#so that’s why I didn’t include it in the snippet)

[balrogballs]

Having intense Círdan brainrot thanks to @nimphelos fantastic artwork so sharing one of the ballpoint illustrations from one of my current WIPs: a “longform essay journalism” piece in which the motor-mouthed amateur historian Legolas (as seen in Cast in Stone) and long-suffering woodcut illustrator Gimli attempt to record the long shadow of the kinslaying at Sirion i.e they go around interviewing people in TA Middle Earth and Aman about it and put together something stylistically similar to, say, a The New Yorker or The Atavist style essay-article.

Círdan is one of the people Legolas interviews, and obviously takes the opportunity bring up Losgar + his trusty ship in a bottle. Enjoy a snippet!

The historical record of the kinslayings also bore the marks of design, the stamp of the Eldar’s craft. Alqualönde, Doriath and Sirion moved through history with the precision of ritual, choreographed and bound by the laws of ancestry, palatability and binary even as it broke them. Like old Beleriand itself, violence lingered not in the songs and maps, which tend to occlude and bear undeniable hallmarks of the craftsperson, but in preserved artefact. Reconstructions had no historical value. Or so I thought.

More than any scholar I had met, including and perhaps especially the archivists of Imladris, Círdan the Shipwright understood the grain of things: how much memory timber could be expected to hold, how a mishandled curve in a hull carried the inheritance of a full-fleet of burned ships that didn’t miscurve. He knew the difference between restoration and reverence, and told me that for him, craft was the truest form of archival practice: not the preservation of history as it was, but a reassembly conscious of its own absences.

When Gimli complimented him on the craftsmanship of the old Teleri vessel-in-a-bottle on his mantelpiece and told him how realistic it seemed, Círdan rolled his eyes, then did so again when I asked him why. “Because it’s still, Legolas. Ships are not meant to be still. This ship shouldn’t be here on my dusty mantelpiece, it should bob around fearlessly on the waves, fleet as it had been in life.”

He passed it across to me and let us look closely at the thing itself. Mist had not yet cleared the bottle’s interior, but I recognised the jagged coastline of Losgar. Masts tilted as though in wind, and impossibly precise figures no larger than ants moved along the decks: a helmsman’s posture, a sailor’s slack arm mid-turn. When I held the bottle in shadow, smoke seemed to be sculpted into the glass itself, feathering up around the burnt rigging.

Gimli and I leaned closer. One side, blackened nearly to vanishing, held a gilded figurehead unfamiliar to me, its angles catching a sliver of afternoon light. Then the light shifted. Shadows fell inward, and the flame vanished from the prow. All that remained were the ribs of wood and thread, and an unburnt ship in a cold bottle.

[cq-studios]

THE WIP LIST IS BACK!! Tell me more about Broadcasting Live From Daybreak Town? That sounds like it's probably an entertaining one, haha.

(For this)

YEAH!! WIP LIST!!

Would you believe me if I said it’s angst? lol

So, I love taking a pieces of the Daybreak Town backgrounds and just making a whole fics about them. I’ve done it with the Marketplace, I’m gonna do it with the Moogle Shop, and this one is specifically about the radios.

The original idea was a radio broadcast from a local station (run by an unhappy conspiracy driven Dandelion) right when the glitches started to get bad. It’s kind of evolved into a Brain and Ven centric fic where Brain has to not only deal with his own anxieties, but also needs to help Ven process that some people are just determined to blame them for things that aren’t their fault because of their position (something I discovered while writing this post… thank you for helping me figure that out, you’re gonna solve my whole block for this fic lol).

Snippet under the cut

Disclaimer: This is a WIP. All things are subject to change

“As our home gets overrun by flashing colours and ghosts from a time passed, the Union Leaders remain ever silent. I’m sure the question of whether or not they know what exactly is going on has crossed each of our minds at some point over the course of this strange day. And the Union Leaders seem uninterested in our pursuit of answers, keeping themselves locked up in the Clocktower, turning everyone who approaches them away for something of supposedly higher importance. Could they be trying to fix this problem, or could it be that they are the ones causing it.” Brain stopped typing. His teeth ground against each other. “Their refusal to give us an-”

“Ven, turn the radio off,” he barked, not watching his tone.

 I have more important things to focus on. I can’t let myself be distracted by conspiracies on the radio.

“The Union Leaders have…” There was a moment of hesitation before Ven placed his finger on the button. Suddenly the radio’s volume peaked. “abandoned, abandoned, abandoned, abandoned-” the word repeated, each delivery the same as the last, but slightly distorted, wrong. 

Ven jumped backwards and nearly out of his skin, hands swiftly covering his ears. The younger wielder shot Brain a wide eyed look just as the whole broadcast drowned in static.

They both knew what had happened, but that didn’t make the event any less startling. The host and their crew must have been caught in a glitch.

Brain winced at the thought, his mind flashing back to the moment a glitch had appeared over his hand.

At first it had just fallen asleep. Then the pins and needles gradually sharpened, digging deeper and deeper, pressing harder and harder, until…

The static from the radio died down and he was free to hear the startled and disgruntled noises of the announcer and the crew as they reoriented themselves. Then, “I can’t feel anything! I can’t feel-”

The sensation in his hand still hadn’t returned.

“Ven!”

“Sorry,” almost immediately this time, the younger wielder pressed the button. The room fell almost entirely quiet.

Brain welcomed the less distressing sounds of the Clocktower. The familiar repetitive clunking and clicking of the gears turning below him. The rhythmic knocking of Ven’s feet hitting the table’s leg. The faint buzzing of the screens…

Or maybe that was from the portal.

At the reminder, his attention drifted over to the portal. It flickered and swayed, looking unstable as ever. 

He made his way over to one of the smaller computer setups, and, with a few swift clacks of the keys, he’d typed in the command ‘Portal Status’. Enter. 

Almost hesitantly, his eyes shifted to the display.

<Stable>Good. He let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. It had to stay that way. Otherwise Ephemer and his friend wouldn't have a way back, and that’d be creating a whole new problem he wasn’t sure they’d have time to fix.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

no doubt ── s. jy (sneak peek!)

update: this fic's been posted! click here to read <3

↳ summary ── struggling to balance a world tour, endless responsibilities, and...well, the sting of getting dumped by his girlfriend, jake finds peace & comfort confiding in you—one of his closest friends. what begins as lighthearted late-night phone calls while he's away on tour deepens into something more, quickly pulling you both into uncharted emotional territory. as your connection with jake intensifies, so does your inner turmoil—torn between the comfort of your easy relationship with him and the terrifying possibility of falling for someone you're not even sure you can have in the first place. but jake? jake has absolutely no doubt of what he wants—and spoiler alert? it's you.

↳ pairing ── jake x f!reader, [ft. childhoodbestfriend!jungwon, bestfriends!enha]

↳ genre ── idol!jake, friends to lovers!au || fluff, angst, crack

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── hai everyone, the freaking turmoil & HOLD this fic has on me,,,has me writing til 8AM in the freaking morning because CLEARLY ─ i have unspoken issues . anyways here's a teaser of my recent hyperfixation that i'm sharing with the world. at the rate i'm writing this every night (& morning), it should be out soon (hopefully) :3 also this snippet i decided to include is my attempt at angst...i hope yall enjoy !

also send me an ask/comment if you'd like to be tagged !!! <3

snippet under the cut!!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

“Y/N.” 

His voice is quiet, almost drowned out by the muffled hum of music and laughter seeping from the party you should've escaped from a long time ago. You stop in your tracks, swallowing hard before turning around.  

Jake stands a few feet away, his usual easy confidence replaced by something raw, almost broken. He looks disheveled, his hands clenching at his sides as though they're the only thing anchoring him.  

“Can we talk?” he asks, his voice low but unsteady. 

You stomach twists, but you steel yourself, "What do you want, Jake?"  

You shift your weight and instinctively cross your arms, a defensive barrier between you and the boy you spent too long letting into your heart. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the vulnerability in them makes your resolve falter. 

He takes a hesitant step towards you before exhaling shakily, running a hand through his hair.  

“I—I messed up tonight. I didn’t mean to...," he trails off, his words fumbling, his eyes searching yours in desperation.  

"...to completely ignore me all night? Make me feel like nothing?" You finish for him, your quiet voice breaking despite your attempt to stay composed.  

"No. God, no. You're not nothing," he says quickly, his voice faltering on the last word. "Y/N, you matter so much to me."  

“Well it definitely didn't feel that way,” your voice is barely audible, but you finally look up at him, the hurt bubbling to the surface. “After everything you said—promised, everything we talked about…” 

"I know, I just—" he hesitates, his voice barely above a whisper. He takes a tentative step closer, his movements slow and careful, like he's afraid you'll shatter if he gets too close. "I was nervous." 

"It’s been so long, and I didn’t know what to say, how to act. I wanted to get it right—to make it perfect—but instead, I just—" he stops, dragging another frustrated hand through his hair. His eyebrows knit together in that familiar way that once made your heart flutter, but now only adds to the ache in your chest. 

You let out a hollow laugh, the sound foreign even to your own ears, “Well, congratulations, Jake. You managed to mess it up anyway.” 

“Please,” he looks devastated, his hands trembling at his sides. “Y/N, please don’t think I don’t care about you. I do. More than you know. I just—I don't know how to do this. I panicked and I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear."  

You look at him, your eyes stinging with unshed tears as you take a shaky breath, “Then why was...why was she all over you tonight? Why didn’t you stop her?” 

He falters, his shoulders slumping under the weight of your question, “It wasn’t what it looked like. I didn’t—I couldn’t—” 

“You couldn’t,” you echo, the words spilling out in a rush now, each one cutting deeper. “I should've known. Let me guess, she wants to get back together, right?"  

Jake's silence is deafening, and it immediately answers your question. He opens this mouth, but nothing comes out. The way he looks at you—eyes wide and filled with regret, lips trembling as if searching for the right words—confirms everything you’re afraid of. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, a shaky breath escaping your lips—the sound caught somewhere between a sigh of realization and a choked sob. No matter how hard you try, the wall holding back your emotions cracks under the weight of it all. The doubts you've tried so hard to bury suddenly resurface, crashing over you suddenly, each one carrying the sting of every insecurity, every fear you’ve ever had about this moment, about him. Your chest feels tight, your heart splintering under the realization that everything you were afraid of might be true. 

"Jake, I can't do this," you whisper, shaking your head. "I can't be the person you lean on while you try to figure out what you want."  

"No, no—Y/N, I do know what I want," he pleads, his voice cracking as he tries to step closer. "And it’s you. Always been you, Y/N. Everything I said before—I meant it."  

His words hang heavy in the air, the faint echo of the party music filtering through the cracks in the door and into the quiet hallway. You look away, refusing to let him see your tears finally spilling over.  

"You promised," you let out softly. "You promised you wouldn't hurt me. You said you'd prove that I could trust you, that I didn't have to be scared. You knew I was worried, Jake. And you hurt me anyways."  

"And I swear I meant every word I said. I still do," Jake says, his voice desperate. He steps even closer, his hand reaching out and brushing yours, but you pull back before he can close the distance. "You have to believe me. Please, Y/N. You're the only one I care about."  

You shake your head again, the tears now freely slipping down your cheeks despite your best efforts, "I don't know if I can believe that anymore, Jake. I wanted to, I really, really did. But tonight..."  

Jake’s face falls, the weight of your pain crashing into him all at once. His lips tremble as he struggles to hold himself together, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. This was the first time seeing you in so long, and this sight of you—broken because of him—cuts deeper than he thought possible. His voice is barely above a whisper, raw and pleading, “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I—God, please. Please give me a chance.” 

You look at him—at the boy who's become your safe space —and all you feel is the ache in your heart.  

"I can't do this right now, Jake," you finally let out a deep breath and take a step back. "I think I just need space."  

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. His breath hitches as if your words physically hit him in face, "Y/N..." 

Your phone suddenly buzzes, a text from Jungwon letting you know he's outside. You glance down at it, then back at Jake. For a moment, you hesitate, your heart screaming at you to stay, to give him the chance he's begging for. But your head knows better. 

"I have to go," you murmur softly, turning away before the tears threaten to spill all over again. You force yourself to keep walking, fighting the overwhelming urge to look back—to let him pull you into his arms, where you wished so desperately you belonged.  

Frozen, Jake watches helplessly as you walk away, his chest tightening with every step you take. Everything feels like it's caving in, regret clawing at him the more he sees you walk further away. He opens his mouth to say something—anything—but the words fail him, silenced by the weight of his own mistakes.  

The hallway falls into a haunting silence, broken only by the faint echo of your retreating steps, a cruel reminder of what he's just let slip away.  

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

not my usual style of light-hearted crack...but sum of the other parts are still very rom-commy bc im sucker for dat shtuff :3

let me know if you'd like to be tagged !

<3, addie

[myrleius]

here, beside you (snippets!) — bakugo k.

bodyguard bakugo k. x rich fem!reader

original fic: here, beside you

notes: I think you can read this even without seeing the original fic. These were just some dialogue ideas I had when I was experimenting which timeline to write and can honestly just be stand alone scenes of these two idiots. This includes the two weeks where Bakugo was guarding yn and after the one year time-skip thingy.

Yn huffed, struggling with the stubborn window. “Ugh, this thing won’t budge.”

Bakugo watched her battle with it for a whole ten seconds before letting out an exasperated sigh. “Move.”

She stepped aside with exaggerated flair. “Oh no, whatever shall I do without the great Bakugo—”

He yanked the window open effortlessly, then shot her a flat look. “You done?”

She stared. “... I loosened it.”

His deadpan expression didn’t waver. “Yeah. Sure you did."

Bakugo stood in the doorway, arms crossed, already regretting giving her the time of day. “What the hell are you on about now?”

Yn turned to him, grinning. “What do you think is stronger? Your explosions or a nuclear bomb?”

He blinked, then shot her a glare. “Are you an idiot? A nuke wipes out entire cities, dumbass.”

She tapped her chin in thought. “Yeah, but yours are way cooler. More... refined, y’know?”

His scowl deepened, though he glanced away. “Hah? You tryna butter me up or somethin’?”

Yn’s smirk grew. “Is it working?”

Bakugo scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Hell no.”

Lying on the floor, yn stared at the ceiling. “I’m bored.” 

Bakugo sat on the couch, scrolling through his phone. “So?” 

“Entertain me.” 

He shot her an incredulous look. “What the hell do I look like? A damn TV?” 

“No, but you’re here and I’m suffering.” 

Bakugo sighed dramatically, leaning back. “Tch. Not my problem.”

Yn huffed, rolling onto her side to face him. “You’re no fun.”

Bakugo didn’t even glance up. “Not my job to be fun.”

She pouted. “Then what is your job?”

He finally looked at her, deadpan. “Blowing shit up.”

Yn snorted. “Wow. So inspiring.”

Bakugo smirked. “Damn right.”

She sighed dramatically, flopping onto her back. “Still bored.”

Rolling his eyes, he tossed a pillow at her face. “Deal with it.”

“You—” Fwump.

Arms crossed, yn smirked. “Bet you can’t sneak past all those guards without getting caught.”

Bakugo eyed him suspiciously. “You challengin’ me?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. You talk a lot, but I haven’t seen you do much.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re trying to get me in trouble.”

Her smirk widened. “Yeah? You scared?”

“You are the worst influence,” he muttered.

Grinning, she tilted her head. “And yet, you’re still thinking about it.”

Yn groaned, forehead pressed against her open textbook. “Why am I even studying this? I already know all of it.”

Bakugo, sitting across from her, barely looked up from his own notes. “Then why the hell are you whining?”

She lifted her head to glare at him. “Because it’s tedious. Do you know how insulting it is to be forced to memorize things I’ve already mastered?”

He smirked. “Cry about it.”

She sighed dramatically. “Maybe I’d suffer less if someone brought me snacks.”

Bakugo tossed a protein bar at her face.

“Wow. So romantic.”

“Shut up and eat.”

Bakugo watched as yn struggled to balance her textbooks, her bag, and a tray of food all at once.

“Tch. Bet you drop something in the next ten seconds.”

Yn shot him a glare, expertly shifting her grip. “You underestimate me, Bakugo-san.”

The moment she took a step forward, a pencil case slipped from the stack.

Bakugo smirked. “Called it.”

Yn sighed, bending down to pick it up. “Yeah, yeah. Gloat all you want. But if I make it to the table without dropping anything else, you buy me lunch tomorrow.”

His smirk faltered. “The hell? That wasn’t part of the deal—”

“Oh? Are you scared?” she teased.

Bakugo clicked his tongue, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Fine. But you’re paying if you lose.”

Challenge accepted.

Yn absentmindedly grabbed Bakugo’s wrist, stopping him mid-rant. “Hold still.”

He blinked as she traced her fingers lightly over a cut on his arm. A warm glow spread from her fingertips as the wound sealed up.

“Seriously, you’re worse than Deku-san when it comes to reckless training injuries,” she muttered.

Bakugo huffed, looking away. “Tch. It’s not that bad.”

She let go, patting his arm. “There. Try not to break yourself again for at least a week, yeah?”

He grumbled something under his breath, rubbing his wrist where she’d touched him. “No promises.”

Yn grinned as she took a bite of her ice cream, eyes gleaming with mischief. “So… what’s your weakness?”

Bakugo scoffed. “The hell kind of question is that?”

“I mean, everyone’s got one.” She tapped her chin. “Mine’s probably caffeine withdrawal. Or cute guys who scowl a lot.”

He shot her a glare. “That better not be about me.”

She smiled innocently. “Who said it was?”

“Tch.” He looked away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Dumb questions. I don’t have a weakness.”

Yn hummed. “Oh really?”

Before he could react, she reached up and flicked the edge of his ear.

Bakugo flinched.

Her grin widened. “Oh. Oh.”

“Don’t,” he warned.

But it was too late. She had discovered gold.

Yn dozed off in class, arms folded on her desk. Aizawa, completely unfazed, walked past her and didn’t wake her up.

Bakugo frowned. “Oi, why aren’t you waking her?”

Aizawa sighed. “Because she already submitted the advanced version of today’s lesson last week—with corrections.”

Bakugo turned to look at her, unimpressed.

Yn, eyes still closed, smirked. “Jealous?”

“Tch.” He kicked the leg of her desk lightly. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Okay, so… you can solve quantum physics equations in your sleep, but you don’t know how to cook rice?”

Yn stared blankly at the rice cooker. “I never needed to learn. I had chefs.”

Bakugo pinched the bridge of his nose. “You could build a rocket ship, but you’d starve in your own kitchen.”

She crossed her arms. “Not true. I can survive off of coffee.”

He groaned. “You are actually hopeless.”

She smirked. “But you think it’s cute.”

“No.”

Yn leaned over Bakugo’s desk, eyes bright. “Did you know that nitroglycerin, the main component of your sweat, was originally discovered by an Italian chemist in the 1800s? They used it for mining before it became weaponized.”

Bakugo stared at her, torn between annoyance and… something else. “And?”

“And it’s fascinating.” She grinned. “Your body literally produces one of the most volatile compounds known to man. You’re like a walking science experiment!”

His eye twitched. “I better not hear you call me that again.”

Yn tapped her chin. “Walking disaster?”

“Worse.”

“Explosive nerd?”

He glared. “I will end you.”

She only laughed.

Bakugo scowled as yn scribbled in her notebook, completely ignoring him.

“What’s so damn interesting?”

She barely glanced up. “Research.”

“On what?”

“Explosion quirks.”

His eye twitched. “Are you studying me?”

She grinned. “I’m documenting your patterns for scientific purposes.”

“… That sounds fake.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I just like looking at you.”

Bakugo choked on air. “The hell is wrong with you?”

She laughed. “You’re cute when you panic.”

His entire face turned red. “I—TCH—SHUT UP.”

Yn was shivering, arms wrapped around herself as they walked back to the dorms.

Bakugo sighed, pulling off his jacket and shoving it at her. “Wear it.”

She blinked. “What if I say no?”

“I’ll force it on you.”

She smirked, slipping it on. “You’re awfully sweet when you’re bossy.”

“Tch.”

She lifted the sleeve to her nose, inhaling dramatically. “Wow, it even smells like—”

“Say one more word and I’m taking it back.”

She giggled. “Fine, fine. Thanks, Bakugo-san.”

He grumbled. “Whatever.”

Yn stood under the doorway, arms crossed. “So. Mistletoe.”

Bakugo glanced up, then narrowed his eyes. “Tch. You planned this.”

She shrugged innocently. “Who, me?”

He scoffed. “Not happening.”

She pouted. “Aww, not even a little holiday spirit?”

“No.”

She sighed dramatically. “Guess I’ll just go kiss Kaminari then—”

Bakugo grabbed her wrist, scowling. “Like hell you will.”

She grinned. “Thought so.”

He grumbled. “You’re the worst.”

He leaned in, about to kiss her forehead before headbutting her instead.

“There’s your holiday spirit.”

Yn casually dropped a heart-shaped box onto Bakugo’s desk. “Happy Valentine’s.”

He eyed it warily. “The hell is this?”

“Handmade chocolates. Don’t worry, they’re scientifically perfect.”

He opened the box, seeing neatly arranged chocolates—each labeled with things like EXPLOSION BOOST and ANGER MANAGEMENT (PROBABLY).

His eye twitched. “You seriously made quirk-enhancing chocolates?”

She grinned. “You love them.”

He popped one in his mouth, grumbling. “…They’re not bad.”

She smirked. “You mean delicious?”

“Tch. Shut up.”

Bakugo opened his door and immediately shut it again.

Yn knocked again. “You’re not avoiding this.”

He groaned. “Tell me you didn’t rent out an entire arcade for my birthday.”

“… Okay, I won’t tell you.”

“Yn.”

She giggled. “C’mon, it’s your day! We have the whole place to ourselves!”

He sighed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Bakugo had zero reason to be mad.

So what if Kaminari was sitting too close to yn? So what if she laughed at something dumb he said?

Didn’t matter. It didn’t.

And yet, the next thing Kaminari knew, a perfectly aimed explosion went off inches from his feet.

“W-What the hell, dude?!” Kaminari yelped.

Bakugo shrugged, walking past. “Tch. Thought I saw a bug.”

Yn sighed as she wrapped Bakugo’s hand in fresh bandages. “You need to stop breaking yourself every other day.”

He grumbled. “Not my fault villains are weak.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That literally makes no sense.”

“Tch. Whatever.”

She finished tying the bandage, then, with a grin, brought his hand to her lips and pressed a soft kiss against his knuckles.

Bakugo froze.

He yanked his hand back, ears burning. “The hell was that?!”

She cleared her throat. “Well, I read somewhere that positive reinforcement speeds up healing—”

“THAT’S BULLSHIT.”

“… So do you not want me to do it again?”

“… I didn’t say that.”

Bakugo didn’t do birthday parties.

Hell, he barely remembered his own birthday half the time.

But this wasn’t just anyone’s birthday. It was yn’s. And after weeks of her not-so-subtly reminding everyone—

“Ugh, can you believe my birthday’s coming up soon? Crazy, right?”

“Man, I wonder what kind of surprises are in store for me on my birthday~”

“I mean, it’s not like I expect anything big… but I would cry if nothing happened.”

—he got the damn hint.

So, fine. He was doing something about it.

The problem was, the rest of their classmates were absolute idiots.

“You planned a party?” Kirishima blinked, stunned. “Like… on purpose?”

“Shut up, Shitty Hair. You in or not?”

“Oh, I’m so in.”

Thus, the operation began.

Step 1: Keep yn Distracted

Easier said than done. She was annoyingly observant.

So, Kaminari was given the task of keeping her occupied while the others set up in the dorm lounge. It mostly involved loud, overcomplicated debates.

“Yn, if you could only pick one—unlimited knowledge or Bakugo’s eternal love, what would you choose?”

“Obviously Bakugo’s eternal—wait, why are you asking?”

“No reason!” Kaminari grinned, sweating.

Step 2: Decorations

Mina took over this part, much to Bakugo’s reluctant approval. She added fairy lights, streamers, and a banner that read “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SIMP” in sparkly letters.

Bakugo nearly ripped it down.

Mina fought him off. “She’ll love it!”

“… Tch.” He let it stay.

Step 3: The Cake Situation

Sato obviously. But Sero and Kirishima also attempted cupcakes, which ended in small-scale disaster.

The kitchen smelled slightly burnt. They covered it with air freshener.

Close enough.

Step 4: The Surprise

Finally, when everything was set, Bakugo begrudgingly went to retrieve yn.

He found her on the dorm rooftop, arms crossed.

“… You forgot, didn’t you?” she deadpanned.

Bakugo scoffed. “Tch. Like I’d ever forget something that important.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Wait. Are you—”

“Shut up and follow me.”

And when they reached the common room…

“SURPRISE!”

Confetti popped. Music blasted. And yn, for once, was speechless.

She turned to Bakugo, still processing. “… You did this?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, it just magically appeared, dumbass.”

Her grin was blinding. “You do love me.”

His ears burned. “I—Shut up.”

She laughed, throwing her arms around him. And despite all the teasing, all the effort—

It was worth it.

[colorlessjay]

Absolutely in love with your drawing of Dean teaching Cas how to shoot! And I aggressively support the headcanon that Dean gets a bit intimate/touchy when teaching Cas new things.

I have a WIP fic on AO3 where human/mostly human Cas goes to Sam for Valentine’s Day advice and spills that his crush is on a man (bc Sam is like “why are you asking me and not Dean?”) Dean finds out and gets a little hurt that Cas wouldn’t think he’d support him or would judge him for liking a guy and overcompensates by trying to help Cas have a perfect Valentine’s date, which of course includes teaching Cas how to make this mystery guy that Cas has a crush on (who weirdly sounds a lot like Dean, not that Dean’s jealous or anything) a pie or, as Dean calls it “The Art if Seduction via Pie”

Long story short: I thought you might enjoy this snippet of it/your drawing reminded me of this part where Dean gets a little cozy teaching Cas how to roll out pie crusts

——— Cas

“Dean,” Cas says his name slowly while turning to face the man who is waiting patiently for him.

“Cas?” Dean teases him back with the same slow draw of his name.

“You must be exhausted. We really don’t have to make the pie, if you don’t want too. I’m sure that-”

“Hey! None of that! I’m good, and it’s just downright rude for you to think I’d break a promise, especially to you, and even more especially about pie,” Dean teases, but there’s something heavier in the words that Cas doesn’t have time to try and decipher before Dean barrels on, “Now, I’ve already unpacked the groceries, so let’s get this show on the road before I pass out.”

Cas opens his mouth to protest that no pie is worth Dean’s health, but he’s stopped by the sharp look Dean gives him. Instead, he obediently follows as Dean leads the way into the bunker.

The silent walk toward the kitchen gives Cas’ mind the time to begin processing some of Dean’s words.

Groceries? That means we stopped at some point, but he didn’t wake me. Then he let me sleep until the last moment while he unpacked. He has sacrificed time, sleep, and money so I can have a good, nonexistent, date.

Sudden warmth and pressure press against his eyes and chest as love for Dean washes over his whole being. It’s so overwhelming that he misses the next step down on the stairs and noisily flails to regain his balance.

“Dude, you okay? You sure you didn’t get a concussion? Shit, maybe I shouldn’t have let you sleep,” Dean mutters as he turns around and begins raking his gaze meticulously over Cas looking for nonexistent head wounds.

Cas feels the odd dual urge to preen and squirm under the scrutiny but shakes off both in favor of alleviating Dean’s mounting worry and guilt.

“I’m fine, Dean. I promise. I was still a little groggy from sleeping in the car and missed a step,” He manages despite the feeling still glowing in his chest, hoping Dean mistakes the heat on his neck and cheeks for embarrassment.

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, clearly unconvinced but he continues anyway.

Thankfully they make it to the kitchen without any further issue. Dean begins chatting excitedly about how they need to make the dough first so it can chill but all Cas can focus on is that what he assumes are all the necessary items are already prepared and waiting on the counter. Love threatens to topple him again, energy building in his chest until he’s sure is going to explode at any second. He basks in the warmth until he hears Dean’s excited explanation stop suddenly and get replaced with soft, unsure words.

“Hey, I’m running on empty here, so it took me a bit to realize that maybe… maybe you might not really want to do this and that’s why you keep asking me about it. I know, I know I can get stuck on things, but I need you to understand that it’s okay if you don’t want to do this. I can bake something tomorrow or whenever so nothing’s wasted. Seriously, guilt free, if you changed your mind or if it feels too overwhelming right now or for whatever reason; just say the word and I’ll do whatever you want, Cas.”

The feeling flares and thrums painfully, a wild animal caged within his ribs, desperately seeking freedom, howling in outrage at Dean’s doubt and concern. He should say yes, should release Dean from this promise, should let him get some sleep. He should be more like Dean and do the selfless thing for once.

He opens his mouth to lie and say he doesn’t want to bake with Dean, but the pacing beast his chest digs its selfish claws into his tongue, forcing the truth out of his lips instead.

“No! I mean, yes. I want to do this; I want you to teach me how to make a pie. I just- I kept asking you because- I don’t want you to feel … obligated to do all this after, uh, everything.”

“Hah! Dude, this is pie we’re talking about. It’s never an obligation and neither are you,” Dean laughs before going still.

Cas is sure, by the way Dean blinks and opens his mouth that he probably hadn’t meant to say the last part, but he doesn’t make a joke or take it back.

“You know what, I stand by that. Now, as I was saying. The dough has to chill for a bit, so we make that first and then prep the filling while it’s in the fridge. Alright, step one is washing your hands.”

Even though he must be exhausted to his bones, Dean is an excellent and patient teacher. He explains each step to Cas and answers any questions he has. As soon as they get serious about the baking, the tension and unease dissipate and it’s almost as if nothing has changed at all. Dean’s passion and enthusiasm are contagious and intoxicating and Cas finds himself smiling so much his cheeks ache.

Soon enough the dough has been made, split, wrapped in plastic wrap, and set in the freezer to chill.

“Alright, the filling is easier but more tedious,” Dean says as he sets several washed apples onto the metal countertop. “You want to peel or slice?”

Cas considers for a moment, opening his mouth to ask if he can be the one to peel but he sees Dean stifle a yawn into his shoulder, eyes watering with the effort to hide it.

“I’ll slice if you show me how you want them,” Cas answers, wanting to do this one small thing for Dean, and not quite trusting the man not to hurt himself with the sharp blade in his current state of fatigue.

Dean makes quick work of peeling an apple and shows Cas how to core and slice it into thin layers before adding it to the bowl.

They fall into an easy rhythm, both of them doing their tasks and simply enjoying the silence of one another. After a few minutes though a thought pops into Cas’ head and out of his mouth before it fully forms.

“Did Mary or John do this with you? Did they teach you? Is that where your love of cooking and baking comes from?”

Dean blinks at him uncomprehendingly for a few minutes before keeling over with laughter. Cas smiles at the sound, though he’s not sure what he said that Dean could find so humorous. Dean straightens and wipes the tears from his eyes before he replies.

“Nah! Mom was a pretty bad cook and an even worse baker and Dad, uh, he never really had a lot of time for stuff like that. Living on the road with Sam, I started cooking because I kind of had to. Dad wasn’t always there to get us food and there’s only so many sandwiches and canned soups and cereals you can take before you begin to get creative. I must’ve come up with at least a hundred ways to make Mac n’ Cheese exciting. Although, after I resorted to adding marshmallow fluff mix, I decided I needed to learn how to cook real food. So, I started watching cooking shows in motels that had TVs, stealing cookbooks from local libraries, and tearing recipes out of magazines. I’m not sure which pissed my dad off more, the fact that I was wasting my time on such a girly activity or all the inedible food I made in the beginning. But I, I ended up being pretty good at it and soon enough both he, begrudgingly, and Sam were pretty thankful.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas whispers, afraid if he says anymore, says it any louder, the sorrow he feels for how Dean had been forced to grow up would burst the dam of his emotions and spill out in liquid form down his cheeks.

“For what, Cas?” Dean asks, head tilted and appearing genuinely confused, the truth of his childhood so ingrained that he doesn’t see anything wrong with having to provide himself and Sam with meals, with John leaving them for long enough that he had to improvise so many times, with the disdain John had for him trying to learn, trying to better provide for himself and his brother.

“Dean, you must know that you shouldn’t have had to do that. You should have been allowed to learn how to cook because you truly enjoyed it. Not because you needed to, not because you didn’t have an adult who cared for you like they should have, but because you wanted to.”

“Dude, we travelled around with Dad hunting demons, none of that is really conducive to a normal childhood. Do I sometimes wish I’d had a more average upbringing, sure. But then I remember how selfish that would have been, wishing Dad were around more instead of saving other people. So, we all did what we had to do, I learned to take care of Sam and I and Dad saved people. When I think of it like that, it doesn’t really bother me that much anymore.”

Dean must still be able to see the anger storming in his face because he pauses his peeling to squeeze Cas’ arm and say soflty, “Hey, there’s a lot of things that, in a perfect world, should have been, but I’ll only make myself crazy if I think about them too long. And, look, I really do enjoy cooking and baking now, as evidenced by my growing muffin top. In fact, if I liked it any more, you’d probably have to roll me out on hunts.”

Cas rolls his eyes, choosing to let the righteous anger go for Dean’s sake and choosing to address his newest concern, “Dean, please. Your body is in peak condition. And a couple extra pounds would only add to your perfection”

The words slip out and Cas blames it on the spell of intimacy created by standing elbow to elbow with Dean as they work to create something together.

“I, oh, um. Thanks, Cas,” Dean splutters handing Cas one last peeled apple before moving away to get the other ingredients for the filling.

Or in retreat.

“Dean, I-” Cas starts to apologize, worried he’s gone too far.

“Relax, I know it was just a compliment to battle my self-deprecation. I promise I won’t read into it too much. Okay, so now we add the lemon juice, cinnamon, sugar, and flour. And my secret ingredient, which you are sworn to secrecy about by the way, cornstarch. It helps the filling not to get too soggy and holds everything together to make it easier to cut later.”

Cas relents and nods his understanding, some part of him screaming that he wishes Dean would read into his words a bit more, would guess Cas’ feelings and end his misery one way or another.

Finally, the filling is done and Dean sets it to the side, but not before snagging a piece of slathered apple out of the bowl and holding it up to Cas’ mouth in offering.

He’s too stunned to refuse, lips and tongue giving Dean’s fingers the barest brush as he accepts this odd, though welcome, communion.

“Hmm, that it delicious,” Cas breathes, not expounding on what he is referring to.

“Hah, yeah, just wait until it’s baked,” Dean responds, his words a little stilted as he takes a piece for himself.

Cas tries not to notice how he uses the same fingers to feed himself that he’d used for Cas, how he licks the syrupy mixture off those appendages that Cas’ own tongue had touched just seconds ago.

He is still fighting with unholy thoughts of those fingers when Dean returns to his side with the chilled balls from the freezer.

“Okay, now this is the tricky part,” Dean prefaces as he pulls out a silicon mat marked with concentric rings of different measurements. He unwraps the first chunk of dough and places it in the center of the mat.

“You have to roll out the dough to be this size, but it’s important that you do it evenly. If the dough is too thick it won’t bake all the way through, but if it’s too thin it can tear and all that yummy cinnamon sugar and lemon juice syrup we drenched the apples in will leak out of the bottom. Not to mention it will make it a bitch to cut and serve.”

Dean picks up a wooden cylinder with handles, something Cas knows must be for baking but can’t quite place the name of and covers the length of it in flour.

“It’s important to coat the rolling pin as well as the surface you’re rolling on with flour, so the dough doesn’t stick. It’s cold right now so it’s not super sticky but it will get stickier as it warms up. The trick to getting a nice, even pie crust is to be quick and efficient and get it rolled out before the dough warms up.”

Cas nods like he’s following Dean’s instruction when in reality he’s transfixed by how serene and beautiful Dean looks as he firmly but gently presses down on the center of the flattened dough and pushes the rolling pin away from him. After a few strokes he flips and rotates the dough before adding more flour to the pin and repeating the process. When the dough is nearing the ring labeled nine inches, Dean stops and offers the pin to Cas.

“Alright, lover boy, your turn.”

“Dean, I really don’t think I should. I’m sure I’ll mess it up.”

Even as he protests, green eyes draw Cas to the spot Dean had previously occupied in front of the dough. He positions the rolling pin like he’d seen Dean do but he can’t seem to figure out how pick a direction to start moving in.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help,” Dean chuckles, sidling up behind Cas and reaching around him to place his hands atop Cas’ on the rolling pin. He moves their hands confidently, showing Cas the right amount of pressure to apply and how far to roll before turning the dough.

Dean doesn’t appear to be affected by the closeness, but Cas drowns in it. If he had thought the blanket in the Impala was nice, it was nothing compared to the warmth of Dean’s chest against his back, the smell of him enveloping him, his hot breath puffing against Cas’ cheek as he peers around him to see the dough and continues explaining his actions.

Dean

“There, that’s perfect,” Dean whispers, not trusting his voice with more than that as he reluctantly removes his hands from Cas’ and pulls away.

He makes a quick grab for the foil pan he’d buttered earlier to hide how his hands tremble with the effort of letting go.

He shows an oddly quiet Cas how to gently drape the fragile dough over the pan and press it down. They add the filling and Dean has the other ball of dough unwrapped and flattened in the center of the mat before he steps away again.

“You wanna try doing the top?” He asks, nodding encouragingly when Cas hesitates to take up the rolling pin again.

Cas begins, frequently staring up at Dean during the process. He doesn’t do badly, he just doesn’t do great either. It only takes a few uneven passes for him to lock eyes with Dean, his expression clearly screaming help me.

Dean smiles and slides into his earlier position with far too much eagerness. He doesn’t think about all the reasons why he shouldn’t be spooning Cas from behind, why he shouldn’t rest his chin on Cas’ shoulder, why he shouldn’t be breathing praise and encouragement into the angel’s ear. He’s too tired to deny himself this little indulgence while he still can.

Letting go of Cas to place the top crust is harder the second time, in more ways than one, and Dean is grateful for the flannel tied around his waist.

“Alright. Now we slice off any extra and we crimp the edges like this,” Dean demonstrates pressing the top and bottom pieces of dough together and forming the clamshell like shape by pressing the pointer finger of his left hand into the “V” he forms with his right thumb and pointer finger.

He’s about to ask Cas if he wants to try, but the intensity of the man’s eyes on him takes his breath and the thought away and he continues around the edge of the dish until it’s all done. He deftly slices a few vents in the top before retrieving an egg from the fridge and cracking it into a bowl with some water.

“Why do we need an egg? Shouldn’t we have added it before now?” Cas asks making Dean grin like an idiot, more than a little excited that Cas seems to be genuinely interested in the process.

“With any other baking, yes. But this isn’t for the pie itself, it’s for an egg wash. We’re going to use this,” he holds up a basting brush, “to cover the crust.”

“Why?” Cas asks incredulously.

“Taste is important, but presentation is too. This will give the pie a nice, shiny, golden color.”

Dean gets the pie coated and puts it into the oven before turning back to Cas and having to cover his mouth to keep from howling with laughter.

He hadn’t noticed when he was focused on getting the pie made and in the oven, but Cas is absolutely covered in flour. Not just his clothes but a smudge on his face from where he’d wiped it after dusting the rolling pin, in his hair, and even more hilariously, on his backside from where the flour on Dean’s own clothes had transferred.

“Dean?”

“Fuck, Cas, I’m sorry, but we’re kind of a mess,” Dean attempts to explain as he tries to tamp down the hysterical giggles bubbling up in his chest again.

Cas looks down at himself before his eyes bounce back up to Dean’s, mirth welling in them.

They both crack at the same time, loud laughter mingling and filling the kitchen with warmth.

———

hey noxemma

Could you like, put this in A03 so I can Kudos this and recommend it to my friends

Much love, very vibe, will draw later

[berracids]

anything w bumblebee pls idc

AN: I love anyone that loves bumblebee so here is a Drabble I like to imagine, I had the bay ver in mind but this could work with any continuity where he doesn’t talk

AN: this could be considered a sequel to other bumblebee HC or as a standalone

Bumblebee’s yapping on mute

Warning: cussing (does that even need a warning?)

Despite Bee not having a voice to word what he wants, he is very much capable of showing it damn well too, and the mech has no problem if it includes throwing servos to prove a point

In which were most of your quarrels with him stem from, is that he is too comfortable into making people learn their lesson through a good ol’ aft whooping

Like when bumblebee spots one of your bullies’s car, he makes it his life’s mission to avenge you, even if you will reprimand him and giving him an hour long lecture on how he could’ve been caught or worse the government could take him away from you and hurt him.

But does the yellow scout yield or back out?, no, he will gut the motor from your bully’s brand new sports car, drive back to your house late at night as he taps on your window with his excited beeping and whirring and treat it like some crumbled paper ball as he plays with it with his pedes as makes sure that you are watching and cheering for him (you are not)

“Bee!, what did you just do?!” You half yelled as you didn’t want to wake up the whole block for screaming at bumblebee at how he just so casually committed vandalism, only to be met with an optic roll and an annoyed beep from him; be tried to excuse himself by playing snippets from the radio that say that he made your bully payback for throwing their sandwich at him when you two were driving casually “yes, I know you did that for me and I appreciate it, but TAKING OUT HIS MOTOR?!, I was planning to egg his car not gut it!”

As you were reprimanding the 15 feet tall robot as you continues to roll his optics and beep at you annoyed as you can feel him saying that your bully did not just disrespect you but he also dirtied his finish, and bumblebee doesn’t let anything of that sorts slide and that you should know that by now, “fine you may be right egging his car isn’t enough, maybe I would have keyed it if you didn’t act on your own!”

Bee then continues to beep and whirr for the next few minutes as you can make out most of what he is saying from his body language and the radio snippets, the scout was grateful to have a human partner like you who understood him even without the radio snippets at least not as much and making him feel heard and acknowledged

That is why bumblebee couldn’t allow anyone to wrong you, what guardian would he be if his duty isn’t protecting you like he is supposed to?, “thank you Bumblebee, I appreciate you going through all that trouble,…truly..” your gratitude reached is audio receptors making him stop in his tracks and press breaks as his blue optics look at your smiley face, he then waves his servo at you while whirring bashfully as he ‘says’ that it is nothing.

The yellow autobot’s servo reaches it’s way to you and wrapping around your torso before placing you gently on the ground as he wastes no time transforming into his vehicle mode and opening the door for you with an excited beep, wanting to go on a quick ride in the middle of the night, Bee chooses a snippet on the radio that tells you to hop in, and you do so, not having the heart to tell bumblebee that you have classes in the early morning and that you won’t be able to sleep before that,

Sleep could come any other time, as long as bumblebee isn’t doing donuts with you inside of him and making you dizzy at 4am in the morning as the sound of screeching tires rack your eardrums

⌗𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴/𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴-𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 @berracids

[sweetestberryofthebunch]

The Wandavision Double Feature Show (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

In a town terrorised by the mind control of a grieving witch, you’re Bella Swan. Well, not entirely, but the look on Agatha’s face when you’d said it like that was too good to miss out on. Still, there was no explanation to it. You weren’t magick, at least you’d never thought you were, but when your entire hometown, including your poor parents, began to play the charades the Scarlet Witch had created, you were completely unaffected. It’s like you’re immune to it, your mind protected by a firm, unwavering shield. Luckily for you, Agatha finds you before the witch behind the Westview Hex does. She offers a simple deal. Her protection in exchange for your loyalty. And, Technicolor or not, how could you ever resist the twinkle of those eyes?

~ a collection of snippets of your time with Agatha during the Westview Hex; Loose on plot, heavy on smut ~

Part I: And … Action!

In this Episode it is the 50s and you are sent out to spy on Wanda for the first time. Agatha realises just how much you aim to please, and decides to have a little fun with that.

Content/Warnings: imbalanced power dynamics, mentions of light choking, r definitely has a praise kink, mommy kink, no smut in this one yet but dw i‘m already three fingers deep into part 2

5k+ words

„Strip.“

„What?“, your mouth fell open, staring at her wide eyed. You were standing in her bedroom, already an insane enough thing to happen within knowing her for less than 48 hours. But hearing her stern voice order you to take off your clothes definitely topped that.

Agatha didn’t even look over her shoulder, unbothered by your confusion as she pushed open the winged doors to the gigantic closet across the room. There had to be a similar magic involved in it like the basement, there was no way a closet this size just fit into the second store of a little suburban house.

She’d brought you here after finding you on the streets, a single, vibrant blob of color in the new, black and white reality of Westview. You’d been shaking, eyes swollen from crying, Why was everything black and white? Why was your apartment suddenly occupied by a random couple you‘d never met before, declaring they had to sell milkshakes from the empty store beneath your studio now, because she had told them too. Why? And why was everyone dressed so differently, so … vintage?

Agatha had been the only bright, carefree face you’d seen after hours of stumbling around lost in town square. She had been just as confused about seeing you, too, but her initial surprise quickly turned into intrigue.

Her house was a safe haven, the first time since you’d woken up in this upside down reality you didn’t feel exposed, didn’t feel like a lab rat under a bright lamp, vulnerable, unable to run.

She‘d made you tea and you‘d sat on her couch, telling her everything that had happened. And, thankfully, she already knew. So you weren’t crazy.

The things she’d told you … witchcraft, magick, hexes and mind control … if you hadn’t seen it for yourself, you wouldn’t have believed it. Slowly, as you listened to her and nodded, you saw the color drain from yourself too, slowly fitting into this new world, this hexed Westview.

„I just don’t understand why“, you‘d eventually confess, and the witch - Agatha was her name - had shrugged.

„We’re going to find out.“ she’d leaned closer to you, hands clasping together underneath her chin as she smirked at you, „The same way we’re going to figure you out.“

Because if all of Westview had been hexed, you should have been too. But you weren’t. And, as you found out after Agatha had assigned you a room in her home she placed a twin sized bed in it with the flick of her wrist (you almost fell over in surprise). You learned from her that she couldn’t read your mind either.

And while you were too busy pouting over the fact she’d tired in the first place, she’d just shrugged it off. Because that lead to one conclusion. You seemed to have some kind of resistance, an immunity to any witchcraft. A shield around your mind, like a camouflaged helmet.

That night, before you’d curled into the new bed, you had made her a promise. Her protection and guidance in this hexed town, in return for your loyalty in her plan.

„What plan?“, you’d asked before retreating to your room, and the bewildered glow in her eyes had sent a shiver down your spine.

„We‘re going to get the Scarlet Witch, and we are going to take this power away from her.“

“Take your clothes off“, Agatha said now, back in her bedroom again, starting to rustle through the racks. The sound pulled you out of your memories, and you immediately felt the heat rising to your head.

„This is a 50s sitcom.“, Agatha explained, „You’re not meeting our lead actress in a graphic tee and jeans.“

When you still made no attempts to strip, she turned around with an exasperated sigh, palm pressing against her forehead. There was a pale dress draped over her arm, the fabric swinging as she raised her hands in a dramatic gesture, pointing at you.

„My Goodness, are you Mormon? Go change in the bathroom if you need to, there’s a robe hanging at the door.“

Finally, you made your way over to the bathroom she gestured towards, only stopping when she called out your name again.

„Honey, turn back around.“

You Stopped and did exactly as she said, turning around with one hand on the door already. A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth at your compliance, and you felt your stomach twist at the sight.

The witch gave you a long, studious look. Like your face was a canvas she had yet to decide what to paint on. A project she was still mapping out. You shifted from one foot to the other, glancing anywhere but right at her piercing eyes.

„Take everything off. Including piercings“, one more glance at your ears, „Especially piercings.“

„All of them?“, the potential implications of your question only dawned on you when the words had already left your mouth, and you immediately wanted to sink into the ground, „I mean … I don’t-“

„Oh my!“, Agatha let out a low giggle, the amusement on her face undeniable as her eyes slowly wandered down your front, over your chest and lower, to the zipper of your jeans. You felt like your skin was going to burn right off under her gaze. Own eyes fixated on your toes, you didn‘t dare to look up even as the tips of her pumps stepped into view.

„That entirely depends on how much you decide to reveal“, she chuckled. Two fingers hooked underneath your chin, nails digging into your skin just slightly. Her grip was steady but not painful, forcing you to meet her eyes. One of her brows raised up in an almost cocky smirk, observing you like a lioness observed her unassuming prey. Watchful, but aware of her upper hand over the situation. Your breathing stopped, eyes wide, brain unable to form a single sentence. God, you wanted to sink into the ground in embarrassment.

The grin on Agatha‘s face was smug, entirely pleased with your reactions to her.

„Just remember this is a first meeting between two neighbours in the fifties. Maybe let her take you to dinner first.“

Before your brain could muster up an answer, she‘d already let go of you, turning back towards the closet. „Go change“, she called over her shoulder, waving you off, „Take a shower if you need to.“ You decided to ignore the obvious jab and do exactly that.

It turned out that playing dress up for this distorted reality was quite fun. After showering, Agatha had twirled your hair into little curls, letting it dry like that as she led you through each piece of your new attire displayed neatly on the big canopy bed.

With each piece of clothing you‘d slowly feel yourself emerge deeper into the world, feeling less out of place. Agatha had curled and then pinned your hair up, and you had slipped in various undergarments, stockings, and a metal wired bra with cone-like cups that weren’t fitted to your actual chest at all.

„I don’t hate this! I look like Madonna“, you commented, giving the full undergarments a onceover in the mirror.

„Ouch!“

Your hand came up to hold the ear Agatha had flicked with her finger, turning around to stare at her in accusation, „What was that for?“

„Madonna isn’t even a concept yet“, she reminded you, shaking her head at your dramatic reaction to what really had not been that painful at all, „Drop the modern references, you can’t let her know you’re not under the hex!“

You pushed your bottom lip forward into a little pout, remembering the notes she’d made you take on etiquette, culture and speak of the era you were trapped in. “I won’t slip up!“, you promised, „I was just … pointing that out. I‘m lifting up the team spirit!“

„Thank you for the amazing contribution“, Agatha dead panned with a little roll of her eyes, before nodding towards the little chair by the vanity again. She held a small case of some pressed powder in one hand and a big, fluffy brush in the other. „Now sit down, you can lift your spirits later. We’re not even close to being done.“

The checkered dress Agatha had picked out for you was beautiful. Bright shades formed the pattern on the cotton fabric that had you wonder what its actual colors were. The shades of grey that the world had been tinted in since the Hex were brighter than what Agatha was wearing. A part of you wanted to know if she’d dressed you in contrary or complimentary shades. The same part that wanted to see the colors she dressed herself in at all, that wondered if her eyes were blue or green. But, there was no way to know that now, not until the two of you managed to break this hex. So it was time to focus on that.

You had on multiple layers of underskirts, the cone bra, and a corset that was pulling you together from your ribs all the way below your hipbone, and the dress itself came with a little fabric belt held right at the nip of your waist, a few buttons at the front as decoration.

You felt yourself inhale sharply when you felt Agatha‘s delicate fingers tie it together in the back, giving both ends of the belt a little tug. You stumbled backwards, just a single step, but it was enough to suddenly feel her warmth against your back, body brushing against yours. You jumped at the sudden contact, eyes wide as they found hers in the mirror, slowly wandering down your body.

„Relax Darling“, she smiled, one hand adjusting the little bow she’d tied at your back, the other coming up to brush some of the curls she’d so intricately pinned into place back over your shoulder.

She exposed your neck and shoulder, all the way to your collarbones, where she had placed a single necklace with a pale gemstone.

You swore you could see the tip of her tongue dart out, licking her lips mere inches from the shell of your ear.

If you were braver, you’d roll your head to the side, expose more of the silky skin of your neck to her, offer yourself up right then and there. Maybe even beg her to taste your skin just once. Just for the slight chance she might actually do it.

But you weren’t brave like that, you were not even brave enough to meet her eyes right now, despite having no problems staring at the dazzling woman when she didn’t notice. So all you did was swallow hard, eyes fixed on the hands in your lap, covered by a little pair of white gloves.

You didn’t see the way Agatha’s eyes watched your throat move, didn’t notice how her hands ran through your fluffy curls just a little longer than necessary, before pulling away to stand upright behind you, hands coming to rest on your shoulders, giving them a little squeeze.

“We’re done”, she announced, a satisfied little smirk on her stained red lips, admiring the work she’d done on you.

And certainly, you were completely transformed, looked like an entirely different person. The dress fit you surprisingly snug, you wondered if that also was part of her magic, your hair styled almost the exact same way as hers, both of your lips painted dark, both of your cheeks covered in blush. With her hands on your shoulders like that, you almost looked like a vintage photograph, the kind you kept on your bedside table. It made your insides feel like they were boiling.

In the small hall by the front door, your feet slid into little black pumps, polished to shine enough that the light reflected off the matte fabric. You stood back up, rolling your shoulders before taking the plate of freshly baked apple pie from the counter beside you. A small, unassuming gesture. Just a neighbor introducing themselves with a homemade pie. The perfect beginning to any storyline.

Agatha watched you from the door, nodding in approval when you gave a little spin to show off your final look.

“And remember“, she said, matter of factly, „you are just stopping by in town for a little while, staying with Agnes, your … mother in law.”

“Really?” You had to hold back a laugh, giving her a curious look, “that’s the story you made up for us?”

“It’s the fifties, remember”, Agatha replied. Her hand found the small of your back, fingers hooking underneath your belt, pulling you back until you were pressed against her. She was so close, you could feel the words she murmured into your ear, voice low and raspy, “We can always rewrite the plot later.”

You almost dropped the pie right then and there.

Just like that, she had already stepped away from you, letting out a little giggle that sounded a lot more like Agnes again. Her hands found yours, clasping over them, stabilising your grip on the porcelain plate again.

„So I am … married“, the words felt strange on your lips, and you had to hold back a nervous laughter. If this was supposed to work, you’d have to work on your acting skills.

Thankfully, Agatha came to help you out immediately. „To mine and Ralphs Beautiful boy … Bartholomew.“

Now you had to laugh, shaking your head at her. How she was able to just say things like that with a straight face was beyond you. You‘d better catch up to her soon.

„Yes of course“, repeating the story to her, you pushed your tongue into your left cheek.

„My husband Bartholomew, who works in the city.“ Your eyes found hers, and you bit the inside of your cheek. Goodness, even in this black and white reality, you could see the brightness of her eyes. You were longing to see them in color, wanting to know what they looked like when they caught the sun. Focus!

“And your husband Ralph, who is the guy you keep chained up in the basement.“ The look you gave her at that was a mix of concern, uncertainty and a little bit of accusation. The fact that she’d basically just taken over some poor guys house and banished him into the magical dungeon she’d summoned was a bridge you hadn’t yet crossed.

Agatha nodded along as you spoke, a wicked little grin on her lips. „We feed him twice a day, don‘t we? He will be useful later. Until then, he’s gonna be just fine down there.“

Her hands wandered from your hands up to your wrists, clasping around them. You weren’t sure if it was an act of encouragement, or a subtle warning. And you certainly weren’t going to ask. Your skin was already prickling with goosebumps from the touch alone.

Agatha‘s voice was low, the air around her vibrating with power.

„He hasn’t complained since I gave him his Xbox, and they haven’t even invented that out here. It’s best to keep him where he is for now.“ She inched closer, grip on your wrists tightening, effectively pinning you in place. Your breathing stopped.

Her voice had dropped to merely a whisper now, and you swore you could see a single flash of purple in her eyes. The only color you’d seen since all of this had started.

“Ralph is none of your concern, we need him alive and well for later.“, she was so close, you could feel the husk of her words on your face.

“Your job is to be a good little pet and do as I say. Your loyalty for my protection. Understood?“

After swallowing hard, you gave a small but firm nod. „Understood.“

After a few more seconds, she dropped her hands. The mask of Agnes slipped on and off so smoothly, it caught you off guard every time.

„Go now darling, or you’ll be late!” she smiled, and gave you a gentle push towards the front door, opening and holding it for you. As you brushed past her, she gave you a dazzling smile, hand up in a small but enthusiastic wave. Like she was sending you off on your first day of school, not a magical spy mission in a fake reality. Your life truly took a wild turn in the past 48 hours.

“Make Mommy proud!” Agatha chirped, standing by the door, and she was lucky you were already down the stairs. Otherwise you might have tripped and fallen and the whole operation would have ended right there. Your knees felt like jelly, but you straightened your back and rolled your shoulders. It was time to deliver. Most of all, it was time to focus on your mission, and not the way your stomach had just performed a backflip at her words.

As you made your way down the sidewalk, still a little uncomfortable in the pumps Agatha had picked out for you, you held onto the porcelain plate with white knuckles. It truly was a miracle you didn’t break it on the short walk to Wanda’s house.

„Alright“, you murmured to yourself, rolling your shoulders before pressing the doorbell. There was no going back now. „Here goes nothing.“

…

It turned out that you were quite the natural at this whole undercover thing. Wanda certainly made it easy, eager to talk to you, even more eager to try the pie you’d made, eyes rolling back in pleasure at the taste of cinnamon on her tongue.

She was beautiful, so to the point where you almost felt a little intimidated. You didn’t know what you had expected, but it wasn’t a girl this sweet, a few years older than you, her smile was warm and her voice genuine when she thanked you for the pie. You’d just shrugged and told her you appreciated the opportunity to leave the house for a while. At least it would be easier to click with her like this.

The ice broke for sure the moment you offered to help set the table, Wanda clapping her hands together in Delight. The two of you ended up on her couch, legs propped up like school girls on a movie night, plates of pie in hand as she‘d rambled to you about Vision. The girl was whipped.

How much she loved him, how excited they were to move to Westview, how much he already seemed to exceed at his new job. You‘d mostly nodded along, trying to memorise every little detail to repeat back to Agatha later.

It was weird, if it wasn’t for Agatha telling you the truth about the hex, you never would have assumed Wanda to be the one behind it. She seemed so … carefree. And unassuming. But then, eventually she did slip up.

„Enough about us!“, she laughed, „I‘ve been talking your ear off about my husband for over an hour, you must be so bored!“

You shook your head as you finished the last bit of pie and Wanda took your plate to place it on the coffee table. You gave her a grateful little smile.

„It’s fine really“, you replied, hoping people in the 50s would say it like that.

If they didn’t, Wanda seemed to not notice. „Tell me about Bartholomew“, she said instead, „Agnes never mentioned having a son!“

You swallowed, gears in your head turning as you came up with something on the spot.

„Well he lives in the City“, you said, „I mean, we do together. He writes for a tabloid, so he’s always busy. So is Ralph, that‘s why I‘m staying here for a while. He was worried that I was lonely. That Ag- Agnes is too.“

Wanda smiled at that, head tilted slightly to the side. „How very kind of him! He must love you very much.“

You almost choked on nothing at that, quickly busying yourself with a hand in your hair, brushing a lost strand behind your ear. „Well, I mean … I would hope so.“

Wanda eyed you with curiosity, shuffling just the slightest bit closer on the couch. „What is he like?“, she asked just a little quieter than before. Like she wanted to know the real deal now.

„Very different from his mom“, you offered, and feared it sounded more like a question than a statement. However, you took the way Wanda‘s lips curled into a distant smile as a good sign. She was buying every little piece of bullshit you had to barter. Good.

„He uh … It’s a little embarrassing but he started to bald very badly“, you had no idea where and why this had come to you in this moment, but the way Wanda leaned back and put her hands on her hips made you more confident in your story. Any reaction was a good one. If you shared, maybe Wanda would too… After all, all of this was to amuse her, to please the Scarlet Witch.

“We tried every treatment but he keeps losing more hair. He told me not to tell Agnes yet!“

Wanda gave you an almost patronising look. „Well, I would tell him that he doesn’t have to worry about that at all, and that the amount of hair on his head or what his mother thinks doesn’t change the way you feel about him! Vision has no hair at all and I still love him the same!“

There it was!

A slip up in the story. A mistake in production, almost too small for a regular viewer to notice. But you weren’t a regular viewer, you were a spy on a mission looking for cracks in the story.

„But Wanda“, you tilted your head to the side, looking at her with furrowed brows, the perfect face of innocent confusion. „Doesn’t Vision have hair? I saw him leave for work this morning, he drives past the kitchen window every day!“

Wanda‘s big, round doe eyes widened, fumbling to find something to say. You almost felt bad. Almost.

„Well, I mean …“ her gaze left you, darted from the empty plates on the coffee table to the pictures on the wall, which also featured her with a tall man, thin but definitely prominent hair on his head, even a little stubble on his upper lip.

„He’s been balding too.“ she finally said, lamely.

„Hah!“, Agatha shook her head at that, one hand on her hip as she laughed, „Balding my ass! That man is all steel and wires, the human form is merely an illusion!“

She was standing behind you as you sat at her vanity again, in the low light of the nightstand lamps, watching Agatha as she pinned your hair into little rosettes overnight. At the extent of your daily beauty routine, a part of you wished you did have magic like she had, so you could just wake up and wish for perfectly curled hair.

Then again, sitting here, wrapped in your nightgown and the robe she‘d given you as her fingers delicately ran through your hair, precise and yet gentle certainly was a way to spend your night. You couldn’t help but lean into the touch a little more, resisting the urge to wistfully sigh.

Trying your best to recount what you‘d found out earlier today proved a little harder though when she was all over you like this, barely covered by her own nightgown, one sleeve slipped off her shoulder,every little tug and pull on your hair sending a new shiver down your spine.

„So … that was helpful?“, you asked when she’d gone quiet after your story.

„It‘s strong evidence that she didn’t just create an illusion for the guy, but actually reanimated his corpse. If you can call it that. Is it necromancy if the body used is made of panels and electric wire?“

The way she said it, it wasn’t a real question. Her fingers busy pinning the last strand of your hair into place, before carefully wrapping a silk scarf around all her hard work, tying it together at the top of your head much like the one she was already wearing.

„I don’t know“, you answered anyway, flinching when suddenly, you felt her warm palms on your bare shoulders, soft skin resting against yours.

Her eyes found yours in the mirror, and her expression was unreadable to you. „Tell me what happened after she slipped.“

„Not much“, you said, „she … she stared at me really intensely for a moment, but then nothing happened, so I just offered to bring the dirty dishes to the kitchen. She thanked me again and then I left, but she did hug me on the way out. I don’t think she assumes anything about me.“

If the fact Wanda had gotten this comfortable this fast with you bothered Agatha, she didn’t let it show. Her hands on your shoulders began to move a little, eyes still holding your gaze in the reflection as her palms began to rub over your skin, back and forth and back and forth. You felt the hair on your neck rise.

„I …“, you sucked in a sharp breath, her hands wandering upwards, brushing over your neck for just a moment before going back to your shoulders. You felt yourself lean back into her tough almost naturally, like you were guided by some higher power. Like it was second nature, you tilted your head up a little, neck craning. Your legs were shaking underneath the layers of silky fabric you were wearing. You wanted nothing more than her hands back on your neck.

„Agatha“, the sound came out a lot higher, a lot weaker than you‘d intended, and your cheeks turned red in embarrassment.

The woman behind you just smirked, the way your body was reacting to her touch was not lost on her. She leaned over you, ever so slightly closer now. One of her hands stilled on your shoulder, fingertips grazing over the outline of your collarbone. Her other hand wandered back up towards your neck, thumb pressing into the back, stroking over the small baby hairs that flew free there, fingers loosely resting over your throat. She could feel your racing pulse there, feel every breath enter and release from your lungs. And she definitely felt the way you swallowed hard, felt the vibration of the little moan daring to slip out of your mouth.

She leaned down further, until her lips were less than an inch from your ear. „What‘s wrong darling? Cat got your tongue?“

“No“, you mewled, and the feeling of your throat moving against her grip was so delectable, you had to squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, fearing that one look from her might make you explode, „Yes.“

Need was burning under your skin, need for her to press down harder, need for her other hand to wander down lower. You were never more grateful for your new found powers than right now, knowing there was no way she could see the sinful images your mind was producing.

„Are you nervous?“, her tone was teasing, and when you did open your eyes again, she was smirking against the shell of your ear, brow cocked in a smug expression.

„There is no reason for you to be nervous. Not after you did so, so well for me.“ She put a little more emphasis on words than the last. Your hands wrapped tightly around the arm rests of your chair. God, you needed her to have her way with you so badly.

And judging by the look on her face, the curl of her lips, she knew that too.

The grip on your throat tightened, just a little. Her other hand tugged on the loose hair at the back of your neck, forcing you to look up at yourself in the mirror.

She was standing above you, halfway curled into you, holding you in her firm grip. Your cheeks were a bright red, a color quickly spreading across your entire face, creeping down your neck. There was a thin layer of sweat on your brow, and your eyes, goodness, your eyes were wide, fluttered half shut in a flushed gaze, pupils dark.

„You did so good for me today“, Agatha leaned in even closer, her breath ghosting over your cheek. The scent of rosewater and lavender invaded your senses, and if you had been in a position to, you would’ve loved to lean in closer, let the floral scent completely consume you. But you didn’t dare to move. Not with her hands on you like this, not when she was leaning closer, even closer never breaking eye contact in your reflections, dimply illuminated by flickering light bulbs.

And then, you could feel her. Her soft, plump lips pressed against your cheek, just above the corner of your mouth. It was short, feather light and before you knew it she had already pulled away. You instinctively tried to chase after her, but the grip on your throat kept you in place, holding your head exactly where it was as she leaned away, straightening her back. You immediately missed her presence right behind you, feeling cold all of a sudden. Her hand left your throat, giving your cheek one little pet on its way before she fully retreated from you, stepping away, arms crossed. Like she didn’t just almost kiss you, like your whole body wasn’t practically begging for her to come back. You weren’t above actually begging either.

„How about this“, Agatha spoke, matter of factly, „Tomorrow I handle Wanda, and you keep the house in tact. You remember your tasks?“

„Feed Ralph and the bunny“, you recounted, voice hoarse, „Keep everything tidy. Never touch the Dark Hold. Tend to the greenhouse out back, cook dinner. Don’t drive, we’re not allowed to drive without a man in the car. Save a plate for Ralph again, keep an eye out for Wanda‘s house.“

„Very good“, Agatha hummed, turning away from you to eye the bookshelf beside the vanity, fingers curling as she looked for something. You tried to pry your eyes away, but failed horribly.

„Let’s add something new to that list. I‘m gonna give you a list of reading assignments. Some history, some spellbooks, some metaphysics.“ She glanced over her shoulders at you, giving you a wink. „Time to find out more about those curious little powers of yours, don’t you think?“

You nodded, staring back at yourself in the mirror one more time. Whatever your life had come to these past days, no one was ever going to believe that story. But, at least in this story your co-star was Agatha Harkness, and you had a feeling you’d just passed your audition with flying colours.

[djarins-cyare]

WIP Weekend

I haven’t done a WIP post since December because I’ve been suffering through the dreaded writer’s block 😓, but thank you to everyone who has tagged me in WIP games since then. I do keep track, so big hugs to these gracious people for not forgetting I exist while I’ve been stagnating in writer’s hell 💚:

@the-mandawhor1an @myownwholewildworld @burntheedges @ace-turned-confused @quinnnfabrgay-writes

@evolnoomym @djarinmuse @almostfoxglove @bergamote-catsandbooks @sawymredfox

I’ve been really struggling with the concluding chapter of my (now over six months late!) secret relationship fic for last summer’s Roll-A-Trope Writing Challenge, and I couldn’t figure out why. It’s a massive smutfest, and yeah, smut usually takes me longer to write, but I’ve never had this much trouble before.

After stepping away for a while, when I came back to it, I realised I was trying to make my characters do things that were out of character. It wasn’t working because it didn’t make sense in the context of the 70k words that had come before!

So I decided to write that into the smut, and today I’m giving you a peek at the moment the characters realise they aren’t entirely on the same page…

Please check out my previous WIP posts for additional snippets from earlier in the fic, here, here, here and here.

He groans his approval, shifting his hips until his blunt tip notches at your entrance. And just like during your last encounter in this room, he throttles time to a near standstill, pushing into you at a sublimely slow pace. Each second drips by like molten metal, searing and stretching in burning bliss as he fills you deeper and deeper until he can go no further and you can take no more. Yet still he pushes – as if he wants to root himself inside you – and his tongue finds its way back into your mouth, locking you together at both ends. You whine against him, crushed by a weight in your chest that has nothing to do with the heavy man atop you. It’s a hunger, a need, a desperation. You’re teetering on the cusp of fulfilment – it’s close enough to taste but not enough to sate. Yet you can’t move with his heavy pelvis immobilising your hips and a mouthful of his tongue preventing you from encouraging the friction you crave. A growl of urgency rumbles in your throat, and you drag your nails down his naked back, landing a goading slap on his ass. It has the desired result, and he eases off the kiss, nipping your lip in retribution but continuing to pin your hips in place. “Fuck me.” It tumbles out like a challenge, so you appeal to his dominance by making it a request. “Gedet’ye!” You feel him bury his face in your neck, where he releases a heavy breath before picking back up and quietly confessing the reason for delaying your pleasure. “Do you have any idea how fucking magnificent it feels to be inside you again? I will fuck you, senaar’ika, I’ll give you everything you want… but let me savour this first. Gedet’ye.”

gedet'ye = please

Sorry it’s a little shorter than usual. This being a final chapter snippet already makes it a smidge spoilery, so it’s all I can offer.

I can assure you, though, that the final smutfest will be... let’s say, ‘multifaceted’, so Din slowing things down here is not indicative of the ongoing mood. 😈

As usual, if you’d like me to tag you when I (finally) release the chapters, please raise your hand or communicate your wish however you see fit. You can also join my tag list if you like.

(Including this GIF simply because I’m obsessed with the “attentively receiving instructions before ravishing you” vibe + extremely biteable neck combo 🧛🏼‍♀️, which I find very Din-esque)

Sending no pressure WIP whatevs/whenevs tags to the following wonderful writers 💚:

@604to647 @ak-vintage @almostempty @beefrobeefcal @bluestar22x

@captainredspade @cas-readsandwrites @drewharrisonwriter @guiltyasdave @handspunyarns

@hauntedhowlett-writes @hellishjoel @iamsherlocked-1998 @itsjuststardust @jennaispunk

@joelalorian @kedsandtubesocks @lotusbxtch @mandaloriankait @mermaidgirl30

@mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @mushgloomz @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @novemberrain-writes @peepawispunk

@penvisions @probablyreadinsmut @prolix-yuy @schnarfer @secretelephanttattoo

@sin-djarin @stellamarielu @the-blind-assassin-12 @thischarmingmandalorian @tightjeansjavi

@two-birds-alone-together @whocaresstillthelouvre @whxtedreams @xdaddysprincessxx @yopossum

[manufactured-pleasantry]

Those of you reading my fic 'Hundred Day Curse' on AO3 may enjoy this snippet. It's a scene with Alfred and Bruce, set in the future of the fic that may or may not make it into future chapters. IDK yet. I like it, but it might not fit with how I eventually write the rest of the fic. Even so, it's a spoiler for them meeting again, so click read more at your own risk! (It's 1700~ words btw)

Bruce stared at Alfred as discretely as he could. He wasn’t entirely sure Alfred hadn’t noticed - he was Alfred, after all - but the man continued on as if he hadn’t so Bruce kept watching. Alfred was brewing tea in the suit he’d always worn; dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, and white gloves. His butler suit.

'Love me.'

Bruce hadn’t signed any employment documents recently so he was confident that he hadn’t rehired Alfred as the Wayne butler. Even if his parents hired Alfred for a lifetime, Bruce was rather certain that became null after Alfred had formally retired. Lifetime employments don’t tend to resume after retirement. Alfred couldn’t just rehire himself, could he? Why would he do that? Maybe Alfred was under the impression that the only capacity he could be in Wayne Manor was if he were a butler.

'Love me. Love me.'

That was silly. The kids invited Alfred over (because they couldn’t trust Bruce to take care of himself and Alfred was being shackled with him again after he finally escaped—) and Wayne manor was as much the kids’ as it was his. (Even though they didn’t really want it.) Surely Alfred knew that the kids saw him as something like a grandfather—he didn’t need to be a butler to stay here.

'Love me. Love me. Love me.'

Alfred placed a cup of tea in front of Bruce. It was doctored exactly how Bruce like it - the current Bruce, not the old man that actually enjoyed bitter things, because somehow they were still sweeter than his decrepit soul. With milk and an overabundance of sugar. An insult to proper tea but the only way Bruce was able to stomach it back when he was a child.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce murmured. Because he wasn’t in a speaking mood but manners were a must.

“Your thanks is appreciated but unnecessary, Master Bruce,” Alfred responded.

Master Bruce. He drank some more tea. For surely the milky beverage would drown this ugly emotion in his chest. It was better than Mister Wayne, he told himself.

'Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me.'

Alfred had not made himself his own cup of tea. He busied himself with making lunch instead. Cute little tea sandwiches, including the cucumber sandwiches that he knew Dick hated but Bruce secretly liked. Usually Alfred would have the sandwiches prepared before he served tea but Bruce wasn’t going to complain. He liked watching Alfred cook. Alfred’s movements were always so fluid, so sure, never pausing as he moved from one step to another.

'Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me.'

Bruce would enjoy this more if he hadn’t been basically ordered to remain by Alfred’s side while his kids busied themselves with work. Ordered, like a misbehaving child in desperate need of supervision. Bruce hadn’t been misbehaving. He’d been good. He broke zero rules and took care to ensure he didn’t break the not-really rules either. Bruce didn’t need Alfred to be his nanny again.

'Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me.'

“Sandwich, Master Bruce?” Alfred offered.

Bruce nodded and Alfred plated five different tea sandwiches on his plate. He didn’t thank him again because apparently his thanks was unwanted. The sandwich was good and exactly how he remembered them tasting.

“Alfred?” he inquired, after he finished his lunch. “Why are you here?”

“Why am I here in the kitchen or why am I here in the manor?”

“The latter.”

“The children informed me of what happened and I thought it best if I were here to help,” Alfred answered.

'Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me.'

“You’re retired,” Bruce stated.

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“You’re no longer a butler.”

“One does tend to disidentify with their job title once they’re retired, yes.”

“Why are you here?”

“I believe I’ve already answered that, Master Bruce.”

'Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me.'

“You’re being obtuse,” Bruce growled before freezing. He had no right to growl at Alfred like that. No right to lose his cool. No right to be so rude.

Alfred sighed and Bruce braced himself to be dragged into Time Out. He knew Alfred didn’t do Time Out but prepared himself anyway.

“I was informed that my ward had reverted to that of a child’s physique. It is only natural that I have returned.”

Ward? “I have not been your ward for decades.”

“You’ve been in my charge since you were born, Master Bruce.”

'LOVE ME!'

“Uncle Philip is my legal guardian.”

Alfred’s fluid movements stuttered for a moment before resuming. “I seem to recall that he entrusted you back into my care after a scant two years.”

“You were my employee.”

“... Indeed.” Alfred opened a drawer and retrieved the silverware. He began to polish them.

“Alfred, why are you here?”

“What answer are you seeking, Master Bruce?”

He fell silent and watched Alfred polish the silver. Alfred would never give him the answer he desired.

'Why won’t you love me?'

“I want the truth.”

“I’ve told you the truth.”

“Then why are you dressed like a butler?”

“I’m comfortable dressed like this.”

“So you’ve not rehired yourself?”

Alfred’s mouth twitched. “No, I have not. I’m still retired, Master Bruce.”

“Then why are you here?”

Alfred sighed. “I’m starting to suspect that you do not want me here.”

'Will you ever love me?'

“I just want to know why. You left.”

“So did you. For four years, with only a brief visit in between.”

Bruce clenched his fists. “No, you went home.”

“I retired, Master Bruce. I did not go home.”

“Why are you here?”

'How do I earn your love?'

Alfred put the silverware down and made eye contact with Bruce. “My retirement was dreadful. I had not desired it, certainly not in the way I spent it. I had rather been here instead of retiring.”

“Then why retire?”

“Because, Master Bruce, I’ve noticed over the years that whenever I went on vacation, you were more careful on patrol. You got hurt less. You ate consistently. You slept more. I figured I was enabling you by virtue of being here and assisting you in everything you desired. I lacked the willpower to simply refuse you and so I remove the temptation and I retired. I wanted to return many times but feared that I would go back to enabling you. However, considering you’ve managed to embroil yourself in greater troubles than previously thought possible, I figured my retirement made no difference and saw no need to torment myself any further.”

“... You retired for me?”

Alfred huffed. “I retired out of misplaced judgement. I was simply being a fool, deluding myself. Trust me, I shan't be doing that again any time soon.”

Tell me.

“Am I correct in assuming you wish to come out of retirement?”

“No, Master Bruce.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Tell me what you do understand and I shall endeavour to explain what you don’t.”

“You retired for my own good but you’re back because it wasn’t working and you didn’t like retirement but you’re still retired.”

“I didn’t like retirement because it kept me away from Gotham. I’m perfectly content with being retired in Gotham.”

“But you’re performing butler duties.”

“I’m not.”

“You made me tea and sandwiches.”

“Yes.”

“I do not understand.”

Alfred sighed again and placed the silverware and cloth down. “Forgive me.”

Bruce frowned.

“You’re right. I’m being obtuse. Perhaps I’ve been obtuse all along. I thought you understood our silence, Master Bruce. I thought I understood your silence. Now I realise I’ve been wrong all along. I’m sorry.”

“... I don’t understand.”

“In truth, I haven’t been here in the manor in a butler’s capacity ever since your parents passed that fateful night. Though I performed my duties, that was more from habit and personal enjoyment than anything. I suppose I was also afraid of change when so much already had. I had convinced myself that you needed the familiarity, when the reality was that I that relied on it.”

When Bruce didn’t respond, Alfred continued.

“It was foolish of me and that has cost you and I too much. You especially. Decades of silence, unspoken thoughts left to fester uncontrollably, it has done us no good. Well, my retirement has given me much to think about and this conversation has given the final push I needed. You asked me why I have prepared you tea and sandwiches; I did so because I wanted to, because it is how I show my care, because you are my child and you hadn’t eaten yet.”

To hear it spoken so plainly made it seem so simple. It hurt that his insecurities could have been so easily settled if only he had the courage to ask. If only Alfred had the wherewithal to breach the topic. If only.

“Ask me again why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?” Bruce asked, chin wobbling with suppressed emotion.

“I am here because I am your guardian, your friend, whatever it is that I mean to you. I am here because I want to be.”

“... Because you care for me…”

“Because I love you,” Alfred corrected.

'You love me.'

“You love me,” Bruce repeated, voice thin with tears.

“I do. I always have.” Alfred dabbed away at Bruce’s face with a handkerchief.

“I have more memories of you than I do of my father, even when he was alive.”

“The late Dr Wayne was a busy man,” Alfred admitted. It was the closest Alfred would ever get to criticising his former employer.

“Mama said my first words were an attempt to say your name.”

“A fact I treasure to this day.”

“You’re the one to turn towards when I need help.”

“I’m grateful that you let me.”

“I want you to call me Bruce. Not Master Bruce.”

“Bruce.”

The call was unfamiliar in Alfred’s clipped tones but oh so beautiful. It was what he’d wanted for over thirty years. This simple address. Bruce devolved into a mess of tears and clutched onto Alfred’s lapels. Alfred responded by pulling Bruce to his chest and embracing him tightly.

“I think of you as a father,” Bruce confessed through his sobbing.

“I think of you as a son.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you.”

It was all so simple, really.

[k-s-morgan]

Those Gentle Slopes That Lead to Hell: Snippet 2

Here we go! For those who haven't seen it, here's snippet 1.

--------

Ciel was struggling to put a name to the emotions circulating through him now that he could see Bard stuck in a bed. Despite the heavy covers, he was still shivering badly. His skin was bluish, resembling something that belonged on a corpse, not a living human, and deep, vicious gnashes were embedded deeply in his neck.

Even if Bard recovered, these ones would scar. They would always serve as a reminder of what was done to him.

“I never ordered you to do this,” Ciel said evenly. Sebastian shifted, his lips twitching in an almost petulant expression.

“I believed it was implied.”

Such a light-hearted, simplistic response stood in wild contrast to what was appropriate at the moment. Uncertainty continued to gnaw on his bones, and Ciel tried to mask it, sending Sebastian a long, cold stare.

“What makes you think you can rely on your faulty interpretations of my orders to act?” he asked. “Who gave you the right to maim one of my most loyal servants without getting my explicit approval first?”

Sebastian seemed to have finally understood that he, himself, was standing on increasingly thin ice right now. That despite his incessant attempts to close the obvious gap between them through some shared activities, he failed — again. Amusement died, with agitation coming to replace it.   

“I thought you standing there and watching qualified as your explicit approval,” he replied, just as coldly. Ciel couldn’t help but flinch, stung.

Sebastian… wasn’t wrong. Ciel was there; he stood by without a word. He watched. He liked it — some parts of it, the power that came with it. But…

Bard flailed his arms suddenly, gasping and trying to suck in some air. It was like he was underwater again, desperate for a single breath, only this time, his eyes remained closed. His panic, though, his mindless, animalistic terror — it was the same, and nausea twisted Ciel’s insides into a tight, rotten knot of regret.

“It’s Bard,” he murmured hoarsely, wrapping his arms around himself. Strange. He wasn’t even cold, Sebastian made sure of it. “He’s one of us. One of ours. It’s not right to— we shouldn’t have done it. It’s too much.”

Sebastian let out a laugh. Somehow, even after everything that happened today, it still struck Ciel as far too callous — he glared, and the laughter was instantly cut off.

Sebastian’s face went blank: his eyes were the only part of him that remained alive, and they flared with rage so profound that Ciel’s breath caught in his throat.

“He harmed you with my hands,” Sebastian hissed. “He gave me something that could have killed you and watched me hit you to force you to drink it. The fact that he is ours is the only reason why he is still alive at all.”

Delight skittered across his chest, leaving a trail of perverted heat that made him shiver. Ciel licked his lips, unsure what to say, unsure what to feel.

It’d been a while since he’d last felt so out of place. The whole night was one of the strangest and most uncomfortable experiences he’d ever had — and few things could unsettle him these days.

“Bard didn’t know,” Ciel found himself saying. “He didn’t think an allergy could have such serious effects. If I had died, it would have been an accident.”

The moment the words were out, a wave of self-disgust crashed into him, trying to drown him in shame and censure.

These words weren’t in Bard’s defence. Not at all. They were an attempt to poke at Sebastian yet again, to see how he would react, to give more fuel to his anger — as if everything that happened wasn’t enough. Was there no limit to his greed?

Well… in all the things that still had the power to shame him, morality wasn’t included.    

Sebastian growled, and Ciel’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he drank the sound in.

“If you had died from an accident he caused,” Sebastian said poisonously, “it would have taken Bard decades of torture to finally be released from this life. If you had died from an accident he made me cause…” Sebastian shuddered, his eyes flashing pure, violent red, and more caustic pleasure spilled through Ciel’s veins.

Yes. That was the reaction he’d been looking for. 

[patientreflections]

The results are in....

and it's an interesting case study to say the least. I’m not someone who usually comments on celebrity rollouts, but the way this particular one played out caught my attention more so than usual. Not because of the relationship itself, but because of how it was presented—and how quickly it became clear that it didn’t land as I assume was intended. I found myself this week asking, "what was the point?" To clarify, I do think Luke and Antonia are genuinely together. If this were a PR relationship, it’s not a particularly strategic one. By all accounts PR relationships are grounded in both parties seeing a mutual benefit to the alliance. This rollout however hasn’t been smooth, the timing is strange, and the whole thing feels awkwardly executed. The problem here isn’t whether it’s real. The problem is that it doesn’t work—at least not in the eyes of the public. What stood out first was the rollout’s uneven pacing. It began with solo red carpet photos at the British Vogue x Netflix party—no official couple shot, just quiet proximity. Then, the next day, came more affectionate footage and behind-the-scenes images. Luke’s own grid post included a cheeky couple photo, but buried behind a solo cover shot. At the BAFTAs, a joint photo was taken at the entrance but not on the official step and repeat. The early signals felt cautious, almost noncommittal. Then suddenly, the switch flipped: a full-scale post-BAFTAs press push—major entertainment headlines, a stylized couple photoshoot, digital articles, the works. It went from soft launch to shouting in 24 hours, all seemingly to benefit Antonia. And then…poof, nothing. No follow-up. No echo. Just a sharp drop-off that made the silence louder than the reveal itself. Usually, after a media blast like that, you'd expect at least 48-72 hours of natural pickup— fashion commentary, snippets in entertainment news, curious discourse online.  But a quick trends search shows the coverage hit a wall and then a steep decline. No legs, no staying power. That kind of silence tells you everything. The audience just didn’t care enough to keep the story alive.

It doesn’t help that there’s no clear narrative around them. No shared project, no compelling reason for the timing, no personal reveal or milestone that gives this rollout structure. And critically, there was no existing foundation of goodwill to support it. A quick yet enlightening 10 minute google search showed me that Antonia came into this with complicated baggage among parts of the Bridgerton fanbase. Luke, meanwhile, has been publicly adrift for a while—present but not exactly engaging. In the midst of a rebrand of his image, which from what I can tell isn't exactly hitting the mark either. When neither person is holding strong favor with general audiences, a joint push like this is risky. And we’re seeing why. That context makes the hard numbers more meaningful. One week post press launch and Antonia’s Instagram gained just under 200 new followers. That’s not slow growth—that’s a near flatline. As for Luke’s numbers, they are moving in the opposite direction entirely, with noticeable drops on days with heavier media activity associated with this joint press push. For someone with over 2 million followers, the loss isn’t huge—but the pattern matters. In PR, it’s not just about the raw numbers—it’s about trajectory. Luke has been steadily losing followers for close to near a year now. That kind of long-tail decline tells you something about public sentiment. And unless there’s a clear pivot—something that injects likability, surprise, or career momentum—it becomes very difficult to shift that narrative back in a positive direction. At the heart of it, this isn’t even about how “liked” or “disliked” they are. It’s about the absence of emotional connection. There’s a lack of charisma in how they’re presenting themselves. The affection feels performed rather than natural—and even if you are one of the many casual viewers like myself, you can sense it. There's no spark, no softness, no sense that the moments being shared between them are actually for each other rather than for the camera. With Antonia, that pattern shows up in nearly everything she shares online. Every aspect of what’s posted —her outfits, her captions, even the way she moves through a red carpet—feels like it’s being filtered through a performance lens. There’s always a knowing glance to the camera, always a pose, never a moment that feels unguarded or instinctive. Her Instagram presence is heavily Gen Z-coded: trend-driven, aesthetic over substance, and largely without a clear persona or unique point of view. So when she’s suddenly styled beside Luke to evoke a kind of “polished elegance”—reserved, tasteful—it doesn’t land as aspirational. It lands as calculated. I’m sure that in person Antonia is lovely, but I get the sense she’s been studying what it means to be “seen,” more-so than knowing what she actually wants to say.  As for Luke, this past weekends events came across as someone familiar yet completely unknown at the same time. Like a man wearing an ill fitting suit designed by Hollywoods expectations of him vs. someone genuinely forging his own path. The disconnect is visibly noticeable.

In publicity, you can’t manufacture a moment unless people want to buy into it. The audience has to feel something—curiosity, warmth, joy, even drama but it also has to be rooted in authenticity. When everything feels staged, and there’s no real emotion underneath the aesthetics, people simply move on. That’s the danger of trying to perform visibility without substance. You can dress it up in a pretty dress, pair it with a leading man, and frame it on a red carpet —but if there’s no real person underneath for the public to connect to, it just doesn’t stick.

So where do they go from here? From my experience, they've got two choices: 1. At first you don’t succeed, try again…and hope for the best 2. Accept that what might work behind closed doors just doesn’t translate publicly—and forcing it into the spotlight won’t fix that. Whether it’s working privately is anyone’s guess. But whatever it is, putting it on display isn’t helping either one of them. 

[diamonrot]

Glimpses of Grief

I wished the main story showed more of how the MC dealt with her grief from losing her family and how the other LIs supported and comforted her. So, I wrote small snippets between her and Zayne. I would have wrote a happier story with MC and Caleb for his birthday, but I lost my 50/50 and I am high-key upset. So angst it is....

Tags: Angst with comfort, injury, suicidal thoughts, survivor's guilt, self-loathing, insecurity, negative self talk, character death (Josephine) and character "death" (Caleb), MC x Zayne, MC x Caleb (implied)

Zayne wanted to be patient. He knew ever since the death of her family, MC had been volatile. Still, how could you ask a man to be calm and rational after he had to spend hours in surgery ensuring the woman he loved got to live another day? How can he feel fine knowing that the same woman heroically and recklessly threw her life away to save others and she will most likely do this again.

Zayne’s hands curled into fists, as he looked down. He couldn’t look at her, not while she was covered in bandages, with her lightless eyes. He knew he had to calm down, but he felt he was burning alive in his own frustration. In this state, all he could muster was to ask.

“Do you have no regard for your life?”

MC turned and looked at the man seated next to her on her bed. For the first time since she got to the hospital, she could truly see him. He looked exhausted. His eyes were dark, red and puffy. Was he crying for that long? Did he sleep at all? Did she burden him that much? Questions that only led her back to the same haunting thought.

She shouldn’t have survived the explosion

“MC please” the doctor desperately whispered as he held her hand tightly, as though she may disappear if he didn’t.

“Tell me, is this what you plan to do? Disregard your own well-being until you inevitably die? Because if so, you can’t I-“

Before he could finish, he saw tears running down her face. A chill ran through his spine.

Oh my God, is she hurt? Did I hurt her?

“MC are you alright? Please tell me-“

“I thought when I died, I would feel scared. But while I was bleeding out, I felt so happy. I thought I was finally going to see Grandma and Caleb again. Then I saw Grandma. She smiled at me and held me. She told me she loved me. But when I looked for Caleb, he wasn’t there”

MC began to uncontrollably sob . 

“He hates me, Zayne, he hates me so much he didn’t even want to see me. What can I do for him to forgive me?!”

She knew she was acting insane. Most likely, what she saw was a hallucination induced by the amount of blood she lost. Yet, she couldn’t shake off the horrible dread of the possibility that this was Caleb’s attempt to give her a final message from the grave.

Her weakness caused his death and he resents that she got to live instead. He hates her.

Vigorously, MC rubbed the tears with her free hand. 

Why won’t these stupid tears stop? How pathetic am I? Crying in front of Zayne. STOP YOU PATHETIC IDIOT!

MC tried to tug away her hand and face away from her doctor, but instead Zayne pulled her closer. Pressing his chest on hers with his arms snuggly wrapped around her. The sudden contact made her gasp. Heat was flooding her cheeks. She should have pulled away, but she didn’t want to be alone in her cold grief. Instead, she buried her face on the crook of his neck. Selfishly seeking his warmth and comfort.

On his lap, chest to chest, she could feel the steady beats of Zayne’s heart against her own fast paced ones. She could feel his large hand gently and cautiously stroking her back. It was soothing, distracting. She could momentarily forget how horrendous of a person she was.

After a while, her sobs turned into sniffles and hiccups. 

“I never knew Caleb as well as you did. However, I can say with no doubt in my mind and heart, he would never hate you. He loved you more than anything, including his own life. If he would have ever been upset, it wouldn’t have been because you survived. It would be because you recklessly almost lost it again”

“I’m sorry”

——————————————————————————————————

As Zayne entered MC’s apartment, he heard the loud bang of a metal bowl hitting the wall. 

The noise was from the kitchen

Worried, Zayne rushed to the room and found the bowl on the ground. Orange sauce and wings cluttered the ground with MC hysterically crying, yelling at herself as she attempted to clean the mess.

“MC you fucking idiot, why can’t you do anything right?!”

The scene made Zayne’s heart painfully twist. 

What can I do to help her?

His first thought was that he needed to be by her side. Comfort her. However, he didn’t want to surprise her. He tried to quiet his steps to cautiously approach her. Unfortunately, his sudden appearance shocked the woman. MC whipped her head and stared at him with eyes wide and cheeks pink. Attempting to hide her distress, she looked down and desperately rubbed off her tears.

“What are you doing here? I thought you couldn’t visit today?”

Zayne grabbed a roll of paper towels and kneeled next to her. With a napkin, he mirrored her and picked up some of the wings and discarded them in the metal bowl.

“Apologies, my last few surgeries were postponed so I finished early. Are you alright?”

“It's nothing. Don’t worry about me or the wings. You can sit on the couch, I’ll meet you there”.

Zayne didn’t budge, instead he started wiping the sauce off the ground.

“It can’t be nothing. Nobody throws a bowl of wings for nothing. Please, I want to help you. What’s wrong? "

MC sighed and halted her clean up.

“ I’m sorry Zayne. I know I’m being ridiculous, but I was just so frustrated”

“Why?”

“I’ve been craving the orange wings that Caleb always made me. I wanted you to have some too, but no matter what I do”

MC’s fist began to tap the ground. Gradually becoming more aggressive.

“Even when I followed the recipe he left behind, I couldn’t recreate it. This is my fifth batch and it’s still all wrong. None of them taste the way he made them!”

MC was going to hit the ground again until Zayne covered her hand in his. 

“You aren’t being ridiculous. You miss him, that’s normal. But you don’t have to do this alone. Maybe…. Maybe we can work on this together. Two minds work better than one?”

Several hours and wings later. 

Zayne grimaced as he saw MC sigh. Another failed batch. As MC munched on the wing, Zayne hastily glared at the recipe. He had followed every instruction and ingredient, but there was one part that continued to stump him and MC.

1 ingredient unlisted, only quoted as “Caleb’s secret ingredient”. 

This man is mocking me from the grave. 

“I’m so sorry MC, maybe we can-?”

MC yawned and stood up from the stool. She stretched nonchalantly and grinned at him.

“It’s all good Zayne, this was silly. Still, I appreciate your help. You can go home, good night”

She smiled at him again, waved him farewell and shut herself in her room. She tried to be bubbly, lighthearted, but Zayne knew better. The smile didn’t reach her eyes and he could see tears welling up. She was heartbroken. He had disappointed her.

Zayne was a rational man. A rational man would have understood that he did the best he could and he should go home. He was exhausted. He needed to rest. Still, when he thought of leaving, he was reminded of her curled up form on the ground as she wept earlier. The idea of leaving with this conclusion pained him. 

I want her to smile genuinely. I want her to know that she can still have good things and moments. I can’t fail her now.

Zayne was a rational man, but maybe for her, he could be better than that.

Woken up by the sunlight streaming from the curtain, MC groaned. Disheartened, MC rolled her body around the bed until she faced the ceiling. 

I was so embarrassing yesterday. I had a tantrum right in front of Zayne. God, I probably scared him off. 

The self-loathing crept and slowly choked her, but as she was going to succumb she heard clang of plates.

Wait, Zayne?

MC got up quickly and rushed out of her room. In the kitchen, donned by the sun's rays was Zayne. The golden light made his skin and eyes look amber, godlike. She couldn’t help, but stare as he gracefully moved around the kitchen. She was reminded how handsome Zayne was. She would have happily stared at him for eternity if Zayne hadn’t smiled and acknowledged her.

“Good Morning MC”

“Good morning Zayne. Ummm what are you still doing here? Did you not go home?”

Her physician returned her question with another breathtaking gentle smile.

“Sorry no. I couldn’t leave without getting these wings right. I know we are close to getting it. Here, try them”.

Zayne laid a plate with an assortment of different orange chicken wings, in front of her.

MC sat on the stool and slowly and critically ate each wing variation. Every single one was perfectly crisp with their own unique additional flavour. One was spicy, one tasted heavy of garlic and another even tasted of apple more than orange. She loved every single one, but none of them tasted like Caleb’s. She expected to feel upset like last night, but instead, looking at Zayne’s expectant stares, she couldn’t help but feel lighter. 

Zayne is really a good man. He put all this effort just to make me feel better.

“Do any of them taste like his?” Zayne asked hesitantly. MC shook her head. No. A pang hit Zayne in the heart. All his effort was for nothing. Before he could apologize, MC continued her answer.

“None of them taste like his, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. They are all delicious, especially the garlic one, oh my god it is so good”

For the first time in a long time, MC grinned dorkily. His love was back.

“So maybe instead, we can just make the garlic orange wings ours. It’ll be Zayne and MC’s special orange wings!”

Zayne couldn’t help, but laugh at her audacity.

“I don’t remember you staying up with me to make these wings? Why are you included in the credits?”

“Well it was my idea and my dead best friend’s recipe. I deserve to be credited”

“Fine fine, MC and Zayne’s special orange wings.”

——————————————————————————————————

She hasn’t been answering his texts or calls and it was all his fault.

I’m so stupid. I should have never confessed to her. I’ve ruined everything between us.

Desperately, Zayne looked for her. He needed to apologize. He didn’t mean to scare her. However, no matter where he looked, she was nowhere to be seen. He asked everyone, her favourite cafe’s baristas, her coworkers, her suspiciously close neighbour, unfortunately, nobody had seen her since last night. 

The night he foolishly blurted out that he loved her. He remembered her flustered and shocked expression that swiftly turned sullen. He fucked up. After the abrupt confession, she quickly and quietly apologized and ran off. Since then, radio silence. 

He knew a rational man would have waited for her to respond back, but he knew rationality didn’t exist when it came to her. After hours of looking, he realized there was one place he hadn’t looked.

The graveyard

MC felt like an idiot. Why did she run off? Now Zayne probably assumed she was rejecting him. She wanted so badly to accept his confession, but after the initial happiness, she was overwhelmed by guilt. 

She didn’t deserve Zayne.

In front of her was the resting place of the two people she loved and failed the most. Repentant, she bowed to their tombstones, tears endlessly streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry, I don’t deserve to be happy. Please forgive me.”

She prayed to them, but there was no answer. They were truly gone. 

After her prayers ceased and tears dried, she tried to focus on Grandma and Caleb’s faces, but suddenly Zayne’s would pop up. His frustrated, but concerned frown, his gentle smile, his blissed face as he confessed to her, and his dejected look as she ran off. She knew her running off was a mistake. Maybe her rejection was better for him, but she should still apologize to him. 

She stood up, resolute to speak with Zayne, when suddenly he appeared as if materialized by her wishes.

“Zayne I-“ Before she could complete her thought,  Zayne raised his palm to her, gesturing to stop.

“Please let me go first. I’m sorry about last night. I should have never confessed or at least not now. You are still working on rebuilding your life and I was selfish for trying to insert myself into it. Please forgive me. I still want to be friends and be by your side. But if this has shattered your trust in me, I understand. I will leave you alone”

MC knew she didn’t deserve him or happiness. She should apologize and walk away. Let him move on and be with someone better, but she couldn’t resist him. He was too sincere, too kind, too perfect. She moved to him, like a moth succumbing to a flame.

Seeing her hurriedly rush to him. He closed his eyes and expected a sting from a slap. Instead, he felt the warmth of her palms on his cheeks and the softness of her lips. After the ginger kiss, he opened his eyes, seeing her downward teary ones.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to reject you. I just felt undeserving. I killed my family Zayne, you deserve better than me.”

Zayne placed his hand on her cheek and gently stroked it. 

“Please don’t talk about yourself like this. You did not kill your family. Maybe you feel like I don’t deserve you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you. I have wanted you since we were kids”

The revelation made MC look up at his jade eyes.

“Really?”

“Really, I loved you for that long and will continue to do so. There is no rush to return my feelings if you ever do. I’ll be by your side either way”.

——————————————————————————————————

A month had passed since Zayne and MC became official. To celebrate, the two had enjoyed a few rounds of kitty cards while enjoying drinks and an extremely moist and delicious red velvet cake.

Contented, MC held tightly to her boyfriend's arm as they walked down the street. Giggling to themselves as MC bragged about her 3 straight wins (after 5 straight losses). MC was enraptured, but for a moment her eye caught a glimpse of a particular stranger smiling at her.

The man had shaggy brown hair, violet eyes, and was wearing a military uniform.

CALEB?!

Shocked, MC turned abruptly away from Zayne and to the direction of the stranger, but the mysterious man was gone. Worried, Zayne stared at the direction she turned and back to his girlfriend.

“Are you alright my love?”

“Yeah, I just thought I saw someone I knew”

Shaking herself out of her stupor, she turned back to Zayne and returned her arm to him. 

She knew it was most likely just a look alike, or her overactive mind messing with her. Yet, she couldn’t shake off the idea that maybe this was Caleb’s way of letting her know he approves.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Hypochondriac

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1k (including lyrics)

Warnings: fluff

Summary: Before, you never had any regard for your life. It was always a gamble whether you were going to make it to the next day. Now that you have Spencer, you’re always looking for a way to better yourself… for him. Everything you do is for him.

Square Filled: diary/journal for @tropebingo (dreamwidth bingo)

Author’s Note: this is based on the song Hypochondriac by Sasha Alex Sloan

x

I used to smoke like a chimney Never took a vitamin in my life I abused my kidneys Knew I had two, so I didn't think twice Never ate breakfast Then I'd get stoned and eat too much I was kind of reckless 'Til I fell in love

You’re sitting cross-legged in your closet with photo albums all around you. It’s high time you cleaned out the clutter in here and decided to take a break by looking at your past through photos. These photo albums are of your life before you met Spencer.

The first picture you open up to is you with an alcohol bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. You’re with your friends in the middle of the New Year's party. Next to each picture is a snippet of what you were thinking at the time. Polaroid pictures were all the rave back then, so you were able to write down exactly how you were feeling when the picture was taken.

1989 New Year’s Party with my best friends. If we hadn’t smoked so much weed, we would have never been caught by the police.

Oh, yes, you remember this. Your friend, Jill, had access to a lot of weed, and she shared it with the group. You got so high that you started disrupting the party more than you should have. The cops were called, and you all had to spend the night in jail. What they didn’t know is that you also took some LSD which is why the cops were called.

Cigarettes ruined your lungs. Alcohol ruined your kidneys. Drugs ruined your brain. However, you didn't care. You didn’t care about your life the way you do now. You’d refuse to eat breakfast and only ate whenever you got the munchies. You were reckless with your life.

Spencer Reid changed everything about you. He took the broken girl who would turn to drugs and alcohol and turned her into someone you’re proud of.

“You were a fun part of my life, but I’m glad you’re in the past,” you say to the photo.

I used to drink like a sailor If I had a weird pain, I'd say a prayer Used to need an inhaler Any time I went up a flight of stairs I'm not sayin' I'm perfect now But you gave me something to think about all of the time Glad I made you mine

The second page you flip to has two pictures. The first picture is of you in the hospital giving the camera a thumbs up. The second picture is of you helping your friends move into their first apartment together. They had secret feelings for each other, and they finally did something with that in 1995.

Note to my future self. Don’t do cocaine. It messes with your mind, and it’s very easy to overdose on it. No matter what you feel about it, Jill will kill you if you try it again, is written next to the picture of you in the hospital.

You had never tried it before, and you knew a guy who was supplying it. You only took a little, but that was enough to send you to the hospital. You spent a few days there getting sober, and you haven’t touch the shit since. Jill ripped you a new one. She even put together an intervention with your other friends. It’s safe to say you’re lucky to have people watching your back.

Next time Jason and Rebecca want a place to live in, make sure it has an elevator. Walking up these stairs all the time is going to give me a heart attack, is what’s written next to the second picture. Every time you walked up even the shortest flight of stairs, you’d need your inhaler because it always took the wind out of you. It didn’t matter how much you weighed or how much or little you worked out.

You didn't take care of yourself and often needed that inhaler for short distances. When your past was your present, you didn’t think much of the shit you were doing to your body. You didn’t have any care in the world about your health.

You’re suffering the consequences for it now, but you have something your past self didn’t have. No one has cared enough about you than Spencer does. He changed your whole life from the moment he stepped into it. You wanted to be better for him, and now you are.

I'm not sayin' I'm perfect now But you gave me something to think about

You’re not perfect by any means, but you’re doing better than before. You close the photo album and decide to be done for today. You get up and find Spencer in the kitchen.

“Hey, get some cleaning done?” he asks.

“Yeah. I found a box in the back from my past. Kind of forgot about it until now.”

“Find anything embarrassing?” he jokes.

“Nothing I want to remember. I think I’m gonna throw it all away.”

“Are you sure?”

You walk over to him and wrap your arms around his neck. “You’re my life now. All I want to remember is you.”

He leans down and kisses you gently. “I like that plan.”

You grin. “Me, too.”

Now I call my doctor every day Since I met you, something in me's changed Second that you called me yours I had something worth living for Now I'm scared of planes and heart attacks If I die, I'll never get you back You made me a hypochondriac

That night, you and Spencer cuddle on the couch while watching a movie. Your head is on his shoulders with your legs draped over his. He rubs your bare thighs in soft circles, making butterflies flit in your stomach.

“Did you take your vitamins today?” he asks.

“This morning after breakfast and then after dinner.” You two fall into a comfortable silence. You lean up and kiss his cheek. “Thank you for making me a better person. I never used to care about myself or my health before, but with you… I want to live a long and healthy life with you. So, thank you for saving me from myself.”

Spencer lets the movie play as he looks at you. He slides one hand in your hair and pulls you in for a kiss.

“If anything, you saved me.”

“I love you,” you grin.

“I love you more.”

x

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[delirious-donna]

an: thanks to @yuujispinkhair for trusting me with their beloved Sukuna and I hope you enjoy the little snippet I've created based on the song and the lyrics! <3

starring: Sukuna Ryomen x female reader

warnings: modern AU, kinda CEO!Sukuna, fluff, a lil suggestive, situationship turned something more...

now playing -

When did a situationship turn into a relationship?  

You weren’t sure you knew the answer, but it seemed like you were fast approaching such an outcome, and it wasn’t an unwelcome thought—far from it. 

Sukuna was everything you ever wanted for yourself and never dared to dream you would have. That’s why when he made that first move, those whispered words against the shell of your ear and his broad palm covering your entire hand with ease... you took what he was willing to give without asking for more. 

Late nights became early mornings.  

Drinks out turned into breakfasts in bed.  

Passionate, all-consuming midnight romps remained just as passionate, but also included tender lovemaking whilst the sun broke over the horizon. 

Slowly, you opened up and showed him the real you.

Not the person you tried to portray but the genuine you with flaws and worries and real-world problems. When he didn’t run... you gave more and received in return. 

Ryomen Sukuna was a man of duality; the exterior was tough with his strong physical appearance, imposing tattoos and his general attitude towards people, especially those that got in his way, but on the flip side he could be incredibly insightful and generous. He had a passion for making a difference but had no desire to be attributed to the good he could bring about. 

Things aren’t always perfect. There are moments when you don’t see eye to eye, but you still end the night in the same bed with apologies fresh on your lips. It doesn’t feel right when you go a couple of days without seeing him, and the text messages are a cheap imitation of the intimacy being in his presence brought, but it made the reunions all the sweeter. 

“There’s my beautiful girl, missed that smile,” he rumbled, a hand running through his hair as he watched you sneak through the door. 

His heart felt funny... almost like it was too big for his chest. Curious that it only happened whenever you were around. Business conferences, which he used to enjoy and prolong as much as possible, were now a bother because it meant he wouldn’t see you for days at a time. Sukuna was changing and nothing more so than his priorities—the number one being you and your happiness. 

Neither of you were sure when the dawning realisation finally broke, but you remembered all too clearly how his expression had softened before you. His eyes bouncing between yours as if he were seeing you clearly for the first time. You were no longer the only one in love, and you’d wait as long as he needed to hear those words from his lips. 

It wouldn’t take long. 

One night he wakes  Strange look on his face  Pauses, then says  You're my best friend  And you knew what it was  He is in love 

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[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #08 死

† chai †

"Sweetness doesn’t have a place in Jeon’s life, or at least it didn’t, until now. Because he’s been craving vanilla and cardamom and… chai? Hoseok is as annoying as always, and the fact that you may be at tonight’s celebration is… something he doesn’t quite know how to process."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 6.3k

rating: mature

content: snippet into jeon’s head, jeon’s POV, jeon being emo, sad vibes, insomnia, mental health issues, pills, suicide jokes, j-hope being a good friend and also a good doctor, celebrations, booze, female friendships, moon being surprisingly good at mixing drinks

☠ author's note ☠

I can literally HEAR all your "I can fix him" screams from here and honestly? SAME. I, too, want to fix the emotionally constipated sniper who probably sleeps with his combat boots on (￣ω￣)

Here's the thing—I started this whole endeavor thinking I'd stick strictly to the protagonist's POV. Very tunnel vision, very "we only know what she knows" vibes. But then Jeon's broody ass started living rent-free in my head and I was like... fuck, I want to show what's happening in that disaster brain of his too???

I'm sure you know the feeling. When reading, you just NEED to know what the hell is going on behind those cold eyes and that jaw that could cut glass. But it gets tricky, especially when you're trying to do this whole slow reveal thing without dumping too much info at once.

And trust me, the character of Jeon is like a cocktail made by a bartender who's having an existential crisis—way too many conflicting ingredients, definitely going to give you a hangover, but you're still going to drink it because you hate yourself. Or love pain. Or both.

So I decided to include snippets of his POV sometimes. It feels necessary—some conversations need to happen when our protagonist isn't there, and some emotional baggage needs unpacking for you readers to understand what's actually going on (like back in chapter 2 when we got that glimpse into his head).

Now, I'd love to ask for your opinion on this whole POV-switching business, but let's be real—this story is pretty much gonna be completed by the time you're reading this author's note. So... I'm just gonna trust my chaotic writer instincts on this one.

And if you don't like getting glimpses into Jeon's beautiful disaster of a mind? Well... you're gonna like it today anyway (•̀ᴗ•́)━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

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⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

Jungkook doesn't do sweets. Never has.

His world operates in darker shades, tactical operations and precise calculations. Sweetness belongs to a different universe—one of bright colors and soft edges that he left behind long ago.

Sometimes a piece of candy appears in his pocket, usually after a meeting with JM who keeps bowls of them everywhere. He'll unwrap it absently, the crinkle of plastic echoing in his quiet office. Let it dissolve on his tongue while reviewing mission reports. The initial sweetness isn't unpleasant, stirring something old and forgotten in his chest.

But it never lasts.

The sugar becomes too much, coating his mouth like an unwelcome invasion. 

Cloying. 

Suffocating. 

He usually tosses the rest, wondering why he even bothered.

Lately though, something's changed. 

He finds himself reaching for vanilla cookies in the cafeteria. Ordering cardamom tea instead of his usual black coffee. Small impulses he can't explain, like his body's searching for something his mind hasn't caught up to yet.

And now?

Now the clock reads 4:16 AM. 

It's yet another night of minimal sleep—three and a half hours if he's being generous. The neon numbers mock him from his bedside table, surrounded by an array of pills that could probably tranquilize an elephant. 

All prescribed by J-Hope.

All increasingly useless.

Benzos. Narcotics. Nothing touches the corners of his insomnia anymore.

He's been fighting with his sheets for the past hour, tangled evidence of another failed attempt at rest. The black covers pool around his feet like spilled ink. His bedroom surrounds him in familiar darkness—walls painted to absorb light rather than reflect it, matching the void that lives behind his ribs.

The king-sized bed stretches out like empty territory, conquered by nothing but restless thoughts and the occasional phantom of memory. His room is a fortress built of clean lines and minimal decoration, a cell of his own design where even the shadows know better than to dance.

But lately, even this usually comforting solitude feels... different. Like something's missing. Something warm and sweet that he can't quite name.

Jungkook steps into the cold, the floor a shock against his bare feet. The shadows stretch across his bedroom, making the space feel hollow and vast at 4 AM. His movements are silent—years of training making even his insomnia graceful.

The lounge area of his wing feels abandoned. Empty sofas and tables wait like props on a stage, missing their usual cast of lieutenants and strategists. During the day, this space buzzes with mission plans and tactical discussions. Now it's just him and the quiet.

He closes the door to his wing, crossing into the neutral territory of the entrance hall. It's the DMZ between his domain and V's—a thought that makes his head hurt. Even at this hour, he can feel the shift in energy. 

V's presence lingers here like a bad taste.

The access card feels heavy in his hand. A small piece of tech that reminds him of his rank, his responsibilities. AD's security system responds with a soft beep, elevator doors sliding open on silent tracks. He steps in, presses the button for the common area. It's not his usual haunt—too exposed, too public—but lately he's been drawn there.

The descent gives him time to think. His mind drifts between fragments of nightmares and that strange, persistent craving for sweetness. It's been haunting him for weeks now, this urge for vanilla and cardamom. 

For chai and spices.

Maybe his brain is trying to balance out the bitterness that fills his days, or maybe he's finally losing it.

The elevator announces his arrival with a quiet ding. The corridor stretches before him, dark and empty. Somewhere down there is the snack area, and maybe, if he's lucky, a moment of peace.

He moves towards the corridor. Posters and artwork splash color across the cream walls—a jarring contrast to his stark quarters. He never quite understood the need for decoration, but the members insist on making the space "lived in." Whatever that means.

After 3 minutes, the common lounge sprawls before him, so different from his wing's militant precision. Here, rank means little. Divisions blur. The high ceiling should make the space feel cold, but somehow it doesn't. Maybe it's the worn leather sofas or the gaming consoles scattered about like abandoned toys. 

The air smells of polish and something unknown yet weirdly tranquil—comfort, maybe. 

He pushes that thought away.

Vending machines hum quietly in the snack area. Behind the glass, rows of sweets beckon. His eyes linger on a vanilla protein bar, then drift to some cardamom cookies. The craving hits again, piercing and mercilessly insistent.

But he's not alone.

AD slouches in a puff chair, bathed in the blue light of his game screen. His face twisted in its usual scowl, fingers jabbing at buttons with unnecessary force. 

The sight stirs something in Jungkook's chest—regret, maybe. 

Or guilt. 

Both emotions he'd rather not examine.

Their eyes meet. The air grows heavy. Unspoken words. Shared trauma.

The gaming console beeps softly. AD's character dies on screen. The silence that follows feels like an accusation.

Jungkook notes the way AD's blonde hair glints in the dim light as his eyes snap to Jungkook. His fingers still on the controller, body shifting into something more guarded, more alert. 

Jungkook feels his muscles tense automatically. The late-night sugar craving fades to background noise as AD's frosty stare pins him in place. 

Like a fucking needle cutting into skin. 

His hand hovers over the door handle, and he can't decide whether to stay or retreat. There's too much history here, too many buried regrets—and AD's presence brings it all rushing back—memories Jungkook would rather keep locked away with his other nightmares.

He immediately clocks the way AD's face contorts—sharp and bitter—and it makes Jungkook's chest tighten with familiar remorse. 

The younger man has never quite forgiven him. 

Probably never will.

Just as Jungkook decides to leave, to return to the safety of his isolation, AD's voice slices through the silence.

"No need for you to scurry off." The words barely mask the hostility underneath. "Was about to leave anyway."

Jungkook forces his shoulders to relax, though his jaw remains tight. Their paths cross rarely these days, and when they do, it's always like this—loaded silences and measured distance.

AD sets the controller down. Sharp. Angry. His movements are stiff as he rises, radiating enmity in waves that fill the common room. The scent of fresh lemons—AD's signature—grows stronger as he approaches.

But Jungkook doesn't move. 

Doesn't flinch. 

He deserves this, after all. This anger, this hostility, this remorse that reminds him of betrayals he can never make right.

The collision comes swift and deliberate—AD's shoulder slamming into his with force. The impact jolts through Jungkook's body, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the guilt that floods his system. His throat tightens with dusty apologies he knows AD would never accept.

He watches him stride away, the blonde's back rigid with years of accumulated anger. The sound of his footsteps fades down the corridor, leaving Jungkook alone with the quiet hum of the vending machines and his own thoughts.

There was a time when AD looked up to him, when their dynamic was different—better. Now all that remains is this bitter aftermath, this chasm Jungkook carved with his own choices. The memory of who they used to be makes the present cut deeper.

The gaming console's screen still glows, enhancing AD's absence in the empty chair he left behind. The 'GAME OVER' message blinks mockingly. Jungkook's fingers twitch, remembering late nights spent teaching AD new gaming strategies, back when trust wasn't such a foreign concept between them.

He should feel angry at the shoulder check; at the constant hostility that feels like a reprimand. 

But all he feels is hollow. 

Empty. 

Because how can he blame AD for hating him when he did this? When he destroyed something irreplaceable with decisions he can never take back?

He can't help but stare down the empty corridor where AD disappeared, the bitter taste of their encounter lingering longer than he'd like. His craving for sweetness feels almost desperate now—a childish attempt to wash away the guilt that gnaws at his chest.

His throat tightens. He swallows hard, trying to maintain the aloofness expected of Kkangpae's deadliest sniper. 

But it's hard, when AD's hostility has cracked something open inside him, letting old memories seep through like poison.

The vending machines hum quietly, offering a welcome distraction. He scans the selection without really seeing it, until—

Croissants.

Something shifts in his stomach at the sight of those packaged pastries. They're nothing like the fresh ones from the cafeteria, the ones you always grab during breakfast. Not that he's been watching. It's just that you're always there when he is, picking up one of those flaky pastries along with your coffee.

He's noticed, despite himself, how early you arrive to snag them before they run out. Same time as him, though his early mornings are spent running from nightmares rather than hunting down breakfast.

The memory of your routine feels oddly grounding after his encounter with AD. It's something simple, predictable. 

Unlike the mess of guilt and regret that follows him through these halls at night.

It's a strange comfort, this knowledge of your habits. 

One he doesn't understand.

One he probably doesn't deserve.

The scent of fresh lemons still lingers in the air, like a ghost of bridges burned and trust fractured. But as Jungkook stares at those artificially-made croissants, he finds himself thinking of chai tea instead.

He tears his gaze away, scanning other options until he spots a nutty protein bar. Practical. Sensible. The kind of choice the Chief of Tactical Assassinations should make. 

He jabs at the keypad hastily, and then, the machine whirs and drops his selection with a dull thud.

The wrapper crinkles in his grip as he retrieves it. Such a simple thing—choosing a late-night snack. No one gets hurt. No trust gets broken. No consequences ripple through the gang's hierarchy. 

Just him and a protein bar at 4 AM.

The common room feels different now that AD's gone. Quieter. Jungkook lets himself breathe, really breathe, for what feels like the first time since AD's shoulder slammed into his.

He should feel worse, probably. Should let the weight of past betrayals and broken friendships crush him like they usually do. But something about this moment—this stupid protein bar in his hand, the quiet of the room, the lingering thought of croissants and early mornings—makes everything feel a bit lighter.

His lips almost twitch into what could be a smile. It's weird, this tiny bubble of something in his chest. Almost like contentment. He doesn't examine it too closely, afraid it might shatter.

The corridors don't feel as suffocating as he makes his way back to his wing. The shadows seem less interested in reminding him of his sins. 

For now, in this small hour between night and dawn, he allows himself this moment of peace.

He probably doesn't deserve it. But for once, he takes it anyway.

Jungkook stares at his lunch without really seeing it. 

The cafeteria bustles around him, but he's carved out his own bubble of silence at the far end of a long table. It's better this way—no small talk, no pretending to care about division gossip.

His chopsticks push a piece of fish back and forth across his plate. The encounter with AD keeps replaying in his mind, each memory tasting bitter like the coffee he's been nursing for the past hour. Some wounds, he's learning, don't heal with time. They just scab over, waiting to be picked open again.

And then, a tray clatters across from him. 

J-Hope drops into the seat, his white medical coat slightly rumpled from what's probably been a busy morning in the infirmary. The doctor's eyes scan Jungkook's face with scrutiny, his mouth pulling into that familiar worried frown.

"You look like shit," J-Hope announces, ever the picture of bedside manner. "Two hours of sleep? Maybe less?"

Jungkook shrugs, still focused on mutilating his fish. "Don't count anymore."

"Those new meds I gave you—" J-Hope starts, unwrapping his sandwich with more force than necessary. "You're actually taking them, right?"

"They don't work." The words come out flat. "Nothing does."

"Jesus christ," J-Hope mumbles through a bite of sandwich. "Have you tried, I don't know, taking them before you spend six hours staring at your ceiling? Maybe with some tea?"

The concern in J-Hope's voice makes something twist in Jungkook's chest. 

He doesn't deserve this—the worry, the care, any of it. 

Not after everything. 

But J-Hope is one of the few people who still treats him like a person rather than a cautionary tale, so he tries to sound less dismissive when he responds.

"I don't need a lesson on how to take pills. They just don't work for me."

The doctor sets his sandwich down, eyebrows pulling together. A bit of lettuce falls out. "Look, I know you've built up tolerance, but we need to find something that works. You can't keep going like this."

"I'm fine." He's not, but he doesn't truly care. "Function better on less sleep anyway. More efficient."

"That's bullshit and you know it." J-Hope's voice rises slightly, anger seeping through. "You think I can't see what this is doing to you? The mood swings? The isolation? This isn't healthy, Jungkook."

Jungkook flinches at the use of his real name. "I don't need a lecture. I'm handling it."

"Oh yeah, real healthy coping strategy." J-Hope's scoff holds more concern than mockery. "Just pretend everything's fine while you run yourself into the ground."

Exhaustion weighs heavy on Jungkook's bones. Three hours of sleep and memories of AD's hostility from last night make his tongue looser than usual. "Maybe you should prescribe me your finest benzos. Let me wash them down with vodka. That ought to do the trick."

The slam of J-Hope's palm against the table makes the silverware jump. Several heads turn their way, but Jungkook can't bring himself to care. 

"If you want to kill yourself," J-Hope's voice is deadly quiet, trembling with rage, "don't you dare make it my prescription."

The cafeteria suddenly feels too small, too crowded. J-Hope's worry tastes bitter in the back of Jungkook's throat, mixing with guilt he doesn't have the energy to process. He shouldn't have said that—shouldn't have joked about something so dark. But three hours of sleep and a lifetime of regrets make it hard to care about much of anything anymore.

Silence stretches between them. Jungkook stares at his mangled fish, not really eating anymore. He knows what's coming—J-Hope never could leave well enough alone.

The doctor's voice softens, trying a different approach. "Have you considered meditation? Or maybe some calming music? I know a sleep therapist who—"

"I don't need a damn therapist." Jungkook's tongue plays with his lip ring, a nervous habit he can't shake. 

The metal tastes bitter, or maybe that's just the exhaustion talking.

Because J-Hope is wrong. Therapy won't fix this. Pills won't fix this. Nothing can erase what happened, what he let happen. Some stains don't wash out, no matter how hard you scrub.

"Look, Jungkook." J-Hope uses his real name again, and his throat constricts uncontrollably. "Ever since what happened with—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharp enough to cut.

J-Hope holds his gaze, unflinching. "You can't keep punishing yourself forever."

"I'm not discussing this." His voice turns to steel, matching the cold weight that's made a home in his chest.

Another sigh from J-Hope as he leans back. "Fine. But you know where to find me when you're ready to actually try and fix this."

Jungkook's jaw clenches so hard it hurts, a muscle jumping under his skin. But he stays quiet. What's the point of arguing when J-Hope doesn't understand? 

Some things aren't meant to be fixed. 

Some people don't deserve to be.

Jungkook pushes his half-eaten lunch away with a tired sigh. He can feel it coming—the same conversation they have every year.

"So," J-Hope starts, right on cue. "Making an appearance tonight or pulling your usual disappearing act?" He peers at Jungkook over his coffee mug, eyes too knowing for comfort.

"Haven't decided." The words come out clipped, because he feels already exhausted by the mere thought of socializing.

"You should come." J-Hope takes a careful sip. "Might help to interact with actual humans instead of just your rifle for a change."

"I interact plenty." It sounds defensive even to his own ears.

"Glaring at people from across the room doesn't count as interaction." J-Hope's voice is dry as desert sand. "Neither does grunting one-word responses."

Jungkook's tongue finds his lip ring, playing with it absently. "It's just a casual thing. Not mandatory."

"Right, just our leader's rise to power celebration. Totally insignificant." The doctor's sarcasm could cut glass. "Definitely not something a Council member should show face at."

"RM himself said it's not formal." 

"Maybe not officially. But you know what it means to everyone else. Especially the newer ones—shows them what we're about, what matters to us."

Newer ones. The words make him hold his breath. He thinks of Yunjin's bright enthusiasm, of your sharp wit. Of how you'll probably be there tonight.

The thought doesn't help him decide whether he wants to go more, or run faster in the opposite direction.

"You seem perfectly capable of handling traditions without me."

"For fuck's sake, Jungkook." The doctor's frustration bleeds through. "This isn't about tradition. It's about you actually being part of the team for once. Don't you ever get tired of the whole lone wolf act?"

Something bitter rises in Jungkook's throat. His tongue presses against his cheek—a habit from childhood he never quite shook.

Silence. He takes a slow breath, measuring his words. 

"I'll think about showing up."

It's not a yes, but J-Hope takes what he can get. The doctor's shoulders relax slightly as he leans back, apparently satisfied with even this crumb of compliance.

"Got patients waiting," J-Hope says, collecting his things. The coffee mug scrapes against the tray. "Try to sleep before tonight, yeah?"

Jungkook makes a noncommittal sound, already drifting into thoughts of empty corridors and quiet corners where he won't have to pretend to be social. Where he won't have to see AD's hatred or V's cruel smile. Where he won't have to watch you move through the crowd, chai-scented and d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶a̶c̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ irrelevant.

J-Hope's footsteps fade into the cafeteria buzz, leaving Jungkook alone with his cold coffee and colder thoughts. 

Another conversation that changes nothing, fixes nothing.

Just like everything else in his life.

"What?"

The word tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

Smooth, real smooth.

Chaewon snorts, eyes crinkling. "Right, keep forgetting you're still a baby gang member. Tonight's the whole 'RM took over this shitshow' party."

You frown, because seriously? Four months in and you're just now hearing about this? Some Seduction Division recruit you are.

"It's not a big deal," Chaewon adds, probably seeing the confusion on your face. "RM didn't even start it. We just got drunk on the first anniversary and now it's a thing."

Eunchae pops her head between you and Chaewon, her light brown hair tickling your cheek. "Plus, you know. Give gang members an excuse to drink and we'll run with it."

You lean back against the couch, letting your head fall back softly. 

Great. 

Another Kkangpae tradition you and Yunjin missed the memo on. At this rate, you'll still be the clueless newbies when you're both grey and wrinkled.

"So what, we just show up and get wasted?" you ask, trying to sound casual. Like you're not low-key freaking out about what to wear or how to act around the higher-ups when they're three sheets to the wind.

Chaewon shrugs, picking at her nails. "Pretty much. Some people get all fancy, others come in sweatpants. It's not like RM gives a shit either way."

A flash of bubblegum pink catches your eye. Yunjin shuffles in, hair wrapped in a towel and dripping onto her shoulders. Perfect timing, as always.

"Did someone say alcohol?" She plops down on the sofa arm, water droplets flying everywhere. "Because I'm not playing nurse again tonight."

"That was one time!" Eunchae's voice pitches up in defense. "And that mark needed me to drink!"

Kazuha snorts. "You could've said no."

"To free drinks?" Eunchae spins around, hand on her chest like she's been mortally wounded. "In this economy?"

"She's got a point," Sakura drawls from her sprawl across the couch. Her long legs dangle over the armrest, taking up way too much space.

Yunjin tugs at her towel, rolling her eyes. "Well, don't come crying to me when you're hugging the toilet later."

You can't help but laugh. These idiots are really your team now. "I take it parties get pretty wild around here?"

"Oh honey." Kazuha's lips twitch. "There's a reason strip poker got banned."

"I'm sorry, what?" Your eyes go wide. Because what.

"It was brief but iconic." Eunchae grins, nudging your shoulder. "Sakura tried to slide across a table."

"And I would've made it!" Sakura calls out, not even bothering to lift her head. "That loose board was sabotage, I swear."

"Sure, blame the table." Eunchae turns to you with a conspiratorial wink. "Just wait till you see what happens when someone breaks out the tequila."

You raise an eyebrow, already mentally noting which Council members to avoid when the drinks start flowing. 

"Thanks for the warning. I'll stay away from any furniture surfing attempts."

Your teammates' laughter fills the room, and something warm blooms in your chest. It's weird how these chaotic idiots have become your f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶y̶ friends in just four months.

Chaewon leans back, crossing her legs. "Tonight's pretty chill though. Eat, drink, try not to pass out in a bush somewhere."

"Now that's what I'm talking about." Eunchae bounces in her seat like an overexcited golden retriever.

"Open field, 8 PM." Chaewon's voice shifts into what you've dubbed her 'mom tone.' "We're doing BBQ, and there'll be enough booze to knock out a small army. Wear whatever, but bundle up—it gets cold as balls out there."

"That's two hours from now!" Eunchae flops dramatically across the couch. "Two whole hours. I'm starving now."

"Is food literally all you think about?" Kazuha rolls her eyes, but there's fondness in her tone.

"I could think about other things." Eunchae wiggles her eyebrows. "But food's never disappointed me like men do."

You snort at that. She's not wrong. In your four months here, you've learned (mostly from Yunjin's gossip) that Kkangpae men are like a box of chocolates—mostly bitter, occasionally nutty, and always complicated.

The girls dissolve into giggles again, and you find yourself joining in. Maybe it's the promise of alcohol, or maybe it's just the way these dorks make even a deadly criminal organization feel weirdly homey, but you're actually looking forward to tonight.

God help you.

It's 8:10 PM when you finally head out. You went with comfy over fancy—oversized grey hoodie over a white turtleneck, because fuck freezing to death. The thermal lining is probably the best purchase you've made since joining Kkangpae. That, and these loose jeans that actually have functional pockets.

A flash of pink appears in your peripheral vision before Yunjin loops her arm through yours, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

"Aren't you excited?" She bounces on her toes like a kid with a sugar rush. "I heard these parties are insane!"

You can't help but laugh. Her enthusiasm is s̶w̶e̶e̶t̶ infectious. But the elevator dings before you can respond, doors sliding open to reveal—oh.

V lounges inside, arm draped over JM's shoulders like the Finance Chief is his personal armrest. JM seems unbothered, wearing that patient smile he gets when dealing with V's... everything. His salmon-colored hair looks soft under the elevator lights.

"Ladiessssss!" V draws out the word like he's auditioning for Parseltongue lessons. He shifts to make room, though his arm stays firmly around JM. "Coming to party with us common folk?"

"Free food's free food." You shrug, stepping in beside Yunjin who's still clinging to your arm.

She giggles at your response, squeezing your arm tighter. You catch JM's eye and nod—proper respect for a Council member and all that. He returns it with a warm smile that makes his eyes crinkle behind his round glasses.

The elevator feels smaller with four people, especially when one of them is V taking up space like it's his job. But hey, at least it's not AD. Or worse, J̶e̶o̶n̶ certain other Council members.

"Evening, JM." You smile at him, because it's hard not to. His aura always feels like a warm blanket—the complete opposite of V's chaotic energy.

"Good evening." JM's voice is soft, gentle. "I hope the night finds you well."

"What is this, fucking Shakespeare?" V waves his hand dismissively. "Save the fancy talk for business hours. Tonight's for getting wasted and making bad decisions. Luckily we will be free of certain judgemental stares."

"V." JM's warning comes with a poorly hidden smile.

"What? Just saying what everyone thinks." V grins, all teeth. "Not my fault someone walks around like they've got a steel rod up their ass."

"Pretty sure that's just the natural reaction to dealing with you for years." The words slip out before you can stop them.

"Wow. Wow." V pretends you've stabbed him in the chest. "Already picking sides? And here I thought we were gonna be besties."

You roll your eyes. "Not picking sides. Just speaking from personal experience."

"Brief experience," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "You haven't seen all my charms yet. I grow on people, like mold."

"That's... not the selling point you think it is."

Finally the metallic doors open to the ground floor. Through the glass gates, you can see the open field where everyone's gathering. The sky's already dark, stars peeking through like tiny paint droplets.

Here goes nothing.

The field buzzes with activity, gang members scattered around like the stars peppered across the night sky. A bonfire crackles in the middle, throwing warm light over everyone's faces. The smell of BBQ makes your stomach growl—you haven't eaten since lunch.

RM's white hair catches the firelight, making him look almost ethereal. It's weird seeing him like this, gesturing animatedly as he talks. The fearsome leader of Kkangpae, actually laughing. Who knew?

Moon hovers by the drinks, playing bartender—although still maintaining his usual polite efficiency. Though tonight his smile seems more genuine, less 'I'm being nice because I'm your superior' and more 'want another beer?'

Jessi and Chaewon huddle together near the fire, probably plotting world domination or sharing gossip. The flames dance in Jessi's red hair while Chaewon leans in close, looking more relaxed than you've ever seen her during training.

V drags JM toward the grill, still attached to him like a very loud, very clingy octopus. "Make way for the master chefs!" he hollers, making JM shake his head with fond exasperation.

Your eyes scan the crowd before you can stop yourself. Looking for broad shoulders in black leather, for silver piercings catching firelight. For that scent of pine and wood that's become way too f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶i̶a̶r̶ noticeable lately.

But Jeon isn't here.

You feel something waver in your chest—disappointment maybe, or just hunger. 

Yeah, definitely hunger. 

You push the thought away and focus on the party. There's food and alcohol and your friends are here. That's what matters.

Yunjin tugs you toward the bonfire, and god, the warmth feels good after the castle's perpetual AC chill. It's weird seeing everyone so relaxed—like someone hit pause on all the gang politics and murder plots for one night.

You sink onto a log bench, letting the fire chase away the evening cold. The flames bathe everyone in soft gold, making even the most hardened killers look almost n̶i̶c̶e̶ normal for once.

J-Hope appears through the crowd like a ghost in his white medical coat, looking like he's about to collapse. The bags under his eyes have bags of their own, but he's still got that manic energy that keeps him running on fumes and spite.

He drops onto the bench nearby with a groan that sounds like his soul trying to escape. The scent of sandalwood follows him, mixing with woodsmoke.

"Rough day?" you ask, eyeing his very out-of-place doctor getup.

His laugh comes out more like a wheeze. "You could say that." He waves vaguely at his coat. "Didn't exactly get a wardrobe change break."

Yunjin giggles beside you, still clutching your arm like a pink-haired koala.

Your eyes scan the crowd again, definitely not looking for anyone s̶p̶e̶c̶i̶f̶i̶c̶ particular. "Where's the rest of the Council?"

"Well," J-Hope snorts, "AD's busy losing at League of Legends. Says he'll grace us with his presence when he's done raging at his screen."

"And Jeon?" The question slips out. Smooth. 

J-Hope answers your question with a nod toward the field entrance. Your eyes follow and—oh.

Jeon strides in with Takama, both of them loaded down with enough meat to feed a small country. The firelight catches on his silver piercings, and fuck, he shouldn't look this good just carrying groceries. Your heart does that stupid little skip thing it's been doing lately whenever he's around.

But it's like... something's different about him tonight. The usual ice-prince vibe is dialed down a notch, replaced by something almost... approachable.

Unapproachably approachable.

Takama actually has him engaged in conversation—a miracle in itself. His shaved head immediately grabs your attention as he says something that makes Jeon relax slightly.

They drop the meat by the grill, and you notice how Jeon's eyes sweep across the crowd. It's quick, casual, but you catch it anyway. There's something searching in his gaze, like he's looking for... well. Probably just checking the perimeter or whatever security shit he does.

You turn back to J-Hope, trying to ignore the warmth in your cheeks. "Even party night comes with duties, huh?"

"That's Kkangpae for you." J-Hope's voice carries a touch of dry humor. "We don't do proper days off here."

He's right. Even now, surrounded by laughter and firelight and the promise of good food, you're all still playing your parts. Though watching Jeon handle those heavy bags like they're nothing makes you think some roles aren't so bad to watch.

Get it together. 

You sink deeper into the bench, letting the bonfire's warmth seep into your bones. The sound of laughter and sizzling meat hovers around you; everyone's guard lowered just a fraction under the stars.

Takama then leads Jeon toward the fire, some members sprawled out on the grass around them like lazy cats. The deputy's eyes find yours, his smile genuine—a rare sight in your line of work.

"Ankle doing better?" he asks, and you're touched he remembers.

"All healed up, thanks." You return his smile, because Takama's one of the few higher-ups who actually seems to give a shit about the recruits.

Jeon just nods at you, dark eyes meeting yours for a split second before sliding away. You're starting to notice is his thing—minimal effort, maximum impact. Your skin prickles despite the fire's heat.

The conversation naturally flows around you, mission stories and inside jokes mixing seamlessly even between different divisions. You half-listen, too aware of Jeon's presence at the edge of the group. He pulls out his cigarettes with those r̶i̶d̶i̶c̶u̶l̶o̶u̶s̶l̶y̶ ̶n̶i̶c̶e̶ steady hands, placing one between his pierced lips in a way that makes your mouth go dry.

But before he can light up, J-Hope shoots him a look that could freeze hell. Some silent doctor-patient communication passes between them, and Jeon clicks his tongue, shoving the cigarette back in its pack. Frustration flashes across his face before he quickly shoves it down. 

But you catch yourself studying him—the way his fingers fidget with the lighter he can't use, how his jaw clenches when he's annoyed. Little details that paint a picture of the man behind the cold exterior. 

Not that you're paying special attention or anything.

Moon's got a nice little bar setup going by the drinks station. You could use something to take the edge off this weird night. So you stand up, already missing the bonfire's warmth whilst stretching your arms above your head.

"Getting drinks," you tell Yunjin, who's deep in conversation with some other recruits. "Want anything?"

Her eyes light up. "Beer, please!"

You glance at Takama, still chatting with his boss. "Beer run. You in?"

"That'd be great, thanks." His smile is genuinely warm.

You look at the doctor—J-Hope's been quiet, watching everything with those too-observant eyes—and ask him too. 

"Can I grab you something?"

"I don't drink." His tone is light but final. Like a door closing.

You nod, not pushing it. Your eyes drift to Jeon last, catching him staring into the flames like they hold all life's answers. He meets your gaze for a second, and you'd swear something unreadable flickering across his face before he looks away.

"Whisky on the rocks," he mutters, barely audible over the crackling fire.

You bite back a smile. Of course he drinks whisky. Probably the expensive kind too, the pretentious a̶s̶s̶h̶o̶l̶e̶ guy.

Moon's showing off his bartending skills to an impressed crowd when you approach. Time to see if the Deputy Commander makes drinks as precisely as he runs operations.

His back is turned to you as you approach, mixing something that probably has enough alcohol to knock out a horse. But he moves confidently, like he's done this a thousand times before.

When he finally finishes serving another member, you step up. His serious bartender face melts into something more welcoming.

"What can I get you?" He wipes his hands on a towel, all proper and polite as usual.

"Vodka lemonade for me," you say. "Plus whisky on the rocks and two beers for the others."

He nods, already reaching for bottles. "Coming right up."

You watch him work, impressed despite yourself. "Where'd you learn all this fancy mixing stuff?"

"Been around a while," he chuckles, measuring vodka into a shaker. "It's useful—nothing settles gang politics like a good drink."

"You're really good at this," you say, leaning against the counter. "Like, seriously good."

His hands pause for a split second. A small smile tugs at his lips. 

"Thanks. It's an old passion. Actually wanted to open my own bar once—somewhere quiet, away from all..." He gestures vaguely at the chaos around you.

"That's... not what I expected." You watch him pour whisky over ice with perfect precision. 

"Life's funny that way." He slices a lemon expertly. "We all had different plans before this. Different dreams. But here we are."

Something in his voice makes you pause—because yeah, it's so easy to forget sometimes that everyone here has a story, a before. Even Moon, with his perfect posture and formal suits, had different dreams once.

The thought sits heavy in your chest as he lines up your drinks. You wonder what dreams everyone else gave up to end up here, in a criminal organization's makeshift bar under the stars.

"What about you?" Moon asks, stirring your drink now. "Got any derailed dreams?"

You consider the question, because it feels surreal to be having this kind of talk with the Deputy Commander—usually conversations here stick to missions and murder plots.

"Pretty sure we all left something behind when we joined." The words come out slower than intended. "Different paths all leading to the same fucked up destination, right?"

Moon hands you the drinks, and his expression is softer. "That's gang life for you. Trade in your old self, get a new family and some trauma in return."

"Any regrets?"

He gets this far-away look, like he's seeing something beyond the makeshift bar. Then he shakes his head. 

"Made my choice. Even the darkest paths have their bright spots."

You take the drinks, mentally filing away this unexpectedly deep conversation with Kkangpae's second-in-command. Who knew he had a philosophical side under all that formality?

"Thanks for the drinks. And the..." You gesture vaguely with your chin, since your hands are full. "This whole thing."

His smile actually reaches his eyes this time. "Anytime. Now go before those drinks get warm."

"You joining us later?"

"Once dinner's ready." He's already turning to help another member.

You nod, somehow managing to stuff the beer cans in your hoodie pocket while balancing two glasses. The bonfire calls you back, its warmth promising more interesting conversations ahead.

Though probably none as surprising as this one.

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[p3aches-n-cream]

Recipe ♡ : You and Hobie are both spider people and have known each other for well over three years. You two are inseparable, you being the one to drag Hobie in when he gets too reckless, and him encouraging you to go all out. Unfortunately, your superiors begin to catch onto this, promoting you to distance yourself from your former best friend. Little do they know, there's more to your relationship than meets the eye.

Ingredients ♡ : Blk!fem! reader, smut with a little bit of background. Opposites attract. I headcanon Hobes to be 21+, fight with the wall. Word count: 3k. Making out. Missionary. Desk Sex. Minors please don't interact. Obviously, I can't control what you do, but i'd really appreciate if you don't. ( You will be blocked. )

Notes ♡ : Okay this took me a really long time because I finally realized what I wanted to do. Consider this a pilot piece for my hobiexreader series. This is a simplified version of the original, I had to scrap it cause it was past the word limit. But I might include a snippet of one of my favorite parts which will give more of a backstory!! I hope you enjoy!

It was just another day at Headquarters and you were fulfilling your duties as per usual. Your previous mentor, Jessica Drew had asked you to sort some files for an upcoming meeting and afterwards, you were expecting to go on a rescue mission to another dimension. A pretty slow one considering your circumstances.

You were a model employee in every sense of the word. Enlisted on recommendation, succeeding every mission with flying colors and an irrefutable loyalty to boot. Which is why it was so peculiar when you and Hobie Brown began to hang out.

Now Hobie was a real piece of work, everyone knows that. He had no respect for authority, ( which is ironic considering he's part of an organization ) openly defying orders and making waves. He’d never let anyone or anything stop him from being his true self. You were enthralled to say the least. His brash authenticity provided a stark contrast to your sheltered persona. Of course you were much too refined to admit that. Considering your background, comeuppance and the person that you are - you didn’t allow yourself to engage in reckless indulgence.

But for Hobie, you found yourself making exceptions. His presence fulfilled your exuberance, especially whenever he would hop through your window, ranting about a new adventure he was dying to try. And he’d need his lovely companion by his side.

As you pass familiar spiders, you raise your hand in a wave and flash an amicable smile. You were all set to drop off the sorted files on Jessica’s desk, making a left into the next hallway. As you checked your portal watch , the device buzzed with all sorts of different pop-ups. With a swipe, they disappear and you’re able to see the time. Only twenty minutes until the upcoming meeting. Smiling with glee, you continued on your way, relieved your perfect track record was still intact. Everything was going smoothly.

That is until a large palm wraps around your waist, pulling you into an undisturbed corner. The files drop to the floor, scattering across the marble flooring, and your hands fly out in an attempt to steady yourself. When they connect with the telltale leather, you figure there’s only one person who would pull a stunt like this.

“ Hobie! “ you recognized the tall stature, trademark piercings and dark brown eyes of your lover, his hands running soothingly up and down your sides. Just as always, his features left your knees feeling weak, inebriated from his beauty. His sunken cheeks accentuated his broad nose and full lips so well. His eyes, spaced perfectly far apart welcome your own, shining with a fondness agreed to only reserve for one another. You slap at his chest playfully, bringing forth a chuckle before cementing your palms across his tattered blue crop top.

“ What are you doing? Someone could've seen. “ Your tone is hushed, as not to echo through the building’s cavernous walls.

Your eyes follow his as they trail over your form, his thumb absentmindedly tracing across your glossy lips. “ You've been ignoring me lately, butterfly. “

Of course, Hobie being ever observant, would pick up on it sooner or later. That nickname was coined from the way you’d swing about during battles. You were always so poised and perfect, fluttering amongst the villains with a sense of grace. Every move took careful consideration - it was if you would shatter otherwise. Hobie, on the other hand, had a much different approach. Seeing him in battle before you met was awe-inspiring, albeit concerning. He was somewhat lackadaisical in his movements and yet every blow was calculated. He showed true experience in his fighting style, despite its aggressive and uncompromising qualities.

“ I haven't been ignoring you, Hobie.” Your hands drift along his chiseled jaw, admiring the lines that decorate his face. He quirks his eyebrows, the adjacent barbells glinting under the fluorescent lighting. “ I've just been busy. You know that. “

“ Oh yeah? “ His head lowers to burrow his face in your neck, inhaling the sugary smell of your lotion. Sweet cream, he thinks. “ Then how come everytime I call, you never answer? “

He’s referring to the time you two would call each other on the phone, whenever your schedules would allow it. No matter what, you’d always make an effort to finish your chores before you’d call, making it one of the few times he’d have your undivided attention. What with your classes, assignments and being Spider-Woman? Safe to say you had your hands full.

That wasn’t the reasoning behind you avoiding him though, if you could call it that. What really happened was Jess and Miguel cornering you after a meeting, confronting your relationship with him. Much like everyone else in HQ, they had caught on to your camaraderie, sensing he might turn you against them. Of course they didn’t phrase it that way.

However, it did make you apprehensive. It’s no secret that this environment didn’t value individuality. Wherever you went it felt like there were eyes watching your every move. Everyone was forced to fit the mold, and if you didn’t you were stamped out. One of the first things Hobie had taught you.

“ Doll? “ His fingers gently tip your head upwards, making your eyes level with his. The dark irises that bore into your own, paired with the soothing circles he’s rubbing into your shoulders, steadily loosen your wavering resolve. “ Talk to me. “

You ponder for a moment, wondering which words would be best. It was unlikely he’d favor the response anyway, so in an effort to placate, you lifted his hand to your face and leaned your cheek into his palm. “ Nothing, it’s just Jess and Miguel again. I’m sorry. I should've said something. “

Hobie let out a sigh, giving his head a shake. Even after how long he’s known you, you were still your contained self. Not like he was complaining. He just didn't want you taken advantage of. The desire to satiate enveloped you in its delicate petals, prompting you to offer the sweetest, most tender parts of yourself - to people who had no business receiving it. Probably why they cornered you, and not him.

“ How long we’ve been together, love? Two, maybe three months? “ His index and pointer finger toy with your bohemian braids, curling the strands of the hair betwixt them. The gold jewelry that adorns them shines brilliantly once they catch the light. “ Why’s it still bother you? “

You almost smack your lips out of exhaustion. You figured he wouldn’t understand. Another thing about Hobie, he very rarely considered the consequences of his actions.

“ I know, Bee. it just makes me nervous, okay? I wanna protect you, and it’s clear our relationship wouldn’t be welcome. “

Deep down, you knew Hobie wouldn’t mind defying orders, but you weren’t going to risk him or you getting kicked out because of your boss's pettiness.

Hobie lets your words marinate before responding, lip tucked between his teeth. That was just like you, putting someone else’s needs over your own. You were the epitome of self-sacrifice, thrusting yourself into battle if only it was meant to ensure someone else’s safety. Don’t get him wrong, it wasn’t that Hobie didn't respect your morals, he just couldn’t relate to them. This society wasn’t built for your type of mindset. It was enough of a struggle sticking up for what’s right, now you have people making your decisions for you. No room for creative expression.

“ You’re too good for this world, y’know that? They don’ deserve ya. “ His face nudges at your cheek, plump lips drifting alongside your neck. His hands begin to caress your sides, squeezing appreciatively at the flesh hidden beneath your suit. You preen under his touch, gaze darting cautiously to the hallway from which he had stolen you from.

“ You say that all the time…” and it was just as endearing as the last.

“ Wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true. “ Those pool-like irises draw you in, reflecting pure sincerity. His next words tug on your heartstrings, knowing he spoke the truth. “ You’re better than this, ⊱❀⊰.“

This wasn't the first time you two have had this conversation. It’s been brought up before, in the privacy of his houseboat and comfort of his sheets. You two would be cuddled up together, a swift breeze from the open window offsetting your shared warmth. His toned arms would circle around you protectively, thumb rubbing mindless patterns into your skin as your cheek lay where his heart beat. You’d fantasize about what it would be like if things were different. Like if the two of you had met in another life, where the harrowing pressure of being spider people was unknown and you were free to live your lives the way you deserved.

“ I really am sorry, Hobie. “ Your freshly manicured nails trace along Hobie’s collarbone, before he grabs ahold of them, kissing the tips of your fingers. “ I guess I just got caught up again. “

“ Oh swee’heart. “ The lines around his eyes crinkle in amusement, a broad smile spreading across his face. “ I’m just teasin'. I could neva' be mad at’cha. “ His lips meet your forehead in a chaste kiss, wrapping his arms around your midsection. Your head rests in between the lapels of his leather jacket, able to hear the thrum of his heart in your ear. He couldn’t exactly blame you, not after witnessing the stress you were experiencing first hand. He knew you too well to expect your next move, even if it wasn’t intentional.

“ Jus’ promise you’ll talk to me next time, okay?” His soft voice tickles your ear, as he drops kisses wherever he can reach. “ I missed you. “ The two of you rock side to side gently, and you melt utterly into his embrace, trusting him completely.

God, wasn’t he just perfect? You had the most understanding boyfriend in the world. You felt awful for him even having to confront you like this, but it just couldn’t be helped. It was your dynamic after all. You both revolved around this game of cat and mouse, waiting to see who would make the first move. Having to sneak around base would do that to you.

“ You’re such a doll." His face fits gently in your palms as you pull him closer, planting a tender kiss on his lips. They slot perfectly against yours, melding together as if this is where they were meant to be. “ But, I’m still worried. “

“ Darlin’, “ he murmurs, lips still flush against yours, “ You don’t haveta' worry ‘bout a thing when I'm with you. “

When Hobie’s tongue runs across your lips, it tells you everything you need to know. Despite the amount of times this has gone down, your heart still races with the promise of what's to come, evident by the way Hobie's hips push up against yours, large palms cupping your ass. That's when the heat of your legs begins to stir, enveloping your body in a prickly warmth. All of a sudden you're up against the wall, his strong hands guiding you towards it. It's feels like second nature as your legs wrap around his slim waist, and you part your lips with a moan as his tongue darts inside, exploring the inside of your mouth. Your tongues dance as you wrap your arms around his neck, heavy pants filling the hallway.

" Got anythin' y'need to do baby? " The low timbre of his voice sends a shudder down your spine, just before his lips overtake yours again, stealing the breath from your lungs.

" Files...on Jess's desk. " He doesn't need you to repeat yourself to understand what you meant, sparing a glance at the discarded papers on the floor.

He's sure you already knew how well he cared for this position, but you were never extended the same sentiment. You were your own person, free to make your own decisions, regardless of what he thought. So he shoots a web collecting the files, before snaking an arm around your waist, pressing you up to his side. His lip ring is heated from warmth as it bump the ridge of your ear, before the teasing drawl of his voice fills it.

" Think y'have some time to spare? " You couldn't care much for Hobie's laughter at your enthusiastic nod, not when he was insinuating what you've been yearning for for days.

Which is how you end up in one of HQ's many storage closets, just a few paces away. It’s surprisingly dim, light flickering periodically above with a table stationed in the middle. You place yourself on top of it, Hobie immediately capturing your lips with his, one hand cupping your chin, while the other is planted firmly on your left side, effectively trapping you against the table.

Now you two are truly able to consume each other in a heated show of passion, free from the prying eyes of the outsiders. All that pent up energy from before releases itself into this room, serving as a breeding ground for your rendezvous. You're ravenous as your lips find his, bringing him as close as physically possible. Your fingers tangle in his hair, caressing the coarse wicks that sprouts from his scalp. Hobie welcomes it with a groan, and you swallow it greedily, taking whatever he has to offer.

Your back falls against the table, arms wrapped around Hobie's broad shoulders as his form engulfs yours. You both pull at each other, ripping off pieces of each other's suit. They're tossed across the room, flying past the stack of files placed safely on the shelfs against the wall. Eventually Hobie's left clad in his pants and boots, while you're working on the bottom half of your suit. You reach down to pull them off, before his hands fly out.

" Wait, wait, love, lemme.." The heat of his breath cascades over you, his broads palms squeezing your plush thighs. As he lowers himself to his knees, his idea becomes clear and you lift your legs to make it easier for him. He takes his time with you, moving tantalizingly slow as he pulls the rest of your suit off, until the entirety of your supple skin is free to the frigid air. Hobie's heart palpitates as he lifts himself off the floor, gazing hungrily at your body in its purest form. You looked absolutely ethereal even in simplicity. More beautiful than anything that has ever occupied this earth, nay the universe.

“ Fuck, love." He sucks in a breath. " You look like heaven. “ 

A deep fondness fills the expanse of your face, as you press your hands to your chest in appreciation. How did he always know just what to say? Was he aware that his words always brought an insurmountable ache to your heart?

As you beckon him closer, you two find each other once more. Time slows down between you, getting lost in each other's warmth. It allows him to savor the taste of your lips. Sweet, like spun sugar but with a subtle hint of spice. There was always more than meets the eye when it came to you.

His hips start to grind into yours, creating the most delicious friction. You feed into it, rocking your hips against him as the table starts to creak from your ministrations. It was now when the tender ache between your legs began to blossom into something insatiable, and you're unable to ignore it any longer.

" I need you, right now. " You all but whisper. His lips trail down to your neck, wet kisses are placed delicately across your throat. The flutter of his eyelashes tickle your skin, as he continues to worship you.

" You already have me, luscious. " You would've rolled your eyes, if not for his tongue gliding across your neck. It sends a deep shudder down your spine, one that has you grasping at his naked back. " Don't worry. I got what'cha need. " His gruff voice leaves your ear, as he raises himself from your neck, shielding you from the shoddy light. His form fills your peripheral vision, making him all you can focus on as you regain your breath. You never noticed his fingers creeping towards your cunt, too focused on the brown of his eyes. They never leave yours, and you take it as a sign that Hobie would never leave you.

Your mouth falls open in a gasp as his deft fingers push past your opening, delving deep inside your walls. " Goddamn, love. You're soaked." He sounds genuinely breathless, marveling at the slick between them. Your essence slips through his slender digits, as he pumps them in and out, reveling in your sounds. The way moans flew from your chest reminded him of a songbird. You sung so sweetly. " You're so beautiful y'know that? " He watches your face contort in pleasure, captivated as you writhe beneath him. " Gorgeous, gorgeous girl. "

" God, just fuck me already. " you cry out, exasperated. Your fists are clenched in desperation, fighting the urge to dig them in his wrist. You're second-guessing your thoughtful consideration as his fingers graze a sensitive spot, only furthering your ache for him.

" Don't worry, I'm gettin' to tha'. " His chuckle only irritates you, possibly more than his next words. " Can't a man jus' enjoy the view? " Thankfully he's deemed this to be enough torment, slowly withdrawing his fingers from your wet pussy. He pops them into his mouth, making sure you're watching as his tongue swirls around them - absorbing your flavor. If there was more time he would have eaten you out, but alas his lady needed him, and he was more than willing to deliver.

" Open those pretty legs f'me sugar. " With a tap to your knees, your sopping heat is exposed to the air, sticking to your legs. The translucent sheen glistens under the lighting, making Hobie hold back a whistle. He'd knew you'd be embarrassed, but god, were you a sight to behold. With a skilled hand he unbuckles his belt, freeing himself from the confines of his pants. His tip pokes at your entrance, sliding back and forth between your slick. Of course, he can't help but throw one more final jab, throwing your legs over his shoulders.

" Y'sure you're ready f'me baby? "

" Ask me that again, and I walk out. " A moan punches from your throat as his dick pushes all the way inside you, filling you to the brim. He groans, adjusting to how your cunt wraps around him, before starting a steady rhythm.

" Sorry swee' heart, but y'know I gotta tease ya a bit first. " Hobie holds your ankles in his hands, and his hips slap against your pussy, echoing throughout the room. Heavy breaths and gasps pour from your lungs, with each thrust wracks your body. The table legs shake and rub harshly on the floor, and Hobie's feet plant themselves further apart to reach deeper inside of you. You were squealing, hands scrambling for any place to balance yourself.

Hobie grits his teeth, eyes scrunched tight in concentration. His only focus was stretching you out, wanting to satisfy his girl. " You enjoyin' yourself, lovely? " he goads, brows furrowed as he zeroes in on your fucked out expression. Your moans flood his ears, and his deep voice drawls on. " Mm, I bet. Always such a good girl f'me, yeah? "

The questioning tilt in his voice prompts you to answer, but you're afraid you can't offer much but a brainless nod. Especially when the force of his thrusts knock every syllable from your lips before they have the chance to leave. He hits deep and hard, making sure you're fed every inch of his cock. It reaches depths not even his fingers have crossed, filling you up so deep you can barely comprehend.

“ God, you drive me wild y’know that? Can’ get enough of this tight cunt. “ His lips mashed against yours as he continued to babble, officially drunk off your pussy. A throaty groan emits from his throat as you clench around him, biting his bottom lip. All of a sudden, his firm grip releases your legs to grip at your waist, setting a new pace that jolts your body forward.

Your mouth flies open as he delivers another harsh thrust, your hands rushing to grip at his arms. Was he trying to kill you? If so, it was definitely working. His cock battered your pussy, realigning your insides. Moans fly out of your mouth, piercing through the air, adding to the heated atmosphere.

" Fuck beautiful, you're gonna make me cum. " You squeeze at his words, drawing a smirk from his lips. " Yeah, you like that? Want me to fill you up? " Fuck yes. He could do whatever he wanted if only it didn't include stopping. You were on cloud nine, uncaring of anything else that was going on. You didn't even care if you were late for your meeting, with the way his dick caressed your walls.

Eventually, that ache from before coils within your stomach, tightening into a knot. You were so close to your release and when Hobie hits that spot, you simply crumble, back arching against the arctic metal.

“ Oh god, oh god, Hobie! “

“ I know dovey. Let it out, I’m right here. “ His pace doesn't falter as he reaches down to toy with your clit, stroking the sensitive bundle of nerves between his index and pointer finger. The coil in your stomach finally snaps, and you cry out, releasing your juices all over Hobie’s cock.

“ Thaat’s it, gorgeous. " his voice barely reaches you as you cream on him, fingernails digging into his arms. Your orgasm spurs on his own, just before thick ropes of cum spill inside your pussy.

As the aftershocks wrack through your body, he soothes you with soft kisses to your neck and collarbone, large palms massaging your flesh. Your chest heaves as you regain your breath, Hobie waiting patiently before he pulls out. In the heat of the moment, you've forgotten that Hobie didn't put on a condom. Which is why it shouldn't surprise you at all when he's leaning down to whisper in your ear, lanky arms wrapping enveloping you in his warmth.

“ Guess I'll be with ya at all times, huh love? “