smiles brightly before climbing into your arms, laying with his head resting on the soft pillows on your chest and his arms joining Seonghwa’s around your waist. Content to be between both of them, you sigh.

It’s the best you’ve felt in weeks. Seonghwa’s chest rising and falling steadily against your back, Hongjoong snuggled up close to you, letting you tangle your fingers in his hair, the soft strings of the ghibli movie—it was perfect. When you drift off, hands resting limp and calm against Hongjoong’s back and hair and head resting comfortably back against Seonghwa’s happily beating heart… your boys can’t help but feel the same.

NSFW content following the cut ———

You awake groggily at the sudden loss of the comfortable weight on your chest, grumbling at the cold air hitting your front. You open your eyes, Seonghwa giggling lovingly at your state from behind you and Hongjoong nowhere to be seen. You pout, looking around.

”He’s getting our food.” Seonghwa explains softly, his voice hardly above a whisper. You nod, not bothering to move as you hear Hongjoong open the front door and thank the delivery person. He returns with a slight grin, holding up the bag of food victoriously.

You smile, sitting up and moving to get up off the couch. Seonghwa clicks his tongue in dissatisfaction, pulling you back to stay. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You giggle, wriggling weakly in his grasp. “To the table? To go eat dinner?” You respond, your voice already containing more of it’s usual happiness.

Hongjoong laughs and shakes his head, his eyes making pretty crescents. “No, silly, we’re gonna eat in the living room today. It’s treat.”

You gasp, turning to look at Seonghwa. Usually, he’s the one scolding you and Hongjoong about your cleaning and organizational habits, always keeping you both in check. So for him to be letting you eat in the living room…

Seonghwa rolls his eyes, but his grin never leaves his face as he gently lest go and helps Hongjoong unpack the food onto the coffee table. You gasp excitedly, sitting crisscrossed on the floor in front of the couch. Seonghwa ruffles your hair before going to making the three of you bowls of pasta.

The food is delicious, of course. You hum with satisfaction, not remembering the last time you ate a proper meal. Sure, pasta isn’t the healthiest meal, but it sure does hit the spot after not eating anything but protein snacks and the random fruits your concerned boyfriends brought you every once and a while. They seem to notice, not taking their eyes off you as you go silent to eat, eagerly slurping up pasta. Proud to see you feeling better, they also find that the food is especially good—maybe just because you look so happy eating it.

You listen intently as Hongjoong talks about the songs he’s working on, never having felt so happy just to hear him ramble as you are now. Seonghwa is silent, too focused on his food, but he occasionally bumps your shoulders with his legs, still sitting on the couch as you sit on the floor between his legs. It’s been so long since you’ve all gotten to just sit and eat together, between the weird schedule of your classes and studying for finals, Hongjoong’s production, and both of the boys' dance practices. Looking at Hongjoong’s happy face and gently rubbing Seonghwas calf as it cages protectively around your form, you feel yourself tearing up.

”I missed you guys.” You whisper in a beat of silence, taking another bite of pasta to counteract the sentimental tears forming. Hongjoong looks up at you, giving you a delicate smile. Seonghwa sets his bowl down, gently massaging your shoulders as he, also, tries not to cry, not wanting to make you upset.

”We missed you too, babydoll.” Hongjoong replies, and Seonghwa squeezes your shoulder as well in emphasis. He looks thoughtful for a moment, before clearing his throat and setting his bowl down. “Y/N?”

You look up, swallowing your big bite of pasta before responding. “Hm?”

Hongjoong laughs softly, before shaking his head and scooting closer to you, gently taking your hand and holding it in his lap. “Hwa and I love you so much. We never ever want to see you so stressed, yeah? We understand that you have a lot to do—we’re in a similar position a lot of the time. But… just like how you make sure to take care of us when we’re feeling overwhelmed, we want to take care of you too.”

You blink, taken off guard by his sudden seriousness. Senoghwa gently reaches around to tuck your hair back behind your ear. “He’s right. It’s okay to get frustrated, stressed, tired… even just sad. But it’s not okay to completely isolate yourself from everyone around you and push yourself past what your body and mind can handle.” He adds, gently combing through your hair with his fingers. He’s right, you realize. Unknowingly, you had been avoiding your friends and even your two beloved boyfriends, hiding in the library to avoid coming home and staying cooped up in your bedroom at every opportunity under the pretense of discipline. Seonghwa’s words from earlier echo in your mind. Productivity is subjective… Sometimes, the most productive thing you can do is take a break…

You nod slowly, setting your own bowl down. “Yeah… you guys are right,” you admit with a slight look of guilt. “I’ve probably been stressing myself out more than necessary because I’ve been getting so frustrated.” You explain, earning a nod from Hongjoong. You continue. “And… I promise from now on, I’ll rely a little more on you guys. I’m sorry for worrying you.” You meet Hongjoong’s eyes and gently squeeze Seonghwa’s calf, and they coo.

”Such a sweet thing…” Seonghwa praises, squishing your cheek even from his odd position behind you. You blush, suddenly shy, and Hongjoong laughs, lightly hitting Seonghwa’s thigh. The three of you go quiet for a minute, the air lighter.

Interrupting the silence, Hongjoong clears his throat, looking up at you. “Y/N?”

You nod, giggling at his tone. “What? You’ve said my name like that twice already, it’s so cute~”

Hongjoong scoffs and nearly argues, but his blush creeps up his face before he can rebut. He shakes his head. “I’m being serious here!”

You and Seonghwa laugh, but you quickly shake your head and squeeze his shoulder. “Sorry, sorry. Go ahead, honey.”

He blushes at the nickname, his personal favorite from you, and clears his throat again. “Well, Hwa and I were talking while you napped, and we wanted to ask if you’d like to let us take care of your stress for you tonight? You know, help you relax a bit..?”

You smile, shaking your head innocently. “No, I’m sorry. There’s not really much you guys can do, my paper is built off of research I’ve been doing all semester. I appreciate the offer, of course, but I should really just write it on my own.”

Hongjoong blinks. He’s known you for a long time, but he will never not be astounded by how your sweet, dense brain works. He laughs in shock. “Hah… geez, Y/N… for somebody so smart, you sure are slow.” He says, and Seonghwa coughs back a laugh before pretending to scold him. You tilt your head.

”Uh… sorry?”

Hongjoong shakes your head, and Seonghwa moves to sit on the floor with you guys, feeling awkward not being able to see your face.

“No, not like that my dear.” He explains. He gently takes your hand and presses it to his lips. “We want to take you to bed, our love. It’s been a while since we could take care of you, hm?”

Your face heats up immediately. Seonghwa has always been the best of you three at initiating this kind of intimate affection, so it shouldn’t come at any surprise. But even after sleeping with your boyfriends hundreds of times… they only get sexier You subconsciously press your thighs together.

Seonghwa just chuckles at your cute reaction, standing up and grabbing the trash from your dinner. “Think it over while I clean dinner up, hm?”

You watch with your mouth slightly agape as he takes the trash to the bin in the kitchen, stunned silent. You turn to look at Hongjoong, who tucks your hair back affectionately.

”Kiss me?” You whisper suddenly, looking up at him shyly through your eyelashes.

Hongjoong smiles softly at your request, cupping your jaw and tilting your head up so he can access your lips. He kisses you softly, his plush lips molding naturally against yours. He turns his head to the side after just a moment, gently licking at your bottom lip, and you part your lips to grant him access. He eagerly intrudes your mouth, tangling his tongue with yours. His hand slowly comes up to rest on your waist, his thumb slipping under the hem of your shirt and rubbing easy circles over the smooth, delicate skin there. You hum into his mouth and rest your hands on his shoulders for support, desperate to taste more. It’s been a long time, you realize, since you’ve done anything like this with your boyfriends. You’ve missed it.

Seonghwa returns, raising an eyebrow at the sight and sitting on the side of the couch, opting to just watch for a little while. He knows he’ll get his turn.

Sure enough, Hongjoong pulls away just for a moment at seeing Seonghwa sit down, leaving you whining. He clicks his tongue.

”Tsk tsk… patience babydoll. Lie down on the couch for me, hm?”

You nod and quickly position yourself comfortably on the couch, happy when Hongjoong climbs over top of you and continues kissing you. To your dismay, he refuses giving you entrance back into his mouth, instead moving to press slow, open mouthed kisses down your jaw. You breathe heavier at the sensation, letting out shameless little gasps and whimpers when he nips sensitive parts of your neck. Almost too swift to notice, Hongjoong slides his hands up under your shirt, pulling it up over your head in one smooth motion before crawling downward to kiss your collarbone, lingering around the straps of your bra. Just before you feel yourself growing impatient, he unclips the fabric barrier as if reading your thoughts, gently sliding it down your shoulders to reveal your soft breasts.

He exhales in wonder at the beautiful sight, reaching one hand up to gently palm at the flesh there. “God, baby… how could I have ever forgotten how much I missed these pretty things, hm?”

You blush shyly at his praises, his tone of voice one that always gets you in a space ready and wanting to please. You arch your back impatiently, the cold air leaving you desperate for their touch. Hongjoong smiles, letting you get away with it for now and leaning down to gently take the soft flesh of your breast into his mouth.

You gasp slightly as his tongue caresses the bud of your breast, comforted with the feeling of his mouth tenderly kissing the plush skin there. You pet his hair in return, and Seonghwa reaches a hand up to rub Hongjoongs back encouragingly, fond of watching his lovers feeling good.

After a few minutes of getting you slowly more and more needy from Hongjoongs touches, Seonghwa finally moves to tug at the waist of your pants, easing them down your thighs and folding them neatly on the other side of the couch. He repositions himself to be propped on his elbows between your thighs, and you shiver when you recognize the position. His breath brushes against the heat between your thighs as he leans forward, turning his head to suck at the skin of you plush thighs. He gently kneads the soft flesh under his hands, slowly easing your thighs further apart as he inches up closer to where you need him. You roll your hips forward, desperate.

Seonghwa smiles, finally leaning forward and licking a fat stripe from your leaking entrance up to your clit, stopping there to suck on the bundle of nerves there. You gasp at the sudden stimulation, arching your back into his tongue and earning a delicious hum from him. “God, you taste so good…” Seonghwa moans into your dripping folds. He rolls his tongue expertly over the now erect bud while Hongjoong switches to sucking small marks into your collarbone, the combination sending you reeling.

When Seonghwa suddenly slides two fingers inside of you, you finally let out a full moan, earning a smile from both men. Hwa’s fingertips brush against the perfect spot inside, and combined with his tongue messily lapping up your juices and Hongjoongs attention back on your breasts, you nearly cum on the spot.

Hongjoong places a hand on Seonghwa’s head, signaling for him to stop.

You pant as you come down from the edge. “I want more,” you manage to get out in between breaths, looking up at Hongjoong.

He chuckles. “Such a needy little thing, hm?” You pout, and he giggles, finding you cute. “Bend over the side of the couch.” Seonghwa glances over at him with surprise at his suddenly domineering tone. Hongjoong just shrugs. “If our baby wants it so bad, then let’s give it to her. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how naughty our girl is, hm?”

Seonghwa glances over at you with concern, wanting to make sure it’s really what you want. He doesn’t have to worry for long, though, since you’re already scrambling to bend over with your elbows propped up on the armrest of the couch. He lets out a surprised laugh. “God, Joong. Maybe I did forget.”

Hongjoong smirks, his adoring eyes raking over your submissive position. “Seonghwa, tell me baby, do you want her pussy or her mouth? You get first pick today.”

The pretty man needs no time to decide. “Can I please get her pussy today, Joongie?”

Hongjoong nods and presses a sweet kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek. “Of course you can, love. Thank you for asking so nicely.”

While you can’t see them talking behind you in your current position, the way they talk to each other alone makes you blush. The three of you all love each other so much, there’s no doubt about it. And even when Hongjoong takes over a more dominant role, he’s never really mean, making sure his partners know that his priority is always taking care of them. You smile softly, in your thoughts, when you feel Seonghwa climb on the couch behind you.

You grip the arm of the couch in anticipation. Seonghwa presses the head of his dick against your folds, rubbing it along your clit and spreading your love juices around. You drop your head at the feeling, biting back a moan. When he finally slides in, though, you can’t help but groan out his name, pushing your hips back against him until he’s fully seated inside of you.

Hongjoong hums in satisfaction as he watches, reaching to rub comforting circles on the smooth skin of your back. “Deep breaths, baby. Does it feel good?”

You nod immediately, a little too eager. “Y-yes…” You hiss.

Hongjoong chuckles. “Good girl. Seonghwa, baby, don’t move until I tell you to.” Seonghwa groans but agrees nonetheless. Hongjoong walks around to the side of the couch where you’re facing, cupping your jaw. “Stick out your pretty tongue for me.”

You obey, parting your lips quickly and letting your tongue drop out for him, too far gone to be embarrassed about how much saliva you’re producing. He bites his lip, stroking his fully erect length in front of your face, giving you the most perfect view. When he finally rubs the bulbous head of his pretty cock against your tongue, you hum. He doesn’t do much more for a while, leaving both you and Seonghwa, who is essentially just being cockwarmed, impatient. But just before you lose your composure and ask hm outright to just fuck your throat, he finally slides his length into your mouth.

You eagerly wrap your lips around him, tightening them expertly and sliding your tongue over the underside of his pretty length, making him roll his eyes back.

“Hon- ah god… you’re so good, baby. So perfect-“ He pants, placing a hand on the back of your head and bottoming out in your throat. While he isn’t quite as long as Seonghwa, you’ve always thought that his dick fits perfectly in your mouth. Just enough to make you feel full without causing any painful gagging. You hum around him, and he finally breaks. “Oh god- Hwa, baby, move… I don’t know how long I can last…”

Seonghwa doesn’t have to be asked twice. Without warning, he starts thrusting in and out of you firmly, holding onto your waist for support. You gasp, not caring about volume anymore as he pounds into you, each thrust calculated and firm. Hongjoong can feel you rocking from Seonghwa’s relentless pace, and he lets out a low groan, holding tightly onto a fistful of your hair. “Babydoll, can I fuck your throat? P-please?”

You blink up at him expectantly in response, and he tilts his head back as he finally slides slowly in and out of your mouth.

Hongjoong slowly begins to fuck your mouth, savoring every inch as he watches your throat stretch around him. His hand remains steady on the back of your head, but he never pushes further than you can take—he knows your limits too well. Your eyes water slightly from the fullness, but the way both your boyfriends are moaning, praising you, touching you, has your arousal spiking all over again.

Behind you, Seonghwa is groaning softly under his breath, his thrusts now faster, deeper, his hips snapping into yours with growing desperation. “Fuck, you feel so good, love,” he pants, leaning forward to press kisses to your spine as he grinds into that sweet spot that makes your whole body shiver. His fingers tighten on your waist, and you can feel how close he is by the way his movements get a little sloppier.

“God, she’s dripping, Hwa,” Hongjoong murmurs with a breathless laugh, hips stuttering forward as you suck him harder, slurping around his cock like it’s the only thing you need. “Our baby’s soaking you.”

Seonghwa lets out a shaky whine, the sound sending heat straight to your core. “I—fuck, Joongie, I’m gonna—”

“Not yet,” Hongjoong growls through his teeth, voice tight with restraint. “Wait for her. Baby,” he coos down to you, pulling slowly out of your mouth with a wet pop. “Do you wanna cum?”

You nod frantically, voice hoarse with need. “P-please—I’m so close…”

“Then do it,” Seonghwa chokes out, slamming into you just right as he reaches around to rub quick circles on your clit. “Cum for us, baby. Let us feel you.”

It takes nothing more. Your orgasm crashes over you, thighs shaking as you scream out their names, walls clenching around Seonghwa’s cock in desperate pulses. He gasps, loud and broken, and finally lets go, spilling inside you with a deep, satisfied groan, hips grinding into you to ride it out. His head drops between your shoulder blades, breath hot and fast.

The sight of his two lovers feeling so good is enough for Hongjoong. He jerks himself off over your tongue, the pace of his fist desperate and sloppy. He jerks forward, trembling as he cums in front of you, thick spurts of release painting your tongue. You swallow up every drop on instinct, humming softly as he pants and wipes the corner of your lips with his thumb, utterly dazed.

For a long moment, all that fills the room is the sound of your shared, panting breaths. Seonghwa slowly pulls out, careful not to hurt you, and places a tender kiss to the curve of your lower back before helping you back onto the couch properly.

You collapse back onto Seonghwa chest, arms wide open for Hongjoong as he makes his way back around to the seat of the couch.

“Holy shit,” you mutter with a breathless laugh as Hongjoong climbs in next to the two of you, placing a loving hand on your thigh.

Hongjoong kisses your forehead, smiling contentedly. “We’ve really missed this.”

Seonghwa hums his agreement against your shoulder, holding you tighter.

You smile, eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion finally catches up with you. “Me too,” you whisper, yawning. Wrapped between your two lovers, bodies warm and sticky and pressed together, it’s hard not to feel sleepy.

The two men notice with fond expressions, glancing at each other.

Seonghwa kisss your cheek. “Alright, love, let’s go get you cleaned up. Something tells me it’s bedtime.”

You let out a breathy laugh, nodding.

“I love you guys.”

[coriihanniee]

THE ENGAGEMENT GAME - enhypen smau

𓍯𓂃⭑.ᐟ SYNOPSIS : Forced to enroll in an elite school and bound by an arranged engagement, you must uncover which of the Seven Heirs is your fiancé before the school year ends—or face a life you didn’t choose. As rumors spread and secrets unravel across campus, the boys turn your struggle into a game, but the lines between truth and desire blur, leaving you to question everything, including your own heart. Will you uncover the truth before it’s too late? And what happens when you start falling for the person you least expected?

𓍯𓂃⭑.ᐟ PAIRING : elite student!enhypen x forced engagement!reader

𓍯𓂃⭑.ᐟ GENRES(S) : smau, romance, drama, enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers

𓍯𓂃⭑.ᐟ WARNING(S) : kys/kms jokes, sexual jokes, gay jokes, manipulation, power dynamics, profanities

𓍯𓂃⭑.ᐟ STATUS : completed!

𓍯𓂃⭑.ᐟ AUTHOR'S NOTE : another smau let's goooo!! I think I'm posting too frequently (oops...) but you guys gave so much love for my mystery bf bnd smau that I decided to write another one, with Enhypen! This plot is much more interesting, full of twists and turns~ Are you ready? Let the games begin! (header edit isn't mine btw, credits to original creator 🥹)

𓍯𓂃⭑.ᐟ This is purely fictional and does not reflect the idols' real personality!

PROFILES

yn and her sugar babies

the nepo bitches

CHAPTERS

01. engaged to WHO?!?!

02. hanseong's new villainess

03. first day in hanseong

04. heir to trouble written

05. fries thief

06. new rival?!?!

07. chaebol cinderella

08. let the games begin ~

09. jung-yank

10. cafeteria frenzy written

11. dark moon amusement park

12. we ballin'

13. "Lovely Runner" rip-off

14. 7 idiots and 1 dog

15. PTSD (project trauma stress disorder)

16. tung your sahur

17. ballerina confessionina written

18. I pass the mic

19. hello kitty pride gone wrong

20. squid game : fiancé edition

21. public property written

22. girlboss, girlgift, girlgives up

23. engagement preparations

24. s(he) be(lie)ve(d) written

25. XO (only if you say yes) written

26. all because I liked a boy

27. ᵃⁿⁿᵃᵇᵉˡˡᵉ ᵍᵉᵗ ᵗʰᵉᵐ

28. nothing beats a jet2 holiday! ☺️

29. onlyfans wedding invite

@coriihanniee 💌

taglist closed!

taglist : @lvlyhiyyih @supi-wupi @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @s0shroe @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @mydeepestsecrects @brownetry @pumpkg @heeheesang @jungwonbropls @prodkwh @nujeskz @enaile23 @hwuneji @chowonasblog @2602moon @httpenhoon @nickiminajleftasscheek @lovenha7 @sweetsungiie @hunnyuwu @starry-eyed-bimbo @shouldergangsterrj @cherrylover-17 @kiwicup @enhaz1 @atomicdestinycreator @gweoriz @wonzzziezzzz @reibelhearts @i03jae @maniluvzyou @starshuas @jaysguitarstring @stormy1408 @lveegsoi @jvngw0nlvr @luvksnn @ari3ll4 @beomev @fics-lovebot @fackeraccount @nijisanjigenshin @yuuuraaa @minfolio @randomanothercreature @zoe1love

[bellfilmz]

Out Of Your League

𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Season1!rafe x shy!reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: in which rafe and reader are partnered for a school project and reader is convinced it's a sick joke.

𝐎𝐫

In which rafe Cameron has a crush on his smart shy partner and sees this as a chance to pursue her.

Part three 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫

⸻

Masterlist

⸻

The next day felt different.

You couldn’t shake the tension from your conversation with Rafe. It lingered in the back of your mind, every time you saw him, every time his gaze landed on you. You kept replaying his words over and over—You really don’t get it, do you?

The problem was, you didn’t get it.

Rafe Cameron was the it boy at this school. He had everything—money, popularity, and every girl in his orbit falling over themselves just to get his attention. And now, for some reason, he was fixated on you.

You didn’t belong in his world, and you certainly didn’t deserve to be the center of his focus.

But the more he acted like you were important to him, the more your walls started to crumble.

⸻

At lunch, you sat in your usual spot—the corner table, away from the crowds. It was your little refuge from the chaos of the high school cafeteria. But when you looked up from your book, you were met with a familiar face.

Rafe.

He stood there, looking down at you with that same smirk, his arms crossed. “Mind if I join you?”

You didn’t know what to say. The way he was looking at you, so unapologetically present, it felt like he was waiting for you to protest. But you couldn’t.

You swallowed and motioned to the empty chair across from you. “Sure.”

He slid into the seat effortlessly, like he belonged here as much as you did.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” he asked, picking up your abandoned lunch and taking a bite.

“Uh, no.”

You tried to focus on your food, but it was impossible with him sitting right there, staring at you like he was trying to figure you out.

“So, you’re really gonna study with Jake today, huh?”

You stiffened, the mention of Jake making something inside you tighten. “I—well, yeah. He asked, and I didn’t see a reason not to.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed, the playful edge to his voice gone. “I see.”

You glanced up at him, meeting his gaze. “What’s wrong with that?”

He leaned back in his chair, an almost dangerous glint in his eyes. “Nothing. Just don’t expect me to be okay with it.”

You frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

He looked at you for a long beat before answering. “I don’t share. Not when it comes to you.”

You blinked, completely thrown off. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His tone was more serious now. He wasn’t joking. “You’re my project partner, and I don’t plan on letting anyone else get in the way of that.”

You felt your stomach twist. “Rafe, this is ridiculous.”

His eyes darkened, and he leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “You’re the one who doesn’t get it. I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

The words hit you like a ton of bricks.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off.

“You’re not going to keep running away from this,” he said quietly, his gaze intense. “You can’t ignore it forever. I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t know what to say.

Rafe Cameron, the guy who had never given you the time of day before, was now insisting on not letting you go. You had no idea how to handle this sudden attention, especially when you had convinced yourself that he was just messing with you.

“I’m not running away from anything,” you finally managed, but even you didn’t believe your own words.

Rafe just smirked, like he knew you were lying. “We’ll see about that.”

⸻

After lunch, Rafe followed you through the rest of the day, always a few steps behind, like a shadow. He’d sneak glances at you in class, lean over just a little too close when you were at your locker, and always be there, waiting.

You couldn’t escape him.

By the time you made it to the library for your study session with Jake, you were already on edge.

Jake waved as you walked in, and you smiled awkwardly. “Hey.”

“Ready to get started?” he asked.

You nodded, but as you walked over to sit down, you noticed a familiar figure lingering by the entrance.

Rafe.

His eyes were locked on you, and as soon as he saw you notice him, he gave you a small, almost too casual wave.

You froze. Why was he here?

“Everything okay?” Jake asked, following your gaze.

You quickly forced a smile. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

But you didn’t feel fine. Not with Rafe standing there, staring at you like he was ready to pounce at any second.

You tried to focus on the work, but it was impossible. Every time you looked up, Rafe was there—leaning against the shelf, watching you, a knowing smile on his lips.

And it didn’t take long before you realized: he wasn’t leaving.

⸻

By the end of your study session, Jake had left, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You gathered your books slowly, hoping Rafe would be gone by the time you were finished. But when you turned around, he was still there—standing right in front of you, arms crossed, his eyes boring into you.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked, his tone too casual.

You clenched your jaw, already feeling the tension building in your chest. “What do you want, Rafe?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a step closer, and then another, until you were trapped between him and the table.

“I told you,” he said softly, ��I’m not letting you go.”

Your heart raced. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted, his voice low and insistent. “You feel it too. You’re just scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Then why are you still avoiding me?”

You didn’t have an answer for that.

Rafe’s expression softened, just for a moment. “I’m not asking for anything, smart girl. But you can’t keep pretending you don’t feel what’s between us.”

You swallowed, your thoughts a mess. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Good,” he said, stepping closer, his hand brushing against yours. “Then let me teach you.”

⸻

Part five

⸻

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @angelicameron @rafecqmeronslove @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @jujubeaz @heartzfromluna @redlipstickgirlx @aurorakalogeras @drewstarkeysrightarm @jujubeaz @stelleduarte @itsamusical4life

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞. 🥲

[ahsokaismyqueen]

Steve Harrington x HendersonSister!Reader Masterlist

Welcome to the Steve x HendersonSister! Universe! I have so many ideas for these two, and will probably never go through them all, but I wanted to keep them in one place! They will not be posted in chronological order, but I will list them here that way. Hope you enjoy!

Idiotic Decisions - Working on a project with douchebag Steve Harrington was not something you were looking forward to doing. However, you’re surprised to find that maybe he’s just a little less of a jerk than you thought. (Season 1)

Disappointed Revelations - After working on a school project together, you had actually started to believe that there was more to Steve Harrington than meets the eye. All of that changes after an interaction with Jonathan Byers. (Season 1)

The Evolution of Friendship - After Steve is attacked by Billy Hargrove, you’re shocked to find the guy still attempting to protect you as you two go into the hub to try and buy Eleven some more time. It makes you wonder. Are you and Steve Harrington actually … friends? (Season 2)

Hold Me Tight - Ever since Prom, Steve and you had been growing closer to crossing that line from friendship to something more. During a hot summer day, a little more of that line gets crossed. (Before Season 3)

Conversations On Top of an Elevator - Well, your brother has gotten you and Steve into another mess, this time on top of a Russian elevator. While Steve stresses out, you reassure him that you’ve gotten out of this shit before, you can do it again. (Season 3)

Saving Steve - Steve Harrington has already saved your life, so it’s time to return the favor. Little did you know that would feel a little less like an action movie and more like taking care of rowdy toddlers. (Season 3)

You Feel the Same? - The tension that’s been rising between you and Steve all summer has finally been set to boiling after spending time trapped in Russian elevators together and overhearing his confession to Robin about the new girl he likes who sounds suspiciously like you. After everything, you don’t care if it ends up burning you anymore. You just know you can’t waste another second not being with him. (Season 3)

Those Three Little Words - 18+ ONLY. Steve gets upset when he finds a letter on your table from Indiana University, and it forces the two of you to confess something you’ve been trying to say for a while now. (Before Season 4)

Reunions and Future Plans - For the first time in a long time, you and Steve haven’t seen each other in three weeks since you started college. So he decides to surprise you. (Before Season 4)

Holding You to That - Steve Request. You go to get your boyfriend Steve from Family Video when Robin tells you you’re a distraction, and of course you’re not! Okay, maybe a little. (Before Season 4)

A Not So Good Day - It’s Spring Break in Hawkins, and you can already tell that it’s going to be a great, relaxing time. Well, until you find out that your best friend might be dead and the gate to the Upside Down might not be as closed as you thought. (Season 4)

Finding Eddie - After a long day of trying to find Eddie, you, Steve, your brother, Robin and Max all find your way to Reefer Rick’s house where the time finally comes to tell the truth to your ex-best friend. (Season 4)

Watergate - Dustin has a theory that there’s a new gate, and Nancy has a suspicion of where it might be. The best swimmer needs to go to the bottom of Lover’s Lake and check it out. Unfortunately, much to Steve’s displeasure, that happens to be you. (Season 4)

Travelin' Man - Well, you didn’t love Eddie’s plan, but you also didn’t see many other options. (Season 4)

Saving the World or Not - Steve’s gone off to fight Vecna while you’ve stayed behind to distract the bats. What could possibly go wrong? (Season 4)

[sacredsorceress]

Meet Cute with Logan Would Include... || Wolverine Headcanons

pairing: logan howlett (wolverine) x mutant!f!reader summary: you're a new teacher at the school and logan is interested in you from your first meeting a/n: i'm admittedly projecting with the fact that reader teaches history but just a little blurb because logan's been on my mind and i need to get work done <33 lmk if you want me to make this into an actual fic!! warnings: none, all fluff

masterlist | inbox | tip jar (ko-fi)

when you first arrive at the school as a teacher (and late blooming mutant) charles introduces you to logan

logan has a typical scowl on his face and glances at you up and down

so you begin to worry that you've worn the wrong outfit or presented yourself poorly and now an infamous wolverine dig is about to be thrown your way

but instead, he takes a puff of his cigar, and looks back at charles

"you have a rule about only recruiting good-looking teachers or something?"

and what an array of relief (and butterflies) do you get from that

"yes, very funny, logan. however, y/n here has a phd. I've brought her on to teach the students"

"yeah? and what's your "gift"?" (mutation)

he has a coy look on his face

"oh logan, that's a bit personal..." you said with faux seriousness. "buy me a drink first."

for the first time, you saw him smile. a chuckle reverberated in his chest.

"fair enough."

after that interaction charles escorted you out of the room but as you went, logan's eyes were trained on you.

intrigued, he took another puff of his cigar and smiled to himself.

on your first night there, once all the children have gone to sleep and all the adults have gone to their own rooms for the night you hear a knock on your door.

and guess who it is?

you hate to admit it but god, does he look so hot and suave standing in your doorway.

logan's hair is in a typical mess and his flannel has a few more buttons undone than it did this morning,

and although he's rough around the edges and not as necessarily openly friendly as the others, he exudes confidence- especially as he leans against your doorframe.

"you said i owed you a drink."

although he takes you to the diviest dive bar in town, you have such a good time.

after a little bit of awkwardness, the two of you found your footing and you end up talking (flirting) for hours

well, in actuality, you do most of the talking but boy does he like listening to you talk and watching your eyes light up while you laugh at some of your own stories

on the way back to the mansion, he opens the car door for you

"thank you."

"don't mention it" (he's blushing a little)

on the ride back he tries to be as smooth as possible, one arm draped over the passenger seat while the other rests on the steering wheel

he keeps taking quick glances at you as you hum along to the song on the radio and even though you just met he's already thinking about how he could get used to this

he walks you back to your room and as much as he wants to make another move (and you do too) he doesn't want to mess up your relationship before its even started

i mean, you're living in the same place?? what happens if you don't like it?? and you end up hating him?? now his suave demeanor has crumbled under the weight of realising this is actually real and not a game

"I'll.. uh... be down the hall if you need me."

"thanks, logan" you smile softly and he thinks its the first time anyone's done that in over a decade and meant it

when he starts walking down the hall, you call out in a whisper

"oh and logan!" you pause. "sweet dreams."

before he can say anything the door of your bedroom shuts

a stupid, silly grin coats his face so big that he rubs his hand across his cheeks in fear anyone would catch the big bad wolverine becoming a softie for the teacher he's got the hots for

although you've just met, you've got him wrapped around your finger and he can barely believe it

shoving his hands in his pocket, logan shakes his head and laughs on the way to his own bedroom

"fuck."