#Fake Note Checking Machines

[ilovolderman]

Movie Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam tries to gather proof of your secret relationship with Bucky during a movie night.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, sam losing his mind, one shared blanket

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sam Wilson was back on his BS.

Not because he wanted to be. No. He had to be. This was about justice. About truth. About the undeniable, unquantifiable, deeply suspicious sense that you and Bucky Barnes were absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent... up to something.

He didn’t have hard evidence. He didn’t even have medium evidence. What he had was vibes.

And the vibes? They were criminal.

It all started on a Wednesday.

The group had planned a “Chill Movie Night.”

Sam arrived early, armed with snacks, a color-coded emotional tracking spreadsheet, and a high-end mood ring that Tony insisted was “useless but fun.”

Everything seemed normal. Steve was fluffing pillows like a dad trying to avoid confrontation. Peter was arguing with the popcorn machine. Natasha was already asleep on the couch. (Open-eyed, somehow. Very concerning.) Tony was making a cocktail out of four liquids that were definitely not FDA-approved.

And then you walked in.

Sam’s eye twitched.

Behind you, Bucky entered. Smirking. Carrying your favorite takeout like some kind of emotionally supportive boyfriend ninja.

“Hey, guys,” you said sweetly, flopping onto the couch. Bucky sat beside you, a respectable distance away.

Until Sam blinked.

And suddenly, somehow, your knees were touching.

EXHIBIT Q. KNEE TREASON.

Sam clutched his soda like it was the last thing anchoring him to reality.

The movie choice? A romcom. Obviously. The plot? Two idiots pretending not to be in love. The irony? Painful.

Sam watched you both. Not the movie. You giggled during the fake-dating scene. Bucky smirked.

Your eyes met for exactly 1.3 seconds. You looked away like your life depended on it.

Sam scribbled in his notes. Tony leaned in, whispering, “Are you actually watching the movie or doing telepathy?”

“I’m watching a conspiracy unfold in real time,” Sam whispered back. “...Of course you are.”

On screen, the protagonists shared a dramatic, rain-soaked kiss. On the couch, Bucky passed you a napkin. You took it without looking. No words. No thank you.

EXHIBIT R. EMPATHETIC NAPKIN TRANSFER.

Sam wrote “co-dependent, probably share a soul.” in his notes.

It got worse. At some point  Peter complained about the cold. Tony threatened to install a fireplace. Someone, probably Steve, bless his Midwestern heart, tossed a blanket over the couch. You grabbed one end. Bucky took the other.

Normal. Harmless. Unremarkable.

Until Sam realized there was only one blanket.

And two people under it.

A suspicious amount of shoulder contact was happening beneath that polyester monstrosity. Too much shared body heat. Too much calm.

Sam squinted. “Why are they always so synchronized?” Steve, confused: “Who?” Sam: “The blanket goblins.” Steve: “...Are you okay?” Sam: “NO.”

The movie played on in the background, but you and Bucky were no longer paying attention. Instead, you two were quietly leaning into each other, aware of Sam's eagle-eyed attention from across the room. The couch creaked as Bucky shifted slightly closer, his arm brushing against yours, and you bit your lip to keep from smiling too widely.

"Do you think Sam's lost it yet?" you whispered, voice low, just enough for Bucky to hear.

Bucky grinned, but didn’t look away from the screen. "Oh, he’s spiraling. I can feel his brain cells popping one by one."

You let out a tiny snort, trying to hold back the giggle that was threatening to escape. “He's so obvious. He keeps glancing over every two seconds. Should we give him a little more to work with?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his lips curling in a barely contained smirk. “You want to really mess with him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should let him stew for a bit longer.” You shot a playful glance at Sam, who was practically glaring at you two from behind his soda. "He’s getting all worked up for nothing."

Bucky leaned in a little closer, his breath warm on your ear as he whispered, “Let’s make him regret not having a seat next to us.”

He shifted slightly, just enough that your knees brushed against each other. The small touch seemed so innocent to anyone else, but Sam’s narrowed eyes locked onto the subtle movement, his hand hovering over his notebook like a hawk waiting to strike.

Your lips quirked into a mischievous smile. You did your best to make it look like a completely natural movement as you accidentally rested your head against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky, of course, played along beautifully, his arm casually draping over the back of the couch behind you, so close that your bodies were practically melting into each other.

“You okay?” he asked in the most nonchalant tone, but the teasing glint in his eyes was hard to miss.

You blinked, putting on your best innocent face. “Oh, yeah. Just—just—getting comfy.” Your hand brushed against his as you adjusted yourself, and you quickly squeezed his fingers once before letting them fall.

Your eyes flicked over to Sam, who was visibly straining to stay calm, his hand twitching over his notebook like it was a lifeline. You could practically hear his thoughts racing: This is it. This is definitely it. They're in on it.

You smiled sweetly, letting your voice drop to an exaggerated whisper. “I think I might be too comfortable.”

Bucky’s smirk widened, and before Sam could even react, he casually pulled his jacket sleeve over his hand, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, and gently brushed his fingertips against your knee. The slightest contact. Barely a touch.

Sam’s eyes narrowed so sharply that it looked like his face might implode. He scribbled something aggressively in his notebook. You could almost hear the frantic ticking of his mental clock. *Evidence: They are physically close. Touch. Note: Is this normal?

You stifled a laugh, shifting just a little to let your body lean more into Bucky. “You know,” you said, voice syrupy sweet, “I could really get used to this.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, shifting just enough that his shoulder brushed against yours, and his hand accidentally found its way to your lower back. “Well, lucky for you,” he said with mock sincerity, “I’m just that kind of guy. Always happy to offer some… support.”

You grinned, fighting the urge to burst into laughter. Instead, you pressed your palm into his chest, just enough for the world to think it was a casual adjustment. But oh, you knew. You knew what was happening.

Sam was now glaring at you both with a level of intensity that could melt steel.

Bucky turned his head toward you, but just enough so Sam could definitely see. He made eye contact, and his lips curved into a teasing grin, one that said, I know you’re watching.

You raised your eyebrows in challenge and tilted your head as if asking, What are you going to do about it, Sam?

You caught a glimpse of his expression, then leaned closer to Bucky. “I swear he’s about to pull out a flowchart,” you whispered, lips curling into a mischievous grin.

Bucky bit back a laugh. “Let him. He’ll need it for all this groundbreaking evidence.”

Sam’s eye twitched.

You and Bucky both leaned back, relaxing into each other, casually oblivious to the total chaos you were unleashing. Sam sat back down, utterly defeated, furiously scribbling in his notebook. He couldn’t even look at the screen anymore.

Then, the movie ended. The lights came on. You yawned. Bucky stretched.

And Sam watched in horror as Bucky casually — casually! — helped you into your jacket like it was 1952 and you were going steady after a sock hop.

You whispered something to him. He grinned. Then you both said you were leaving at the same time, but separately.

Bucky went out the back. You left through the front.

Sam looked at Natasha.

“Did you see that?” She didn’t even open her eyes. “Nope.” “Lies.” “You need a nap.” “I need the TRUTH.”

Tony sipped his weird drink. “I give it another week before they start sharing shoes.”

Peter, from the kitchen: “Wait, do they not already?”

Sam screamed into the void.

Later that night the rooftop was quiet, blanketed in the soft hush of city sounds far below. A gentle breeze tugged at the edge of the blanket draped over your shoulders as you curled into your usual corner, legs tucked beneath you. Fairy lights flickered lazily overhead, casting warm glows over Bucky’s face as he joined you with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

He handed one “Cheers to another successful psychological operation,” you said, clinking the mugs.

“To Operation: Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlfriend,” Bucky replied solemnly, taking a sip. He immediately burned his tongue and winced.

You giggled, taking a much more careful sip. “You know Sam’s going to start cross-referencing our foot placement on the couch with moon phases, right?”

“Oh, definitely,” Bucky said. “I bet he’s already got a red string board with little thumbtacks that spell ‘LIES.’”

You leaned into him with a contented sigh, resting your head on his shoulder. “We are going to hell.”

“Matching outfits,” he said. “I already ordered the shirts.”

You burst into laughter, nearly spilling your drink. “Bucky.”

He just smiled, wide and soft and unguarded in the dim rooftop light, and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side like you belonged there—and honestly, you did.

A beat of silence passed. The kind that wasn’t awkward. The kind that felt like a warm exhale, like a secret just between the two of you.

You smiled into your mug, letting the words settle. The city shimmered below you. The stars above blinked like they were in on the secret too.

“I like it up here,” you murmured.

“I like you up here,” Bucky replied, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your head, right at your temple, like he was memorizing the shape of your joy.

You turned your face toward him, bumping noses a little in that silly, clumsy way that always made him smile. “You’re being very sweet. Should I be worried?”

He shrugged. “Just making sure you know.”

“That you like me?”

“That I’m crazy about you,” he said, and then, quieter: “Even when you’re fake flirting with me to drive Sam to madness.”

You grinned. “Oh, babe. That’s not fake.”

Bucky blinked, then broke into a grin so dopey and full of love it made your chest ache.

You clinked your mugs together again, just because.

Meanwhile Sam was crouched on the roof of a building, squinting through a comically long-lensed pair of binoculars that Tony swore were “state-of-the-art.”

They were not.

They were the opposite of helpful.

They had a cracked lens, fog on the inside, and occasionally made a sad whining sound like they missed retirement.

Still, Sam stared across the distance with the desperate determination of a man on the brink.

Through the foggy lens, he saw… two tiny blobs.

Two indistinct, cozy-looking blobs huddled on the rooftop of Avengers Tower, gently illuminated by twinkle lights that only added insult to injury.

He couldn’t see their faces. He couldn’t read lips. He couldn’t tell which blob was Bucky and which was you.

“Come on, do something,” Sam muttered, adjusting the focus knob. Nothing changed. He flipped it the other way. The blobs got blurrier.

He smacked the side of the binoculars.

They shut off.

He swore loudly and rebooted them.

Inside his earpiece, FRIDAY chimed in, unbothered: “Would you like me to send a drone for closer surveillance?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “No. That’s what they want. Then they’ll know I’m watching.”

“They already know you’re watching.”

“I have to catch them, FRIDAY. Not just feel it in my soul.”

Another blob shifted.

Sam gasped. “Movement. MOVEMENT.” He turned the dial again. Still nothing but murky shadow-people. “Are they... hugging? Is that a hug? Or... is one of them standing up? Oh my god, is Bucky proposing?!”

A long pause. Then, FRIDAY dryly: “Sir. They are literally just drinking cocoa.”

Sam groaned and flopped backward onto the gravel roof, his limbs starfished dramatically like a war hero brought low by cuddle-based crimes.

“This is torture,” he moaned. “I’m three buildings away, I’ve got frostbite on my kneecaps, and I’m watching two potato blobs make suspiciously synchronized cocoa movements.”

“Shall I remind you,” FRIDAY said gently, “that you volunteered for this?”

“I VOLUNTEERED FOR TRUTH. AND JUSTICE. AND—” Sam sat up suddenly. “Wait. Are they... did that blob just touch the other blob’s blob-arm?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

“Oh god,” he whispered. “They’re holding hands. I feel it.”

“Or one of them is adjusting a blanket.”

Sam made a noise like a teakettle dying. “It’s the vibes, FRIDAY. I am being spiritually attacked.”

A car honked below. Sam yelped and dropped the binoculars. They hit the ground, bounced once, and rolled off the edge of the building with a dramatic clatter that absolutely ruined the "stealth" part of the mission.

Sam stared at the edge.

Then at the sky.

Then at his empty hands.

“FRIDAY, I’ve lost visual.”

There was a beat.

“Sir, you never had it.”

Back at Avengers Tower, on the actual rooftop you snuggled closer to Bucky, sipping your hot chocolate, utterly unaware of the storm raging in a man's soul several rooftops away.

Actually, no—you were very aware.

You nudged Bucky. “Wanna bet where Sam is right now trying to spy on us?”

Bucky grinned. “Roof of that tall brick building with the busted vent.”

You blinked. “How do you know?”

“I waved at him like ten minutes ago.”

next part

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[bloomiize]

i'll be watching

pairing → jay x yn

warnings → smut, THERES A PLOT KINDA, stalking behaviour, he is OBSESSED, hes still a """"gentleman""", dom jay, fem reader, dubcon, reader gets drunk, coercion

wc: ~3.5k

synopsis → One smile was all it took. The moment your eyes glanced at him, he knew. Jay had already found your full name, your age, where you worked, and exactly where you lived. You just didn’t know you loved him yet and that's okay. He was going to make sure you felt it, too.

You were always quiet, minding your own business and in your own world. It was peaceful, unbothered and drama-free. Juggling a full course load and working at the cafe, you didn't have the time to care about all the guys who tried to get your attention. A compliment here and there, maybe a little note slip on the counter with a phone number on it.

"I have work."

"This assignment is due tomorrow."

"My schedule is packed for this weekend."

You say over and over again. Some would nod their heads understandingly and leave. Others got upset, accusing you of being a tease, wasting their time. But it was always the truth. You just didn’t care to date. It wasn’t a priority. Never was.

The cafe became a soft space for you, and it was a routine you enjoyed. Coffee, latte, baked goods and the warm hum of happy customers filled your days when you weren't busy daydreaming or studying.

"Hi! What can I get you?" You asked, voice light and shining with infinite possibilities. The greeting rolling off your tongue like a script. You didn’t glance up this time, opting to refill the cupcake stand that was being sold at a pace faster than you could keep up with.

"Coffee. Black." The voice was low. Rushed, like he didn’t want to be here longer than necessary.

You finally looked up, and what a sight it was.

Neat, dark hair. Sharp features that didn't look real. His hands fiddling with— what looks to be— an expensive watch. He didn’t look like the usual customers who came in between classes or after lectures. He looked out of place. Cold, quiet and probably had way too much money.

Then he looked up, staring right at you.

You gave him a warm smile, polite and practiced— the same one you offered to every customer. But his gaze didn’t soften. It stayed locked on yours, curious, unwavering, like he could see past the surface. Like he was trying to figure something out about you that even you didn’t know yet.

When you called out his order, he grabbed it from the counter and left with a quick "Thank you" slipping from his lips. What an interesting guy, wasn't he? And you continued your shift, forgetting all about the strange man. But he never forgot about you.

Jay hated cafes.

Overpriced coffee. Pretentious menus. The same recycled “minimalist” aesthetic with fake plants and Instagrammable drinks that tasted like burnt water and regret. He took his coffee seriously—dark, rich, and brewed with precision. Not watered down through shit using a machine that's probably already rusting.

But today was different.

His morning meeting had been moved earlier without notice, and he didn’t have time to grind the beans himself, didn’t get to hear the satisfying sound of it being poured, didn’t get to take that first quiet sip in the dark comfort of his kitchen. Instead, he was running late. Annoyed. And in desperate need of caffeine.

What a waste, he thought bitterly, eyes scanning the ugly brown exterior of a small cafe on the corner. The obnoxious chalkboard screamed “OPEN!” and jutted out onto the sidewalk like it was begging for attention. Tacky.

Still, he stepped inside, the little chime above the door making his eye twitch. The place was warm, smelled faintly of cinnamon and espresso. Surprisingly, he didn't find bright lights or fake plants or Instagrammable murals. He joined the short line, checking his watch every few seconds.

This better be quick.

He was already thinking about how he’d never let Heeseung schedule his meetings again when something shifted.

A voice.

“Hi! What can I get you?”

You.

The barista behind the counter.

Eyes that shimmered with something— curiosity? Joy? Maybe it was just the reflection of the morning sun, but it caught him off guard. You had a warm smile, a soft voice that was so effortlessly kind it almost irritated him. No fake chipper tone. No forced customer service greeting. You looked real.

His mouth moved before he could think. “Coffee. Black.”

And for the first time that morning, he thought about something other than killing Heeseung.

He kept visiting after that. The cup you made him didn't taste disgusting, he was pleasantly surprised. But it wasn’t the coffee that brought him back the next day. Or the day after that. At first, he sat by the window, pretending to scroll through emails or read a news article. Something to excuse the fact that he hadn’t taken a single sip of the drink cooling beside him.

He was watching you.

The way you tied your apron without thinking, the way you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear when you were focused on something. The soft laugh you gave when your coworker said something stupid. It annoyed him how much of your attention everyone else got.

So he listened.

He learned that your favourite pastry was the chocolate croissant, that you hated oat milk, and that you were taking some brutal university class you always complained about on Mondays. He would do all your work for you if it meant you never had to lift a finger. Anything for you to smile.

He learned you only worked mornings on weekdays and full days on weekends. He picked up the rhythm of your schedule with unsettling ease, pretending as if it were his own. Jay started telling his assistant he'd be working remotely more often—from home, he said. But home wasn’t his apartment anymore. It was the window seat at the café.

Your café.

It was a calm morning, he was still watching— still listening. As he sat at his usual corner table pretending to answer emails, he heard your name.

"Y/N, can you grab another box of lids from the back?"

Y/N. It echoed in his head like a siren's curse.

His fingers twitched around his cup. How could your coworker say something so sacred without a care in the world? It annoyed him. But that was all he needed; Jay had a name now. A real one. The moment he heard it, something settled deep in his chest. Like he unlocked a new level. As if knowing it gave him some invisible thread that tied you to him—whether you realized it or not. You let him know your name.

You hadn’t looked at him since that first day. You didn’t remember him. He was just another customer, a regular who always ordered a black coffee. You smiled politely like you did to everyone else. That irked him more than he expected. How could you show that to everyone? It was only supposed to be for him.

But it was okay. He was patient. He'd wait for you forever.

You didn’t know you were his yet. But you would eventually, he’d make sure of it.

You were already running late to class—your shift had dragged longer than expected, and your manager needed help with the register changeover. You said yes, of course. You always did.

Then the kid happened.

Sugar-high, giggling, and sticky-handed, he barreled straight into you as you stepped out from behind the counter. Your drink slipped from your fingers, crashing against your front, staining your white t-shirt in a swirl of espresso and foam. You laughed it off with his mom as she scolded him for being a handful, apologizing profusely while dabbing at your clothes with napkins.

Back in the kitchen, you tried scrubbing it out with soap and water, but the mess clung to the fabric like it belonged there. You were soaked. And the coffee smell followed you like a curse. You had ten minutes to make it to your lecture, barely enough time to breathe, let alone run home and change.

You stepped out of the café with your head down, already mentally preparing your apology for walking into class late and causing a scene. Suddenly, you hit something solid. No, not something. Someone.

You stumbled, arms flailing slightly as the impact caught you off guard, but before you could trip, two hands grabbed your arms. Steady. Warm. Strong.

A chest. Broad. A body, hard with muscle beneath his shirt. It was hard not to stare for a bit.

“Careful,” a low voice murmured above you.

You looked up. One of the regulars at the cafe— Jack? Jake? Jay? His name was something along those lines. His eyes flicked down to your soaked top, his brows pinched together, like he was in pain. How odd.

You scrambled for words. "I'm so sorry!" you blurted, looking up and meeting his gaze with wide, apologetic eyes. That nearly killed him.

"Your next cup is on me, but I really have to go! Point me out next time at the counter," You say, embarrassment taking over your face. You back up, getting ready to sprint across campus.

He almost let you go. Almost.

“Do you… need a sweater?” he called after you, his voice lower, more careful. “For the stain. On your shirt.”

Suddenly, you're standing in front of him and he's taking off his sweater. A neat navy blue quarter zip, as he lifted it over his head, you got a glimpse of his midriff. Tone, perfectly sculpted abs. You ripped your gaze away, masking the awkward silence with a cough. He handed it to you with care and told you to keep it.

"I'll give it back next time i see you I swear!" You said running off waving at him with a smiling. There it was, that smile. Only for him.

He replayed the moment multiple times in his head. How you smelled of vanilla and dark roast. How you felt so warm and soft, his mind often wondered if you would feel the same under him. Jay palmed his dick night after night. How your shirt clung so tightly to your chest. He could see everything. And the way you smiled at him had him unravelling on his sheets. Moving up and down, breathlessly saying your name like a chant.

Life was a blur— assignments, lectures, shifts— and the sweater ended up in your closet. You wore it to work the next week, not thinking twice. At the cafe, Jay stood in line ahead of you. He turned, eyes landing on the sweater, a slow smile spreading. “So, you’re still wearing it.”

You spew out apologies and explanations but he let out a chuckle. Low. Deep. It vibrated in you.

“Keep it,” he laughed. “Looks like it’s yours now.” His gaze lingered. “Let me take you out, I'm sure you're tired of coffee by now.” His tone was light, but his eyes were focused on you. He was handsome, kind, and you basically stole his sweater, this was the least you could do to make up for it.

“Sure,” you smiled and wrote your number on his cup with a small smiley face beside it.

That date turned into hours of talking. Jay was funny, attentive, remembering tiny details like your love for plants and how you refused to allow any fake ones in the cafe, fighting the manager if you had to. You didn’t know he’d studied you online, memorizing your posts, your likes, the plushy bear you’d mentioned wanting. He knew you more than you knew yourself.

The second date was perfect: a park walk, dinner at a cozy bistro. The third was a movie night at your place, laughing together with his arm around you. He never crossed a line unless you wanted him to, always checking if you're okay with whatever he's doing, whether it be a hug or a light kiss on your lips. Jay was a nice guy; he would never do anything weird, maybe that's why you were so comfortable with him. He liked everything you liked. He listened to you rant about your professors and classmates. It was like he was made for you.

By the fourth, you knew you liked him. Jay was perfect—he opened doors, never let you pay, always drove you home and walked you back to your door. When he handed you the plush bear you’d mentioned offhandedly weeks ago, your eyes lit up.

“You remembered,” you beamed, pulling it into your arms.

“Of course I did,” he said, watching you like you hung the stars.

You didn’t notice the glint in the bear’s right eye, a tiny lens tucked behind the button. He wanted to keep seeing you smile. Even when you thought you were alone.

At night, when you changed, he was there, on his screen, heart racing. Jay sat in his darkened apartment, the laptop screen casting a sickly glow across his face. The plushy’s camera feed showed you in your room, taking off your shirt after a long day. His breath caught, uneven, as you unhooked your bra, your breasts spilling free, soft and perfect under the lamp’s dim light. He licked his lips, imagining his tongue swirling over your nipples, sucking hard until they pebbled, leaving wet trails and purple marks across your chest. He wanted to bite, to claim every inch of you.

“God, Y/N,” he growled, voice thick with lust, leaning so close his nose nearly brushed the screen. If he stuck out his tongue he could taste it, he could taste you. His eyes devoured you—your delicate collarbone, the maddening curve of your waist, the way your hair draped over your shoulder like an invitation for him to hold your hair up. His hand was already in his pants, gripping himself, the ache unbearable, so needy. Your body was a fucking altar, and he was a starving worshipper.

He groaned as you bent to grab a tee, your breasts swaying slightly, the view sending a violent jolt through him. His strokes were frantic now, sloppy, his palm slick with precum. He pictured pinning you to the bed, spreading you open, licking every curve until you screamed his name. The thought of anyone else seeing you—your classmates, those café creeps—made his gut fill up with rage. “Mine, mine, mine,” he gasped, hips bucking as he came, hot and messy, splattering across his hand. He panted, eyes still locked on you slipping into bed, oblivious, his perfect obsession.

He wiped himself off, breath uneven, knowing you curl up with the plushy. His plushy. His eyes. He’d never let you go.

Jay invited you to his place for dinner, and you couldn’t say no. His apartment was stunning—sleek, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The table was set with candles, a spread of homemade pasta, and a bottle of red wine. “You cook?” you teased, impressed and honoured.

“Only for you, angel,” he said, pouring you a generous glass. His smile was warm, but his eyes burned with something darker, a need. He kept refilling your glass, his hand lingering on yours. “You deserve to take a break, Y/N. You work so hard.” He cooed.

The wine hit fast, warming your limbs, clouding your thoughts. Jay was charming, leaning close, his smile growing bigger. You giggled, head fuzzy, his voice smooth and low as he talked. By the third glass, the room tilted, your cheeks flushed, your body uncontrollable. He moved to the couch, patting the spot beside him. “Come here love.” “You’re so… nice, Jay,” you mumbled, head lolling slightly, cheeks flushed. By the fourth glass, the room spun, your body heavy, limbs loose. Guilt clawed at you—he’d done so much, the dinner, the plushy, the sweater. You owed him, didn’t you? 

You stumbled, and he pulled you into his lap. His scent wrapped around you, intoxicating. He looked at you like you were his everything, and it felt too good, too warm, even as a faint voice screamed to leave. His hand slid to your thigh, squeezing, inching under your skirt. “You’re so pretty like this,” he murmured, voice thick. “All soft and sweet, just for me.”

“Jay, I… I’m really drunk,” you slurred, trying to push his hand away, but your fingers were clumsy. Your head felt like clouds, the wine drowning out your senses. “Maybe I should… go home.”

“Shh, angel,” he cooed, fingers tightening, ignoring your weak protest. “You can’t leave me after all this, can you? You’re my special girl tonight.” His eyes locked on yours, intense, needy. “You trust me, don’t you? I’ve been so good to you.” 

Guilt twisted harder. He had been good—perfect, even. The sweater, the bear, the way he always showed up at the cafe with a smile. He was so kind and caring, always attentive to your needs. He never pushed any lines; you owed him this, right? Just this once. “Okay..” you whispered, voice small, embarrassed, your body betraying you as his touch sent shocks through you.

“Good girl,” he said, kissing you deeply, his tongue and yours mixing perfectly, tasting the wine off your lips. He pushed you back on the couch, hands roaming all over you, tugging off your clothes with a rapid pace. “So fucking cute,” he murmured, unhooking your bra, lips grazing your collarbone. He smiled, sliding your skirt up, fingers hooking into your panties and pulling them down. “Look at you,” he whispered, playing with your folds, finding you slick despite your confusion. “So wet for me, aren’t you? And you wanted to go home like this?” He circled your clit slowly, teasing, watching you squirm. “Yeah? You like that?”

“S’good,” you slurred, hips twitching, embarrassed but unable to stop the heat building in you. His praise felt like a drug—cute, perfect, his angel.

“Aw,” he teased, slipping two fingers inside, pumping gently, his thumb on your clit. “Do you think of me when you wear my sweater?” he asked, voice low, eyes glinting as if he didn’t already know the answer. He’s watched you do it countless times by now.

“Y-Yes,” you admitted, voice shaky, picturing the cozy navy quarter-zip and how many times you’ve touched yourself while wearing it. He groaned, fingers curling. “So dirty,” he whispered, voice thick with approval. “My dirty little angel, thinking of me like that.” He moved faster, but when you whimpered, close to the edge, he stopped, pulling his fingers out, licking them clean while staring at you. “Not yet. I want to play with you longer.”

You whined, needy, head too foggy to argue, the alcohol was making everything feel lighter. “Jay, please,” you begged, barely coherent.

“Patience,” he chuckled, spreading your thighs wider. He didn’t wait long, his need overtook him. He shoved his pants down, freeing his cock, thick and heavy, the size making your eyes widen even through the drunken haze. “Jay, wait,” you slurred, panic flickering. “It’s… too big.”

“It’ll fit angel, it’ll fit,” he soothed, voice dripping with false gentleness, his hand rubbing your stomach as he lined himself up. “I’ll make it fit.” He pushed in, slow but relentless, stretching you, the burn making you cry out. You were wet, dripping even, yet he was still too big. “Hurts,” you whimpered, hands pushing weakly at his chest.

“I know, love,” he murmured, kissing your forehead, his hand pressing your stomach, feeling the bulge where he filled you. “You’re taking me so well. My perfect fuckdoll.” He thrust slowly, savouring your whines, each whimper and gasp fueling him. “So cute like this, whimpering for me,” You were gone. Your head was dizzy and all you could do was moan his name out, gripping onto him like he could save you.

You clutched his shoulders, nails digging in, your head lolling as the pain mixed with pleasure. “Too much,” you’re slurring, but your body arched into him, betraying you.

“You’re doing so good,” he said, thrusting deeper, still slow, watching the bulge in your stomach move. “My perfect girl, letting me have you like this. You owe me this, don’t you? After everything I’ve done for you.” His words sank into your drunken mind. You really did owe Jay everything. You nod barely understanding, just wanting to please him.

“That’s my girl,” he praised, picking up the pace slightly, his hand stroking your hair. “You feel so good, Y/N. Made for me.” He groaned, voice tightening. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

You blinked, a flicker of clarity cutting through the fog. “Jay… condom?” you mumbled weakly, too drunk to care fully, the question more curiosity than concern.

“Shh, love, it’s okay,” he whispered, hand cupping your cheek, thrusting harder. “We’re gonna have such a good family. I’ll take care of you, always.” His hips snapped forward, and he came, hot and thick robes flooded inside you, groaning into your neck as he filled you, no hesitation. Like he planned this.

You whimpered, too fucked out and drunk to process, your body limp beneath him. He held you close, kissing your forehead, murmuring, “My perfect girl. You did so good.” You drifted off in his arms while he cleaned you up. What a gentleman.

a/n: jay being devious is my new favourite thing I fear... anyways I HOPE YOU ENJOYED! sorry for not posting for a bit I've been super busy so let me yap for a bit. i started my summer courses KILL ME and I just started my new job YAY! I have wayyy too many drafts rn LOL pls lmk what you think! comments and reblogs are appreciated I LOVE YOU GUYS! <3

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[dinosus]

PART 2 of John price being a domestic menace its borderline obsessive

You guys wanted a part two, i gave you a part two. Get ready to be FED. -

Price loves his peace and quiet at home, but let’s be real—he’s a dramatic little shit about it.

If you’re vacuuming? He’s fake groaning on the couch like an old man.

“Bloody hell, I just sat down.”

“John, it’s been ten hours. The house is dusty.”

“It builds character.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it and uses it to nap. -

He’s obsessed with Sunday mornings. No alarms, no plans, just the two of you and the soft smell of toast and coffee.

You wear his shirt. Hair all messy, eyes half shut. He damn near falls in love with you all over again.

“C’mere,” he grumbles, arms outstretched.

You end up tangled on the couch together, wrapped in a throw blanket, watching the same old war documentaries he insists are “historically accurate.” Spoiler: they’re not.

You fall asleep. He stays awake just to stare at you. -

This man has a drawer full of random little things you’ve ever given him. Notes. Receipts with doodles. A button you once sewed back on his shirt.

You caught him once, sitting at the kitchen table after a deployment, holding a crumpled note you’d stuck in his gear bag.

“Missed you, soldier. Be safe. Dinner’s waiting.”

He didn’t say anything. Just kissed you like you hung the moon. -

He tries to help with chores, emphasis on tries.

You told him to vacuum once—he vacuumed the cat.

“JOHN.”

“She walked right into it, love, what d’you want me to do—”

He’s banned from touching anything electronic in the house. Washing machine? No. Dishwasher? Hell no. You let him water the plants. Supervised. -

Price keeps a hand on you at all times when he’s home. Sitting on the couch? He pulls you onto his lap. Brushing your teeth? He’s behind you, arms around your waist.

You once tried to sneak out of bed early. Didn’t even get halfway up before you were yanked back down.

“Not so fast, Mrs. Price.”

“Yes so fast, we need milk.”

“Milk can wait. Cuddles first.” -

He absolutely refuses to let you carry grocery bags.

You once tried to be independent and carry ONE bag. He glared at you like you insulted his honor.

“Drop it.”

“John, it’s eggs.”

“Drop it.”

You let him carry all ten bags like some suburban Hercules. He grunts dramatically for extra flair. -

He’ll never admit it, but he loves your skincare routine.

If you do a face mask, he sits there watching you like a little goblin.

“What the hell is that?”

“A clay mask.”

“Is it gonna eat your face?”

Next thing you know, you’re putting one on him. He grumbles but sits still. Thirty minutes later, he says his skin feels “tight but hydrated.” (He googled that.) - This man is the epitome of a black cat energy. Bro's footsteps so quite, he literally jump scares the shit outta you. Bastard doesn’t announce himself. Just snakes his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder, watching you stir the soup. You try to keep focused, but his warm breath on your neck is criminal.

“John, if this burns because of you—”

“It’s soup, love. Not a landmine,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss behind your ear.

You try to swat him with the wooden spoon, but he’s already grinning, ducking out of reach.

And then he goes for it—stealing a kiss right as you’re adding the salt.

“Don’t care if the soup’s still cookin’—you taste better.” He’s sneaking kisses while you’re trying to stir the pot. You threaten him with the wooden spoon. He laughs. “Fine, I’ll wait. But I’m takin’ seconds—of you, not the soup.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Had your fill ? :) Part one is on my account page, check it out ! <3

[alive-gh0st]

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨..ـ...

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re not sure what’s worse—his fake injuries or the way he keeps looking at you like he means it. like every visit is a reason to linger. like he wants you to see past the bruises and the bad lies and into something soft he’s trying to hide. he keeps showing up. you keep letting him. and eventually… one of you might break.

⛨ contains: sfw. slow burn tension at an all-time high. hospital flirting™. jealous glances. workplace drama. late-night phone calls. hand-hovering intimacy. emotional constipation (again). patch-up scene of doom. reader being flustered over a waist. mark being a tease. romantic yearning disguised as sarcasm. supply closet violations (almost). contact name crimes.

⛨ warnings: mild language. blood & injury treatment. bruises. longing. accidental touching. slow descent into horniness. future boyfriend antics. emotional walls. one almost-kiss. reader going feral over abs. mark’s v-line. reader’s vices.

⛨ wc: 4808

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i fear reader is down bad in ways that violate at least three hospital policies and one moral code. but like… have you seen mark’s waist? i wouldn’t have survived either. chapter four will be worse—stay safe out there.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’ve seen a lot of stupid injuries.

People impaling themselves with forks. A guy who tried to ’karate kick’ a vending machine. That one time someone walked into the ER because he thought his left eyebrow felt ’possessed.’

But this?

This is getting ridiculous.

Because standing in front of you—again, for the third time in two weeks—is him.

Mark Grayson.

Wrist wrapped in a pitiful excuse for an ice pack, wearing a hoodie that probably used to be gray but now lives in that existential space between ‘charcoal’ and ‘regret.’

And offering you the same crooked, annoyingly charming grin you’re starting to see in your sleep.

He lifts the ice pack with a wince. “I think I sprained it.”

You blink.

Then you blink again—slower this time.

You don’t even respond at first—you just grab the chart, grab the gloves, and hope no one notices the way your jaw clenches so tight it could crack.

“Room four,” you say.

He follows you.

Of course he follows you.

“Doesn’t really hurt that much,” he says casually once you’re in the room, like that’ll make it better.

“I mean, I can still move it a little. Mostly came in to make sure it’s not, y’know, falling off or something.”

You give him a look that should legally count as malpractice.

He shrugs, sheepish. “Okay. Bad joke.”

You ignore him. You’re professional. Clinical. Efficient. The exact opposite of how your heart is acting right now—beating like it just clocked into overtime.

The glove snaps around your wrist with more force than necessary.

“Left wrist?” you ask flatly.

He nods, holding it out like a peace offering. You take it—gently, despite everything—and start checking for swelling, bone displacement, range of motion.

You do not notice how warm his skin is under your fingers.

You do not notice how his eyes are watching you the whole time, like he’s waiting for you to laugh at his pain or say something sarcastic.

You do not notice how close he is.

How human he looks. How normal he acts, even though every part of your gut screams that he’s something else entirely.

Still. You say nothing.

Instead—

“How’d it happen?”

Mark pauses.

Too long.

“Uh… tripped. Over a… rug. At a friend’s house.”

A beat.

You raise an eyebrow. “A rug.”

“Yeah. Big one.”

Your stare is surgical. “Right.”

He clears his throat. “You probably had to be there.”

You don’t laugh. Not even a smile.

But your lips twitch.

You hate him.

The chart says ’minor sprain.’

Your notes say ’watch for re-injury.’

Your brain says, he’s lying through his teeth.

You hand him the discharge slip and turn to leave, already planning your lunch break that will now include exactly two Tylenol and one existential crisis.

But then—

“Thanks, by the way.”

You pause. Glance over your shoulder.

Mark’s still sitting on the exam bed, eyes soft. Voice softer. “For not yelling at me this time.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

His smile is lopsided. Wrist still slightly swollen. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s trying to look more pathetic.

You exhale. “Next time, make it believable.”

He grins. “That a promise?”

You’re already walking away.

You don’t see it—but Mark watches you leave like he wants you to look back. Like he’s hoping one of these visits will make you stay just a second longer.

Maybe next time.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It happens again.

And again.

And again.

At this point, your coworkers don’t even ask for his name. He walks in, waves a little, and someone—usually Nurse Carla, with a look that says you owe me lunch—just hands him a clipboard and sends him your way.

“Room nine,” she tells you one night, like it’s the weather forecast. “Your favorite repeat offender’s back.”

You don’t look up. “What is it this time? Terminal idiot disease?”

“He says shoulder strain. Won’t shut up about a ‘kitchen incident.’”

You sigh. Loudly. Aggressively.

And go.

“Let me guess,” you say before the door even finishes clicking shut behind you. “Rug attack again?”

Mark’s seated on the exam bed, hoodie sleeves rolled up, one hand gingerly rubbing at his shoulder. He perks up when he sees you.

“Oh, hey. Nah, kitchen accident this time.”

You squint at him. “Did the fridge try to fight back?”

“I slipped on a rogue piece of ice. Could’ve died.”

You stare.

He grins.

You want to throw a scalpel.

You don’t. Mostly because there’s paperwork involved. And prison.

Instead, you grab a pair of gloves and walk over like you’re not already halfway spiraling.

The diagnosis is, once again, technically valid. Nothing torn. Just overuse. Strain.

But the frequency is… suspicious.

Mark Grayson is either the most accident-prone civilian on the planet or—

No. You’re not going there.

You’re not paid enough to unravel the chaos behind that stupidly warm smile and suspiciously nice arms. You’re here to treat the shoulder and move on.

That’s it.

So you press a little harder on the muscle and maybe enjoy it a little when he winces.

“Sorry,” you say, not sounding sorry at all.

He hisses. “Revenge?”

You tilt your head. “For what?”

“For existing.”

You pause. “That’s not a denial.”

He smiles again. “If this is your version of flirting, it’s medically inadvisable.”

You blink.

And then you’re laughing—short, sharp, a little horrified.

He lights up like it’s the first time he’s ever made you laugh, and it’s Christmas morning.

That’s when it hits you.

He’s not coming back because he’s hurt.

He’s coming back because of you.

And that’s a problem.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Everyone knows.

It’s not subtle. It’s not secret. It’s not even slightly professional.

Mark Grayson has been in this hospital more times than the janitorial staff this month, and everyone has noticed.

Receptionists wave at him like he’s a returning sitcom character.

Orderlies call him “Crash Boy” behind his back (and sometimes to his face).

The lab techs have started taking bets on what his next injury will be.

You don’t participate.

You’re above it. You’re focused. Clinical. Efficient.

Totally not spiraling.

Totally not hearing the group of nurses whispering near the vending machines with wide eyes and hushed giggles like they’re in a goddamn K-drama.

“She’s totally into him.”

“Did you see the way he smiled at her?”

“If that was my patient, I’d fake a fall too.”

You walk faster.

You’re fine.

You’re great.

You’re professionally ignoring it like any emotionally stable adult would.

Even Carla’s in on it.

And she doesn’t say a thing.

Just watches. With those all-knowing eyes. That judgmental smirk. The silence of someone who is absolutely clocking your entire life.

You’d honestly prefer if she just made fun of you. That would be less terrifying.

But the worst moment?

The moment that breaks you?

It happens at the nurse’s station on a Tuesday.

You’re just finishing up paperwork when he strolls in. Casual. Bright-eyed. Smiling like he belongs here.

He chats with a few nurses. One of them—you don’t know her name, she’s new, she’s probably still in school—laughs too hard at something he says.

Her hand lingers on his forearm. She tosses her hair. Her scrubs are—unfairly flattering.

You’re not looking.

You’re definitely not glaring.

Okay, maybe you are.

But then—she slips him a piece of paper. Probably with her number. In front of you.

You nearly rupture a blood vessel.

Mark looks confused at first. Then a little smug. And then—he looks over.

Sees your expression.

The twitch in your jaw. The vein in your forehead. The pure murder behind your eyes.

And he chuckles.

Chuckles.

Like some teenage fanboy who just realized you’re jealous.

You want to disappear. Or commit a minor crime. Or both.

You choose to dramatically slam a clipboard and walk away before you punch something.

You do not look back.

(You do.)

And he’s still watching you. Grinning like he just won a game you didn’t know you were playing.

You hate him.

So much.

(You don’t.)

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Your day off is sacred.

It’s the only time you can collapse onto your couch, wear pajamas that should be considered a war crime, and pretend your job doesn’t exist.

So when your phone buzzes mid-coffee sip, you glance at the screen with the enthusiasm of a corpse.

✆ Unknown Number:

hey. quick q—how long is soreness supposed to last after a shoulder strain?

You blink.

Stare.

Frown.

Then sigh like you’ve just aged thirty years.

Because of course it’s him.

A few seconds later, another text follows.

it’s mark btw. grayson.

didn’t wanna bother you but i also don’t wanna die of arm failure sooo

You roll your eyes. Hard. So hard, your soul might’ve left your body for a second.

You type back.

That depends.

Did you slip on another ice cube or fight a blender this time?

There’s a pause. Then—

wow.

harsh.

i’ll have you know the blender and i are in a good place now.

You shake your head, but your fingers move before you can stop them.

ice it 20 mins on, 20 off. stretch it lightly.

if it starts throbbing, go in for imaging.

A pause.

so you do care

You close your eyes.

unfortunately.

That’s how it starts.

Little check-ins. Random questions. Half-medical, half-ridiculous.

✆ Unknown Number:

is it normal to be this tired after walking up stairs?

or am i dying

✆ Unknown Number:

asking for a friend—what happens if you take tylenol on an empty stomach but also 3 gummy worms

✆ Unknown Number:

totally unrelated but like

hypothetically

if someone wanted your coffee order

what would that be

You don’t save his number.

You don’t need to.

You know it now—by the rhythm of his texts, the way he never uses caps, how he spells “definitely” wrong every single time.

He’s just there.

Sitting quietly in your phone like a secret. A quiet, buzzing, annoying little constant.

And maybe…

Maybe you start looking forward to it.

Even when you pretend you don’t.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It starts with a simple text.

✆ Unknown Number:

you up?

No context. No greeting. No injury.

Just that.

You stare at it for a long minute, thumb hovering, debating whether to throw your phone across the room or call 911.

Eventually, you settle for the less dramatic option.

You call him.

The line clicks. He answers on the first ring.

“Hey.”

His voice is soft. Like he didn’t expect you to actually call. Like he’d already braced for rejection and is now wildly unprepared.

You roll your eyes. “If this is about a medical emergency, I swear to God—”

“It’s not.” A pause.

“I just… couldn’t sleep.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again.

You’re in your kitchen. Hoodie. Slippers. Lights off. Phone pressed to your ear like a lifeline.

“What do you want, Grayson?”

He breathes a laugh. “Dunno. Talk? You don’t have to, obviously. I just—thought of you.”

Silence.

Then—“…You always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Say things like that. Like you’re not trying to ruin someone’s night on purpose.”

He chuckles. “Only yours.”

You’re going to kill him. Slowly. Lovingly. Maybe with a pillow.

Still—you don’t hang up.

You lean against the counter instead, phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder, arms crossed over your chest.

“What did you do today?” you ask, voice quieter than you want it to be.

He hums.

“Got yelled at by a coffee machine. Ate cereal with a fork. Thought about texting you like eight times before actually doing it.”

You snort.

“Your turn,” he says.

You shrug, even though he can’t see it.

“Saved some idiot’s leg. Again. Almost killed Carla with a clipboard. Avoided committing a felony.”

“Proud of you.”

A breath.

Then another.

You don’t talk for a while after that.

Just… exist. Two quiet people sharing the same silence. The same phone line. The same heartbeat pacing slow and low under your skin.

He breaks it first.

“You always sound tired,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes.

“You always sound like you’re hiding something,” you say back.

That shuts him up.

Not in a bad way. Just… in a way that says he wasn’t expecting that. That maybe you’re both too honest right now.

Or maybe not enough.

The next thing you know, your head’s on the pillow.

The phone’s still pressed to your ear.

His breathing is slow. Steady.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until you wake up the next morning and see the call log.

Call ended: 4 hours, 57 minutes.

You stare at it.

Then lock your phone.

You don’t say anything.

But the next night?

He texts you again.

✆ Unknown Number:

up?

And somehow, it’s already part of the routine.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You don’t see his name on the intake board.

Which would be great.

Except—he’s here anyway.

Mark Grayson. Not limping. Not bleeding. Not holding an ice pack or pretending to have an invisible concussion.

Just… standing.

In the waiting area.

Smiling at the front desk like he owns the place.

You spot him during a chart pickup and physically pause. Like your body’s buffering. Like your brain is trying to update to the latest version of What the Hell Is He Doing Here 2.0.

He catches your stare instantly and waves. A little too enthusiastically. Like this is a surprise party and not a professional workplace.

You approach slowly. Warily. Already drafting an internal HR complaint in your head.

“You’re not even bleeding this time,” you say by way of greeting.

Mark shrugs, like you’ve just asked him what he had for lunch.

“I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by. Y’know—check on my favorite doctor.”

You stare at him.

“This is a hospital,” you say flatly. “Not a Starbucks.”

He gasps. “Wow. You wound me.”

“I’ll do more than that if you don’t get out of my hallway.”

He grins.

You really hate him.

(You don’t.)

All you can try to do is simply ignore him.

Really, you try to do so.

But he’s too tall. Too warm. Too smug. He somehow makes the break room coffee smell good, which should be physically impossible.

He chats with a nurse his age. Then another.

You watch it unfold over the rim of your clipboard with all the restraint of a saint and the rage of a woman one bad laugh away from murder.

One nurse touches his arm.

Another giggles—like really giggles.

You swear one of them actually twirls her hair.

And that’s it.

You corner him in the supply closet six minutes later.

Mark blinks as you slam the door shut behind you.

“Okay,” he says slowly, “this is new.”

You don’t even let him finish.

“You can’t just hang around here like this is a date,” you hiss.

“A… date?”

You wave a hand at the closed door.

“Talking to people. Smiling. Giggling—God, someone giggled. Do you know how hard it is to get people to even smile around here?”

Mark blinks again.

Then says, “Are you… jealous?”

You short-circuit.

“No,” you say too quickly. “Obviously not. That would be insane.”

“Right. Totally insane.” He nods, mock-serious. “Because it’s not like you dragged me into a closet or anything.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then try again.

“I’m trying to keep this professional.”

Mark takes a step forward.

You immediately take one back.

He keeps going.

Another step. Then another. Until your back hits the shelf and he’s right there. Not touching. Not crowding. But close.

Too close.

His arms cage around you—not touching, just braced on either side of your head. Heat radiates off him like a furnace.

His voice drops to something low. Steady.

“I didn’t come here for them.”

You don’t breathe.

His eyes scan your face, softer than you’ve ever seen them. “I’m only here for you.”

You want to say something.

Something scathing. Something sarcastic.

But the words fumble on your tongue and disappear altogether when his gaze drops to your mouth—just for a second.

Just long enough to make your pulse stutter.

You hate him.

So, so much.

(You don’t.)

This is completely unprofessional. Entirely against hospital policy.

And for some godawful reason?

You don’t want him to leave.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark’s been a lot of things lately.

Tired. Sore. Bad at lying. Worse at staying away.

But mostly? He’s confused.

Because this—you—were never supposed to matter this much.

It started as curiosity. That’s what he tells himself.

Just some random hospital visit. He hadn’t been hurt, not really. Just enough to limp in as a civilian and sit through the fluorescent light misery like everyone else.

You’d been there.

Sharp. Efficient. Not a hint of softness in your tone. Told him to sit down and shut up like you hadn’t even noticed his face. Like you didn’t care.

He’d been hooked instantly.

You didn’t even blink.

And Mark couldn’t stop thinking about it.

So… yeah.

He came back.

The first fake injury had been dumb. He knows that now.

Sprained wrist, lame excuse. He’d tried to play it cool. He’d tried to be casual.

You didn’t buy it for a second.

But you also didn’t call him out. Not really.

You examined him like a puzzle piece you weren’t quite sure how to hold. Cold hands. Precise words. Steady fingers on his skin.

He’s never had to try this hard just to be noticed.

And it’s not even about the attention.

It’s about you.

He loves the way you frown at your clipboard. The way your voice drops when you’re tired. The way you say his name like you’re chewing on it, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth swallowing.

You think he doesn’t notice, but he does.

Every time your stare lingers.

Every time your fingers hover a little longer than they need to.

Every time your lips twitch when you’re pretending not to laugh.

It drives him crazy.

But there’s a problem.

You don’t know who he is.

You know Mark Grayson. College kid. Chronic klutz. Occasional insomniac.

You don’t know Invincible.

Not really.

Sure, you saw him twice—that version of him. But you hadn’t seen his face. You hadn’t put the pieces together. And he hadn’t given you a reason to.

Because if he tells you—

If he lets you in—

You might leave.

You might stop talking to him. You might look at him like everyone else does—too bright. Too strong. Too alien.

You might stop smiling at him like he’s just a guy.

And he loves that.

God, he loves that.

He loves being just a guy with you.

Not a hero. Not a name. Just a stupid, reckless twenty-something who texts you too much and doesn’t know how to say what he’s feeling without turning it into a joke.

He wants more.

He really does.

But he wants this even more—the late night calls. The sarcastic banter. The look on your face when you think he’s full of shit but don’t hate him for it.

So he waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

Because maybe, one day, he’ll tell you everything.

But for now?

He just wants to hear you say his name again.

Just Mark.

Just yours.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You don’t expect to hear your doorbell.

Not this late. Not on a night like this.

So when it rings—once, then again, a little longer—you groan from the couch, hoodie half-on, takeout half-eaten, dignity fully gone.

You don’t rush. Just shuffle toward the door like a zombie. Ready to murder whoever it is with a spoon.

But then you open it.

And—

Oh.

It’s him.

Mark.

He’s leaning against the frame, hood down, hair a mess. His face is pale. His lips are tight.

And there’s blood—real blood—trickling sluggishly down the side of his abdomen, soaking into his shirt.

“Hey,” he rasps, voice thin.

“Think I… might actually need medical attention this time.”

You stare at him.

Then blink.

Then stare harder.

“…What, no blender story?” you say automatically. Your tone is flat. A reflex. Something to hide the sudden weight in your throat.

He gives you a half-smile—weak, lopsided. “Didn’t wanna disrespect the blender.”

And then he sways.

You catch his arm before he can stumble. It’s instinct. It’s muscle memory. It’s terrifying.

“Jesus,” you mutter, hauling him inside. “You’re such a goddamn idiot.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, the faintest laugh. “But I’m your idiot, right?”

You don’t answer.

You just lock the door behind you. Lead him to the couch. Grab the med kit without thinking. Your hands are already in motion before your brain can catch up.

Because it’s not a joke this time. Not some bruised ego or imaginary fracture. It’s real.

He’s hurt.

And for some reason, that makes your chest ache more than it should.

You kneel in front of him, snapping on gloves with a sharp snap that sounds a lot more confident than you feel.

“Lift your shirt.”

Mark blinks. “Buy me dinner first.”

You glare.

He winces, lifts it anyway—slowly. Hesitantly.

And holy fuck.

It’s worse than you thought.

A deep gash across his side, jagged and angry and still bleeding sluggishly. Bruises blooming along his ribs in shades you don’t want to name. A few smaller cuts littered across his chest. There’s dried blood on his collarbone.

He exhales when your fingers ghost near the edge of the wound.

“Didn’t know where else to go,” he says quietly. “Didn’t want to go in. Not like this.”

You say nothing.

Because now? Now it’s not funny.

Not even a little.

You dip gauze in antiseptic, press it to the worst cut. He hisses.

“Sorry,” you murmur, but your voice sounds strange—tight.

Small.

Mark watches you. Watches your hands. The furrow in your brow. The tension in your jaw.

He doesn’t say a word.

You clean around the injury carefully. Work in silence. You try not to notice how warm his skin is.

How his breath stutters every time your hand brushes too close to his ribs.

You fail.

Utterly.

“You’re not the first moron to bleed in my hands,” you say after a long pause.

He huffs something like a laugh. “But your favorite, right?”

Your eyes flick up to meet his.

Mistake.

He’s looking at you—really looking at you.

His eyes burn into you like he’s memorizing you. Like he already has.

Something in your chest tugs.

You go back to patching him up like it’ll distract you. Like your hands aren’t shaking a little. Like your heart isn’t beating faster with every inch of exposed skin.

He closes his eyes briefly when your fingers graze a bruise. You feel his stomach twitch beneath your palm.

“Sorry,” you whisper again. Your voice is breathy this time. Too soft.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs.

“You keep showing up like this.”

His lips tilt—not quite a smile. “Can’t help it. You make a damn good doctor.”

“Flattery won’t stop me from punching you.”

He opens one eye. “You’d patch me up after, though?”

You don’t answer.

You’re too busy staring at the cut. At the curve of his waist. At the way he breathes when you touch him.

You don’t mean to react. But God, he looks too good.

His waist—narrow and stupidly defined—tapers in like he was sculpted on purpose. Abs tight. Skin flushed. There’s blood, yes, and bruises, but all your traitorous brain can focus on is how good he looks like this.

Cut-up and pretty.

Which is horrifying.

You are a medical professional.

You are a grown woman.

You should not be getting distracted by the slope of some twenty-year-old’s V-line while he’s actively bleeding out in your living room.

But when his breath stutters under your touch, when his abdomen flinches ever-so-slightly with a soft, involuntary sound—

Yeah.

You absolute freak.

You try to focus. Really.

But your fingers keep brushing the edge of his hipbone, your eyes keep catching the way his chest rises and falls—and every time he winces, there’s a noise. Barely audible. Low and quiet and fuck, why is that attractive?

You press gauze harder than necessary.

He exhales sharply, jaw clenching. “You trying to kill me?”

“Stop making noises like that.”

“Like what?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because now you’re flustered. Because now you’re too aware of the silence. The tension. The way your breath hitches in tandem with his. The fact that your hands won’t move away.

You’re not patching up just any idiot.

You’re patching him up.

And his voice? His waist? The heat rolling off his skin?

It’s all getting to you in ways it shouldn’t.

Not here.

Not like this

It’s too much.

Too quiet.

Too close.

Your hands still.

Your breath catches.

And suddenly, he’s looking at you again—like he’s about to say something. Like he’s about to do something.

The air goes heavy. Thick. Tense enough to cut with the scalpel you dropped ten minutes ago.

His eyes flicker down—to your mouth.

You feel it like a jolt. A pulse.

Your heart stutters.

You lean in—

He does too—

But just before your lips meet—

He pulls back.

So do you.

Silence.

You don’t know what to say.

Neither does he.

Mark exhales shakily. Pushes his shirt down. Winces when it brushes his side.

“I should go,” he says.

You nod. Even though part of you wants to scream don’t.

He stands. Slowly. Carefully. Walks to the door. But before he opens it, he turns back.

Eyes soft. Voice even softer.

“You always make it hard to leave.”

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And you’re alone again.

You stare at the empty space where he stood. Unlock your phone. Open your messages. Type something out.

You okay? Text me when you’re—

Backspace.

Don’t be stupid next time—

Backspace.

I meant it. Don’t apologize—

Backspace.

You lock the screen.

Let it fall to the couch beside you.

And sit in the dark with your heart pounding, your hands still smelling like antiseptic and something else you can’t quite name.

Something you’re afraid to acknowledge.

And you know exactly what it is.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌He sees it by accident.

Sort of.

Mark’s at your place. Fifth time this week. You said you only allow it because he brings ACTUAL food. Does he care? No.

He would bring you anything and everything if you only asked.

Right now you’re tossing your phone between hands while half-asleep on the couch, scrolling aimlessly as you mumble about discharge paperwork and Nurse Carla’s espresso addiction.

He leans over to look at something—your screen lights up, message preview glowing.

“Unknown: you up?”

And it’s his message.

He blinks. Frowns. Stares at it like it’s personally betrayed him.

“Wait—hold on,” he says, sitting up. “You still have me saved as… Unknown?”

You glance at him, unfazed. “What else would I save you as?”

“I don’t know. Mark. Grayson. Hot guy who keeps bleeding in your ER. Something with a little dignity.”

You shrug. “Didn’t feel like changing it.”

He gapes. “Wow. Cold.”

You just smirk, stretch like a cat, and toss your phone aside as you get up to grab water.

And that?

That’s your mistake.

Because the second you’re out of the room—he pounces.

Grabs the phone. Unlocks it with terrifying ease. Scrolls straight to his contact entry like it’s a goddamn rescue mission.

’Unknown.’

Unacceptable.

He deletes it on instinct. Then pauses, thinking. Fingers hovering.

What would annoy you the most?

What would make you roll your eyes?

What would make your heart do that little stutter thing he’s started to notice, way too often?

He grins.

And types—

’Future Boyfriend’

He stares at it for a second.

Then adds a heart.

Then deletes the heart.

Too soft.

Then adds it back anyway.

Perfect.

He sets the phone down just as you return with a glass of water, eyeing him suspiciously.

“What did you do.”

Mark smiles. Innocent. Almost saintlike.

“Nothing.”

You squint. Then pick up your phone. Check your messages.

Pause.

Your brow furrows. And when you tap into the contact?

Your whole face goes still.

“…Are you kidding me?” you mutter.

He shrugs. “Thought it was more accurate.”

You glare.

He beams.

You shake your head. But then—you sigh. And your fingers curl around the phone like you’re not actually planning to change it back.

Your lips twitch.

Just barely.

But he sees it.

And when you don’t delete it—when you toss your phone back to the table like it’s nothing, like he’s nothing, even though your ears are a little warm—

Mark just leans back, smug as hell.

Victory tastes a lot like your name on his tongue. Like your laugh. Like the future he’s trying so hard not to beg for.

And he’s starving for more.

For you.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ongoing TAGLIST: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear @forgotten-moon94 @lalana1703 @smikitty @barbare2 @sleepyzzz3 @sunspl0tionjuice @maki-rollsss @angelbelles @scarletdfox

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[stargrillzz]

The 3 F (Fall, Filth, Fury)

summary: Sebastian is about to kill someone (lewis).

note: I DON'T KNOW WHO DO I LOVE MORE, BOB OR BUCKY.

They’d lined you all up on these unnecessarily tall director chairs, so your legs dangled awkwardly like kids waiting for their turn at the dentist.

You were squished—strategically, apparently—between Sebastian Stan, who smelled like expensive cologne and poor decision-making, and Lewis Pullman, who’d already whispered three mildly inappropriate jokes in your ear before the mic check even finished.

Florence Pugh was on the far end, next to Hannah, David, and Wyatt, who were all hyped up on caffeine and chaos. The movie wasn’t even out yet, and this interview was already off the rails.

“You comfy?” Lewis asked you, sotto voce.

“Not even a little,” you whispered back.

Sebastian shot a look between you, eyebrows raised like really? we’re whispering now?. His arm casually draped over the back of your chair—possessively, though he’d deny it.

“Okay, welcome!” the host chirped, flipping a cue card with theatrical flair. “We are here with the cast of The New Avengers, which drops later this year—and I have to say, you all seem dangerously close.”

Wyatt smiled, eyes dancing. “We’ve trauma-bonded.”

Florence leaned in with her signature grin. “Well, we were blowing up cities and insulting each other for over a year straight, so yeah. It was a blast.”

The first few questions were the usual fluff—how you trained, who pulled the most pranks (Florence, obviously), and how many times David cried during stunts (three and a half). Laughter rolled through the cast like a wave, everyone teasing, roasting, and occasionally pausing to sip water that no one needed but everyone held like a prop.

“So,” the interviewer began, already grinning like he knew the chaos was coming, “you all had some wild chemistry on set. Who, though, was the funniest person during filming?”

No hesitation. You looked dead at the host and said, “Lewis. heands down!”

Sebastian’s neck turned so fast you actually heard it crack. His face twisted into that wide-eyed “excuse me?” expression, lips slightly parted like you'd just declared your love for the IRS.

Lewis, meanwhile, slapped a hand to his chest in mock swoon. “Stop. You’ll make me blush.”

“She didn’t say you were cute,” Sebastian muttered under his breath. “She just said you were... kinda funny.”

“Painfully funny,” you clarified, your grin already wide.

You adjusted the mic in your hand and pointed toward Lewis. “Okay. So. Rooftop fight scene. Wind machine’s cranked so high I could’ve parasailed with one wrong step. I’m trying to look badass—y’know, fierce, focused, deadly—”

“Hot,” Sebastian added. Instantly. Like it slipped out.

Your mouth twitched. “Anyway. I go to step into this fight sequence, trip over a thick cable hidden under some fake rubble, and just—go airborne.”

“Like a graceful porn star mid-pirouette,” Lewis jumped in.

You snorted hard.

“No control,” he went on, eyes wide with mock reverence, “just flailing. Arms out like she’s about to accept Jesus—or dick—whichever came first.”

Florence howled, clutching her mic. David slid down in his seat, red-faced. Hannah was silently sobbing into a tissue.

Sebastian, meanwhile, blinked. Once. Twice. Lips pressed so tight they were practically white.

“And the sound—” Lewis clapped once. “—was like this wet, confused grunt. Just: ‘HUHHHnn-nff’—you know that sound when someone’s trying to be sexy but also might be vomiting?”

“She’s on the ground,” you chimed in, laughing so hard your mascara was threatening mutiny, “and Lewis crouches next to me and goes, in this dead serious voice—”

Lewis mimicked his own voice, low and documentary-deep. "My God… she falls not with grace, but with the energy of a woman who just got railed in a stairwell and forgot where the floor was.’”

You were gasping now, folded forward in your chair, hitting your thigh with your palm. “She goes down like a Shakespearean tragedy meets softcore porn. Arms flailing, hair in slow-mo, legs split like a yoga ad sponsored by OnlyFans.”

The studio exploded. Florence actually fell off her chair. David wheezed so hard Wyatt tried to do chest compressions with a water bottle. Hannah turned her chair away like she could no longer face God.

Sebastian? Not laughing.

You were crying now, wiping your eyes, trying to catch your breath. “You called me a slutty swan!”

“You were! I’ve never seen a fall and gotten horny and concerned at the same time!”

Even the host was struggling to keep composure. “Okay! I can’t breathe—”

Sebs smile was there, but it was tight. His nostrils flared. His jaw did that subtle, dangerous twitch. His leg bounced. His arm shifted behind your chair again, just a little closer.

“Oh, yeah,” he said slowly. “No, that’s cool. You should do stand-up. Maybe far away. Like, Europe.”

“You know,” he said, tilting his head at Lewis with an expression that screamed friendly, but also maybe murdery, “when I said I liked improv on set, I didn’t realize it included erotic wildlife commentary.”

Lewis shrugged, totally unbothered. “Hey, I narrate what I see.”

The tension crackled like static. The audience felt it. Florence whispered, “Oh my god. He’s gonna throw a chair.”

You lifted your hand toward Lewis for a high-five, both of you grinning like idiots—but the moment your hand raised—

SCREECH.

Sebastian reached back and yanked your chair. Just a few inches. Just enough to throw off your alignment and have you miss Lewis’s palm completely.

Your hand swiped air. You blinked, thrown off balance, and turned to him. “Did you just move my chair?!”

He smiled, the kind of smile that looked soft on the outside and feral underneath.

“Didn’t want you overextending. That’s how you fall.”

Wyatt leaned forward, grinning. “Oh, he’s done."

Lewis held up both hands. “I respect boundaries. I narrate from a distance.”

Sebastian threw him a look that was 80% sarcasm and 20% actual physical threat. “Maybe narrate your own death next time.”

The host, now fully a hostage to the chaos, cleared his throat. “And on that note—we’ll be right back after this break. Hopefully with the same number of living cast members.”

As the lights dimmed for commercial, Sebastian leaned close, lips brushing your ear, his voice low and lethal with flirtation.

“I’m funnier. I’m filthier. And if you ever fall again—I’ll be the one narrating it from inside you.”

You sucked in a breath. Your hand twitched on the mic. Your brain blue-screened.

Lewis blinked. “Hey, uh… did she just stop breathing?”

Florence fanned you dramatically. “We lost her.”

Sebastian just leaned back, smug as hell, leg bouncing like he didn’t just ruin your soul on national television.

Now this...was no joke anymore.

[paisleypens]

hii i love your writing sm!!

would you write a love it blind board game spencerxcastreader?? i can almost see it like if spencer had a crush on reader and they have absolutely no idea so he tries to make it obvious in the game and then it’s just super fluffy and cute at the end of the game??

love is blind… or blurry | spencer agnew x reader

you find out your colleague has a crush on you through an unlikely combination of pods, engagements, and improv

⸻

The moment you walked onto the Smosh Games set, you knew it was going to be another gloriously chaotic day.

Courtney was already spinning in a cape, Shayne was scribbling fake poetry into a leather journal, and someone had set off the fog machine way too early. Classic.

It was Love is Blind: The Board Game—round three. At this point, the crew had ditched any attempt at playing it straight. Now it was just an excuse for everyone to dress up in unhinged characters and flirt badly in front of cameras. You adjusted your clipboard (labeled "Red Flags") and gave a mock-serious nod to Spencer, who had just emerged wearing a turtleneck and a tragically earnest expression.

He smiled at you—half in character, half not.

“Ready to fall blindly in love?” he asked.

“Only if it’s ironically,” you shot back.

“Is there any other way?”

⸻

The Pods Phase

“What’s your ideal date night?” you read aloud, checking the options. “Something adventurous, something cozy, or something chaotic.”

You circled “cozy,” of course. Your character didn’t believe in grand gestures or jumping off cliffs for love. Across the room, Spencer smiled to himself. He also chose “cozy,” then scribbled in the margins: “with someone who makes silence feel like music.”

Trevor, peeking over a shoulder with his magnifying glass, muttered, “Suspicious.”

Shayne stood up dramatically. “This question… it wounds me! For how can a man know his perfect date when he hath never known love?”

“Sit down, creep,” Angela deadpanned. “You said that exact line last time.”

⸻

The Proposal Phase

Courtney waved her arms. “It is now time to choose… your person. The one your spirit calls out for… blindly.”

You were flipping through your notes when a ring box slid toward you across the table.

You looked up.

Spencer was holding out a second ring box in your direction, avoiding eye contact in a way that was half in-character, half… not.

“In the silence of the pods, I heard a voice. Steady, smart, and skeptical. It sounded a lot like… you,” he said in character, but his voice wavered just slightly.

You laughed, raising an eyebrow. “That’s either a really good improv line… or you’re actually trying to propose to me.”

Spencer shrugged, cheeks a little red. “Can’t it be both?”

Courtney gasped. “Wait. Is this—”

“STAY IN CHARACTER,” Angela shouted.

You smirked. “Alright, I accept your ironically sincere proposal.”

⸻

The Apartments Phase

Now in “couples mode,” you and Spencer were seated together, side by side, answering more questions. The goal: match answers and earn hearts.

“What’s your go-to comfort food?” you asked.

“Mac and cheese,” you both said at the exact same time.

Angela rolled her eyes. “That was suspiciously in sync.”

“Probably rehearsed,” Shayne said, pretending to take notes for his novel.

Next question: “What’s your biggest fear in a relationship?”

You glanced at Spencer.

He hesitated, then said softly, “Being too afraid to say how I feel.”

You blinked. You had written the same thing.

Trevor leaned over the couch. “I swear, if this is a bit, it’s the best slow burn we’ve done on the channel.”

You and Spencer both laughed, shoulders brushing slightly. His hand lingered close to yours on the table.

⸻

It was time for the final tally. Couples who reached ten hearts won the game. You and Spencer had eleven.

Courtney gasped. “They’re the winners!”

Angela smirked. “Of course they are. Spencer’s been extra weird today.”

As the video wrapped, Spencer pulled you aside stopping you from leaving the set.

“Hey,” he said, a little quieter than before, the character slipping away.

You turned to look at him.

“I know we were joking around in the game, but, uh… I wasn’t really kidding about the part where I picked you because I like you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve kinda had a crush on you for a while.”

Your face warmed. “You… actually meant all that poetry stuff?”

“Okay, the poetry was mostly garbage,” he said with a laugh. “But yeah. The cozy dates? The matching answers? That was all me.”

You smiled. “So… was this your master plan to ask me out? Through a Love is Blind board game parody?”

He shrugged. “Smosh Games is my love language.”

You bit your lip, trying not to grin too hard. “Then yeah, I’d love to go out with you. No ironic characters. Just us.”

⸻

thanks for reading! this took me for EVER because i really really wanted to get this formatting right and i adored this prompt <3

[bandgie]

Wish Upon a Genie

boypussy!han x girldick!reader

warnings! MDNI 18+, pussyjob, pussy play (m!), reader and han are virgins technically?, no penetration, handjob, domish reader, subby han, feminization (obvi he has a clit now), PIV implied

notes! intro is inspired by BIG. also im aware some people are uncomfortable with this type of writing and that's okay! just scroll :)

3.6k words

It stares back at you. Unblinking. Unmoving. Out of all the little gimmicks and arcade games at the carnival, it was this one, without a plug-in or light, that called to you. You’re not quite sure why. Maybe it was the silly hat with a feather poking out from it for extra effect. Maybe it was the fact that the machine lacked any sort of light to indicate that it was on. There isn’t a wrong or necessarily a right answer to the question, but the fact that you’re drawn to it remains. 

Jisung clings to your side, using your body as a shield from the animatronic that stares back at you two soullessly. “This is freaky. Can we check something else out?”

You roll your eyes, tilting your head to look at your beloved, but cowardly lover. “Don’t you wanna get your fortune read?” But Jisung shakes his head rapidly. “No! I wanna go on the Ferris wheel and eat funnel cake. Not get cursed by some…genie. That doesn’t even have an outlet, by the way.” Jisung points to the plug-in that isn’t connected to anything. “How are we even gonna play?”

Reaching into your pocket you take out your wallet and peer inside. It only takes a few seconds to find the shiny coin.

You hold it up in front of his face. “With this. It’s probably battery-operated anyway. The cord is just for show.” Jisung eyes the metal worriedly, his eyes widening in fear. “Baby! Don’t do that. Come on! I’ll buy you two snowcones.” Rather than taking his deal, you give him a wicked smile.

“Make a wish, baby.”

“I don’t want to!” His plump lips turn into a pout. Jisung fakes determination against your stare, but it takes less than ten seconds for him to cave into your sick joke. “Fine. I wish you weren’t such a dick sometimes.”

That sputters a chuckle from you, leaning down to insert the coin into the machine’s slot. “And I wish you weren’t such a pussy.”

Magic erupts from the machine. The genie comes to life, light shining from every space behind the glass. Its eyes glow yellow, smoke coming from its mouth as it booms with laughter. “Mwuahaha…”

Jisung squeals, rushing to hide behind your figure as the animatronic, not so fluidly, turns its head left and right before it settles on you two. Even you, who had the idea to play this game anyway, recoils in surprise. Jisung hugs you close to him, breathing heavily into your neck until goosebumps form on your skin.

Ding!

Both of you look down to see a single card sticking out, old and yellowed. You look back at Jisung who only looks back at you. His eyes say it all, don’t read it. But of course, being that pissing off your boyfriend is your favorite hobby, you do.

He whines when you quickly snatch the card from the machine’s card slot. Just as abruptly it lit with life, the animatronic shut down. You adjust yourself until Jisung’s chin is tucked into your shoulder, staring at the slip of paper until you turn it over.

Your wish is my command.

-

The first thing you feel when you blink your sleepy eyes open is pressure in areas you normally don’t feel pressure. You excuse the sensation as two things:

One: you’re still half-asleep and the sun’s not even up yet Two: the carnival was a bust

Jisung must have bought rotten funnel cakes. The moment you two got your dessert, a wave of pain coursed through your systems. It felt like a pounding headache through your limbs. The Uber back home was embarrassing. More than once did your driver think you two were frolicking in the backseat of his car, but every time he turned around, he was surprised to see you two hunched over groaning with pain.

The aching turned into tiredness as you struggled with the front door. You wanted to at least make it to your bed before you collapsed, but black spots began to appear in your vision that made you find comfort on the living room couch instead. Jisung was only a step behind you, whining and yawning before he finally found sleep squeezed beside you on the sofa. 

Now you’re waking up in arms, trying to figure out why your crotch is so stiff.

Fuck, did you piss yourself?

You reach downwards to feel for wetness, but you let out a squeak when you feel hardness. You snatch your hand away quickly as if you’ve burned yourself. No. No, that can’t be right. How can Jisung’s hard-on be on your side? That doesn’t make sense. And you’re sure that insane pressure is coming from you. 

Again, you snake your hand down, slow and steady. Using your stomach as a guide, you trail lower before you feel your pelvis, your thighs, and horrifyingly, a cock. 

Jisung startles awake to your frantic movements. He sees your blurry figure sitting up, staring down at your thighs with your shoulders shuddering as if you’re shaking. “Baby?” He croaks. “What’s up?”

Your dick. Your dick is what’s up. It stands proud, throbbing, and leaky. Even though you could feel your erection through the material of your pants, you still couldn’t believe it. You shrugged off your pants in a haste, uncaring how your flailing limbs woke up your sleeping boyfriend. It was when you saw the head of the cock- the head of your cock easily straining against your underwear that you realized how real this was.

Words are far from you now. All you can do is uselessly open and close your mouth. If you keep blinking, maybe it’ll go away. Maybe all that pre-cum staining your pretty, girly underwear will magically disappear and you’ll wake up from this strange dream. You feel a warm hand on your shoulder, making you jump. Jisung’s saying something. His words sound like static in your ears, but you manage to make out the worriedness in his voice. Then the static suddenly stops and you know he’s staring at the very thing you’re looking at. 

“Is it real?” You just have to make sure. Even if you can undeniably feel every vein and twitch, you just have to. 

Jisung doesn’t say anything. A beat of silence passes before the same hand that rested on your shoulder comes to the space between your thighs. He squeezes your cock, tugging it downwards and back up to cover the tip with the palm of his hand. 

You cry out, hips bucking and you moan pathetically. The pleasure that coursed through your body was so familiar, so used to what you already know, but it’s unexplainably different. You smack Jisung’s hand, hissing as you say, “What the fuck?! Don’t touch it!” But he doesn’t move his hand. Jisung doesn't as much as flinch when you lightly slap him. Instead, his grip tightens. You can’t help but lean down just a tiny bit to allow him access to your new organ, hand pumping you at a steady pace.

It’s been less than a minute, but you feel what you think is an impending orgasm. Your balls - holy shit you have a sack - tense and relax. The tip begins to leak so much more and you briefly think how Jisung was ever able to last more than a minute inside you. You moan, throwing your head back and curling your toes. Just a little longer, just a little tighter, and a little faster and you’ll cum all over your undies and Jisung’s hand. That doesn’t happen though, not when your boyfriend unwraps his fingers from you to reach for himself.

Jisung shrugs off his own pants as you whine, quickly shimmying down his boxers. You can’t help but scoff at him freeing himself, ignoring how much your cock aches from being accidentally edged. “Are you really about to compare dick sizes right now?” However, there’s no tent in his briefs that you’re sure would be there. Not even as he’s nude from the waist down do you see any indication of the cock you’ve sucked on, but a cunt. Between the lower lips, his clit peeks out cutely, shiny with arousal. 

“I woke up before you, just for a little bit.” His eyes are wide. “I…I thought it was just a dream. I went back to sleep and then you woke up and…” He doesn’t need to finish the rest. Turns out this swap of cock and cunt is mutual.

Worried. He’s worried. Even with his hand slick with your juices and his pussy glistening in the dim light of the TV, he’s scared. You brush your nose against his, pecking his cheek soothingly. “It’s okay. I’m scared too.” You take his soiled hand in your dry one. “But we’re together. And safe. We’re gonna be okay. Nothing a quick Google search can’t fix.” You and Jisung smile at your attempt to lighten the mood. He presses a sweet kiss to your lips, and despite seeing the tears in his eyes seconds ago, your cock twitches. 

“I know,” he whispers. “I’m just upset because it’s bigger than mine.”

His gummy smile shines in the shadows. You giggle with him and lean against his shoulder, hands intertwined. 

The sight of your dick quietens you and him. It’s still hard, leaky in all its cocky-ness. Jisung jerking you off was really the only thing that helped make you feel better, literally and figuratively. Biting your lip, you tilt your head up and bat your eyelashes prettily. “You were really good at…touching me.” 

He blinks at you almost innocently. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. Didn’t know a penis could feel that sensitive.”

Jisung hums, nodding with you. He doesn’t need to hear you say it to know what you want but asks anyway to make sure. “I-I can keep doing it. If you want me to.” He waits for your nod and it’s only a second it takes for you to agree. His hand unlaces from yours and he places it over your thigh.

Weirdly, it feels like you two are virgins all over again. The nervous touches, the uncontrollable moans, and the shy look you give him when he inches closer to your dick. It’s almost endearing but in the crudest way. 

Jisung starts at your shaft, hardly flicking his wrist up and down for friction. He’s warming you up, you realize. The thought makes you smile and you kiss his neck. “You’re so cute.”

With your cock in his hand, Jisung doesn’t understand how that can be so. He blushes anyway and tightens his grip just the slightest. “Am I?” You nod, kissing his throat again and again until he presses his thighs together. Your boyfriend always had a cute, but slightly irritating, habit of getting lost in pleasure. Sometimes forgetting that your pussy was in his mouth when he was too busy jerking himself off. Even with his cunt, he’s doing it all over again.

“You are,” you confirm. You trail your hand from the couch to his hip. Fingers caress his bare thigh until you dance on his pelvis, grazing the hair there. “Can I touch you too?” Jisung’s bottom lip is caught between his teeth. He knows what it feels like to have his dick ooze precum, to leak so much that it looks like he’s stained his boxers. You’ve made him do that countless times. But this feels insufferable. How he can rub rub rub without ever feeling like he’s getting anywhere. 

Shit. How do you deal with this?

He nods, bangs covering his eyes. You hear him sharply inhale when you finally come in contact with his wet cunt. Jisung isn’t sure what to do. He seems almost restless with you sliding one finger up and down his slit. It’s hard to do anything else with his legs closed, but you don’t tell him otherwise. You reason he must be nervous with everything going on.

That changes however when he spreads one of his legs until it hangs off the couch. You look at him for permission to do more and his response is a beautiful moan. 

Now with two fingers, it’s much easier to explore his folds. You ignore his clit for now; he doesn’t need to know how overwhelmingly good that can feel. Instead, you focus on the meaty part of cunt, swirling and flicking until his hand stops pumping you altogether.

“Hannie.” Not baby. Hannie. A little warning you usually give him when he’s being a little too selfish, but it’s hard to focus on anything else but the foreign pleasure. You finally swipe your fingers up until they catch his sensitive nub and his body jolts.

“Ah!” He squeals high-pitched. “S-sorry. ‘m trying but it feels so…so…good when you touch me there.” Those pleading eyes. You might have caved in like you always do and given your Hannie what he wants. However, you’re not feeling so generous at the moment. Especially when the raging hard-on only gives you pain when ignored. 

You use your free hand to swipe against his cheek, steadying his eyes on yours. “You think that’s fair, Hannie? That you get to use your new pussy and ignore my cock?” How foreign those words sound to you, but it feels so right to say them. He shakes his head, giving you a pouty look. “I didn’t think so. Here.” You place your hand on his chest and lean him back. You flip around until you’re facing him on the other side of the couch, pressing down until he’s flat on his back. 

You’re hovering over him like this. A perfect view to see his flushed face and exposed cunt. Jisung’s leg still hangs over the couch, but it allows you room to fit between his thighs. “I can do all the work, like always, but we’re gonna do it my way. Okay?”

A strap is the same thing as a dick right? At least you have some experience fucking your boyfriend, but you don’t know if you’ll be able to take it all the way. Your cock is already throbbing, aching, and begging for a release. You think you’d cum the moment you put it into his wet walls. But you can imagine.

Sliding your tip across his pussy lips, you imagine what it’d be like to slip inside. His hand felt soft and warm. Whenever he squeezed, it made every nerve on your cock jolt. Good, it felt really good. His cunt would be tight. It’s already so wet just letting you rub against his clit. You forget how wet pussy gets when they’re hardly touched. Virgin pussy is-

“Holy shit. You’re a virgin.” It’s a statement. The realization hit you far too late. You should have been more conscious. You shouldn’t have teased Jisung to the point of clawing your stomach and thighs. He’s breathing heavily, eyes hooded with lust as he whines. “O-oh. Are you gonna…” He trails off. Even without the hesitance in his voice, you can see it in his eyes. The arousal mixed with uncertainty. 

You lean down to kiss him. Your lips meet his sweetly, the complete opposite of the kiss your cock is giving is clit. “I won’t. We can stay just like this. Is that okay?”

Gently, you rock your hips. The head of your cock slips past his cunt until it reaches under his belly button. Your shaft grinds on his pussy and the grip on your stomach tightens. “Mmmm! Mhm mhm! Yes! I like it.” Jisung’s dazed look makes you smile. “Good.”

You sit yourself back up and grip your cock. Experimentally, you tap it on his fat clit. You only get two slaps in before he squeals, his hanging-off leg comes up until it bends in the air. Strings of arousal connect your bodies in the crudest way. 

Faster, faster, faster! You smack the head of your cock so quickly that you overestimate how much you can handle. Even with your tip now unbearably sensitive, you grit your teeth and dip lower until his lips wrap around your cock. 

Jisung’s cunt twitches. You can feel his hole fluttering against your tip, almost begging to be used. It takes immense control to ignore his beckoning, to slide up back and pretend that you weren’t thinking about just putting the tip in. 

God, he’s so wet. His juices drench your entire cock and leak onto the couch. You try not to, but you help but smear the arousal on his tummy every time you thrust against him. “Fuck, baby.” You moan. “Your pussy’s so wet.”

He whines, both from pleasure and embarrassment. “D-don’t say that.” 

But of course, it only makes you want to do it more. “Say what? How wet your pussy is? But it is, baby. Just keeps on leaking onto my cock and the couch. You’ve always been my dirty little boy, haven’t you?” Jisung can’t say anything to that even if he wanted to. Whether it’s his ass or cunt, he has a terrible habit of making such a mess.

Without warning, you grip the undersides of his thighs. You easily push them until they touch his chest, forcing his pussy to let you view it in all its glory. Jisung gasps and then tries to use his hands to push you away. You only hold onto him tighter, shaking your head condescendingly. “Nuh-uh. I wanna see what I'm playing with.”

Your words make his pussy clench around nothing. He mewls how he always does when he’s shy, but like the good boy he is, Jisung moves his hands until they’re on top of yours, helping you keep him spread.

You coo at him. “Ooo yes. So good for me.”

It’s easy to find a rhythm to grind in this position. Your cock slides against his pussy like butter, smooth and slick. The heaviness of your sack slaps against his ass with every thrust and the sound only grows louder when Jisung bounces back onto you. Looks like all those times he’s taken the strap paid off as well.

He’s warm, he’s wet, he’s a moaning mess, but you can’t feel the sweet, sweet tightness you once did when he was jerking you off. You look at Jisung and move one of your hands to your dick, a silent command to keep himself spread. He listens diligently, nodding and biting his lower lip as you use your now free hand to add pressure.

With your thumb, you press down just under your tip. It’s slight, but it still makes you two moan out loud. Now you can feel every crevice and crease on his cunt. You’re pleasantly surprised to be able to feel his swollen nub. Not that you should be too surprised, his cute clit is so chubby that it’s hard not to feel. 

Goosebumps cover your body every time you rut against it. Jisung pants at the sensation, head lifting up to see how your lower half moves together. You grin, “You got a cute pussy, huh?” Rather than shying away, Jisung blinks up at you. “You really like it?”

“I love it.” You purr. “Gonna cum all over it. Make it all pretty.”

That seems to do it for him. A loud moan tears through him. You apply more pressure on your cock as you continuously thrust against him. That orgasm builds again, starting just below your dick before your entire body contracts. Your cock feels like it hardens even more and judging by the repeatedly convulsing of Jisung under you, he must be close too. 

His fingers dig harshly on his thighs and his hips just won’t stop moving against yours. They speed up, they lift higher so you can hump against his sensitive spot again. You lean your weight forward and slap against his ass so hard that the sound echoes in the living room.

“Fuck!” You swear you see black dots. “Baby. I’m so close.”

Jisung speaks between his gasps. “Pleasepleaseplease! Give it to me!”

You groan again. Pre-cum oozes so much that you confuse it with your orgasm, but when you feel the tightening and releasing of your body, you know that this is your cum.

It spurts onto Jisung’s stomach, staining his smooth skin milky white. Your entire body shakes with your release. You don’t even notice the drool seeping through your lips even as it mixes with Jisung’s chest. It takes a few seconds to notice your lover trembling with you, tongue out in hopes of catching your drool in his mouth. With a hum, you lean down and capture his mouth in a heated kiss. It’s all tongue and spit, teeth clashing with muffled moans spilling out.

“I-I…I feel so empty.” You swear he looks like he’s about to cry. He speaks with your lips still brushing against his. “I just came. I know I just came but the pus- my pussy just feels so…so…” He doesn’t know the words yet. He can’t describe the restless feeling he’s experiencing. The urge to be full, to be stuffed, to be bred. 

Is he ovulating?

You pout with him, lifting your hips so you can play with his clit at your own leisure. Jisung moans in relief, eyes rolling to the back of his head while he babbles against your mouth. Carefully, you dip your fingers lower until you catch his entrance. The tips of your fingers barely push through his hole. Shit. He’s squeezing so hard that this time, you’re not sure if you can deny it much longer. 

“You want it inside real bad, huh?” You watch as he nods. Any fear he had felt before is gone. You sigh, looking down at your deflating cock. The sun isn’t up yet and you’re not sure how much longer you have with your new organs. You might as well make the most of it.

[eriace]

the right blend ; nagumo yoichi

oneshot & fluff ↪ in which l/n y/n and nagumo yoichi fake a relationship for a mission, but somewhere in between shared coffee, late-night stakeouts, and quiet glances, pretending stops feeling like pretending. ↷ nagumo yoichi ; sakamoto days

↳ an order of cappuccino from anonymous in the comeback cafe event ! ( author's note: i already made something similar for the fake marriage so this is for the fake dating one.)

IT STARTED WITH a mission.

Fake dating. Simple enough—play the part, blend in, get close to the target who had a soft spot for couples. It was supposed to be easy. Calculated. Impersonal.

But that was before Y/n learned how fast pretending could start to feel real.

The JCC Academy’s south quad was nearly empty at dusk, the sky bruised with fading orange and violet, wind teasing at the edges of her jacket. She sat on the low stone bench near the training hall, foot tapping, trying not to look at her watch for the fifth time.

Nagumo Yoichi was late.

Again.

She was mentally composing the verbal slap he’d earn when his shadow stretched long over her shoes.

“Miss me?” His voice broke through the quiet—casual, teasing, infuriatingly smooth.

Y/n looked up. He wore his standard jacket slung off one shoulder and held two cups of vending machine coffee, steam curling from the rims. His hair was wind-tossed, and his smile was the kind that made people let their guard down.

Not her. Not today.

“Fifteen minutes late,” she said, voice flat. “You know we’re supposed to check in together.”

“I brought coffee as a peace treaty.” He held one cup out. “I even remembered—two sugars, no cream. Like a psychopath.”

She stared at it, then took it with a reluctant sigh. The cup was warm against her palms. Stupid, how small gestures still made her chest ache.

“You’re lucky that’s exactly how I like it,” she muttered.

He smirked, dropping beside her on the bench, thigh brushing hers just enough to make her heart lurch. She hated that he noticed.

“I always remember your coffee,” he said, more quietly this time, eyes flicking to hers. “Fake boyfriend duties. I’m a professional.”

“So professional you’re always late?”

“I like making you wait. Keeps things spicy.”

She rolled her eyes, sipping the too-hot coffee to hide her smile. The quad remained still around them, quiet enough to hear the fountain trickling nearby.

They should have gotten up. They were expected in the instructor’s office five minutes ago to report on their progress. Instead, neither of them moved.

Nagumo leaned back on his hands, gaze tilted toward the darkening sky.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I’ve had real dates that felt less real than this.”

Y/n glanced at him, caught off guard. “This is just a mission.”

“Sure,” he said. “But you didn’t have to remember my favorite snack for the stakeout. Or patch up my hand when I cut it on the stairwell. Or stop me from saying something dumb to the teacher yesterday.”

She swallowed. “That’s just good teamwork.”

“You didn’t have to ask me how I take my coffee either.”

Her chest tightened.

Nagumo turned his head, met her eyes. There was no smirk now. No teasing curve to his mouth. Only that rare, steady look—the one that didn’t try to charm her, just see her.

“You’re not pretending anymore,” he said softly. “Are you?”

She opened her mouth. Paused. Closed it again.

It would’ve been easier to lie.

Instead, she said, “Not since the first time you held my hand without being told to.”

Nagumo was quiet for a moment.

Then, very gently, he set his coffee down, shifting to face her fully. His fingers found hers, slower than usual. No theatrics. No smirk.

Just skin to skin.

“Good,” he said. “Because I remember practicing how to ask you out in the mirror, before any of this started.”

Her breath caught.

“And if I wasn’t such a coward,” he added, voice barely above a whisper, “I would’ve done it for real.”

She didn’t answer, and for the first time since the assignment started, Y/n didn’t feel like an undercover anything.

She just felt like a girl who was falling. And maybe—just maybe—he was falling too.

© eriace in tumblr ; don’t repost my works.

[hipsdofangirl]

lucky numbers

time/dimension traveler! seungcheol x reader

summary: you work as a gas station attendant and cover your coworker’s night shift.

genre: lowkey crack fic or premise, sci-fi mixed with modern au, kind of deep themes mentioned, angst end, implied fem reader but can be gender neutral, lowercase intended

notes: i forget how some aspects of the lottery works just bear with me—. not proofread as always

wc: 2.9k

you’re not sure if this was worth it. you’ve seen the video games, the movies, the tv shows, and hell even the news; working, by yourself, at your small town’s local gas station is foreshadowing trouble. unfortunately, the only sound besides the late-night radio station is the tv with static crackling your eardrums.

sitting at the counter, you glance at the clock’s hands, seeing only an hour has passed since you started your shift.

you scratch your scalp out of disbelief of your character: a people-pleaser who can only hope the frat guy you exchanged shifts with will follow through when you are in need.

the tv static scratches your ears, your fingers move to cover and rub the flabby lobes as if it will heal them.

you glance around wearily, before bending over, using the crappy metal swivel chair as balance, to pick up a remote that lays under the counter. without looking above, you aim the remote upwards and turn it off, static fizzling into the air.

you let out a sigh of relief for your eardrums and sanity. you set down the remote and angle it back as if it looks like you never touched it. then, you lift your body up to sit on the chair once again, and slouch.

your eyes flicker over the clock, seeing not even 10 minutes have passed since you last checked. you look outside the windows, scanning the pothole infested pavement for any customers or potential perpetrators.

with nothing in site, you swivel off the chair and walk into the workers-only side room, which is also behind the counter.

you sit down at the desk, staring at your reflection on the black screen. with a purse of your lips, you push the button on the side to turn it on. the machine is advertised as being a ‘fast actor’ for its generation, but you pray it can improve. your nails methodically tap the desk in a rhythm as you wait.

you observe the break room, peering into the women’s bathroom. since you were the only one working till morning, you just left it open in case of an emergency.

four separate screens then emerge on the single monitor, positioned for maximum security.

a white light—brighter than the fake LED ones—zaps across the screen.

you raise your brows in confusion; as out of the corner of your eye, you were able to see the store counter. you saw no ‘zapping’.

the machine then goes back to normal—or at least what it looked like when your boss showed you how to use it.

then you hear it: rustling as if a raccoon broke into your trash and words being whispered.

you freeze. how the hell did someone get in without you knowing? it hasn’t been that long since you left the front counter and even if it had the security cameras would have shown it right?

you go to push yourself up when your mind begins playing possible tricks on you: what if it’s not a customer? the noises sound very close to the register. why would they be quiet if their frantic muttering admits they have some level of anger issues? what if it’s a burglar?

slowly, arms frozen in midair as if once you rest onto something everything will collapse, you turn in the chair as much as you can. carefully, and in tune with the fight or flight senses, you stand up, the chair creeks a tiny bit and you pause in a squat stance.

the rustling still persists. you take this as a sign that you are still clear. leaning on the locker, your fingers curl around the handle of a metal bat your boss praises for its good luck it brought him; if only it can bring you luck now.

you tip toe your way to the doorway, slowly peeking out from behind the halfway closed door.

your suspicions were somewhat accurate: someone was and is up at front counter and spitting words at himself. at the same time, his fingers flick through slips of lottery tickets; after a few slips, he runs his thumb under his tongue for a better grip before continuing his search.

your hold on the bat doesn’t drop it but you don’t tighten it either.

instead, you push open the side door with a creek. “what are you doing?”

the man’s eyes widen as he snaps his attention toward you.

you then get a better look at the built man. you squint your eyes at his creamsicle colored hair and weird clothing.

the man goes to open his mouth but you interrupt him. “you know what. whatever ritual you seem fit, i do not judge.”

he closes his mouth, and you notice his eyes narrowed in guilt or distrust. you follow his eyes to your own hand. you look back up at him and walk back towards your chair, bat dragging across the floor; your boss is going to kill you when he finds the scrape marks on the floor and bat, you could only hope this hot stranger might get you first. if you were going to die might as well go out looking all cool.

as you sit, basically in front of him, he man huffs and scans over the available selections’ pictures. his arms tense and you observe the prominent veins in his arms bulge.

immediately going into work mode and therefore relaxing (out of sleep deprivation you don’t quite understand), you use your free hand to point to the options. “lately this brand hasn’t been in the news at all for any jackpot earnings across the state, so if i were you, i would pick this one.”

he grumbles under his breath and waves you off. instead, he goes the brand you wouldn’t pick at all.

you wince at his standoffish-ness and choice. “i don’t know about that brand, sir. that one just had a massive winning so it’s unlikely—“

“17 08 04 30 95,” he interrupts, still scrounging through the stack.

you blink and stare at him. “excuse me?”

“you’re excused.” he smirks and laughs to himself, appearing proud of his comeback.

your chin drops down in bewilderment and in subtle offense. his laughter dies off awkwardly as he glances at your lackluster reaction.

he clears his throat. “sorry.”

you tap your fingers on the edge of the bat’s handle, dipping your head down and finding more appreciation to your decaying shoes. you can’t wait for this jerk-wad to leave.

you can feel his eyes glance over at your form frequently.

he clears his throat again. you don’t give him attention. it’s too late—or well early for this—and his attitude dampened your mood.

he softly talks, “those are the numbers i’m looking for.”

you turn your head so only one of your eyes can watch him.

“lucky numbers or something? that’s a lot of them and i doubt all of them would be there,” you sluggishly replied.

he lets out a sigh and rests his hands on the counter, leaning into your space a bit. “it’s..complicated. i need to buy that one before someone else does.”

you glance at the clock, seemingly no time has moved since you last took note of the hands.

you raise your brow, subconsciously leaning closer to him. you feel your cheeks become warmer—from his breath and the proximity.

your own sigh melts into his. “tomorrow, we are supposed to put out the recent shipment…” his polished brown eyes meet yours with a gaze you can’t understand at the moment. you hesitate, “i can grab out the brand you want and maybe—just maybe it’s there somewhere.”

he whispers, a plea embedded within, “that would be lovely.”

you whisper back, “okay.”

you back up from him to stand up, just processing that during this conversation you began to turn the circular metal through your fingers.

before you can enter the worker’s room, you glance at the ceiling corner, waiting for the blinking red light on the camera to blink in. it never did.

you saunter through the worker’s room with shaking hands. your mind fumbles through what the actual hell just happened.

a hot guy appears in the connivence store at odd hours in the morning and doesn’t seem to be a druggie with those types of clothes—in fact you can’t even imagine where those clothes would have came from. the man is rapidly searching through a specific brand of lottery tickets and only looking certain numbers in a certain order.

you don’t even realize you’re grabbing the box with the latest shipment.

and why are you so willing to help him? out of fear, arousal, drowsiness, or familiarity?

you briskly walk back to him, not noticing a blinking red light perpetually turned on in the women’s bathroom.

you enter the front to see the guy pacing towards the front doors, scanning outside and talking to something on his shoulder.

“here it is.” you toss the box lightly on the counter.

the loud noise causes the man to jump, his arms flexing to protect himself as he makes himself somewhat smaller.

you laugh at the sight: a grown buff man being scared from a loud noise. you glance into the dark tree-line, realizing that he still is a person.

you cover your mouth with your hand, hiding a soft smile. “i’m sorry about that.”

he straightens up and presses his head into his shoulder, saying something you can’t quite distinguish before strolling back over to you.

he runs his fingers through his hair, dissipating the small pout that previously formed.

“a rough night—“ he meets your disheveled gaze, “for both of us it seems.”

you blow air through your nose. “don’t even get me started.”

he laughs, peeks of his gums entering your sight, causing your smile to widen a bit more.

he then gestures towards the taped box. “can you or do you want me to?”

“oh! no, no i got this! i would be buried even further if i let you open this along with getting access to it,” you ramble.

you grab an army knife that rested under the counter and flick it open. the man’s eyes widen in awe as he watches you slice open the tape along its crease.

you flick the blade back into place and set it on the doubter to your side as you peel back the cardboard lid, the man hovering over it as well. holding your breath, the sight of many slips you expected to be there cause you to release it. unknowingly, leading to your head bumping against the man’s.

you both reel back, touching your foreheads in sync as you both apologize.

you then apprehensively look at one another, gesturing to dig their hands in first: he won. rolling your eyes, you fingers stretch to grasp as many lottery tickets as you can. you take the bundle out of the box and set it to the side, gearing up for another pickup as you watch the man’s arms flex once again as he picked up his own stack.

“what were the numbers again?” you ask, ready to help him search.

the man blinks. “you don’t have to help out, i’m just glad you were able to find these for me.”

you wave him off with a laugh. “it benefits me so i can possibly stay at this piece of shit job for longer.”

his eyes gloss over and he purses his lips. “why do you stay here?”

you flick through the slips—not telling him you remember some of the numbers and not wanting to seem like a creep. “i can’t apply to any other job right now. this place doesn’t even cover my rent and i want to walk out here at any moment—“

“but you can’t bring yourself to? scared of the unknown?” he interrupts.

you hum. “maybe,. well i don’t think so.”

his eyes watch over your form as he pauses in his own search. “let me rephrase that. scared of the unknown and possibly leading to being seen as a disappointment?”

you pout your lips. “17 08 04..?”

his eyes still look for continuation of the conversation, but your shut down prompts him to go along by your rules.

“does it have 30 and 95 at the end?” he inquires.

your brows furrow. “oh my god.” you flip the side over to him. “your entourage of lucky numbers actually came up!” you chuckle out of disbelief.

his eyes narrow in light anger. “i don’t have that many lucky numbers.”

you chuckle at his reaction and hand him the slip.

he scans the lottery ticket—front and back. “yep!” he pops the ‘p’.

your shoulders sag in relief. “i—wow i can’t believe they actually came up.”

he hums, still observing the ticket. “i knew it would, you still have the magical touch, (name).”

you laugh at his proclamation before stopping. you don’t wear name badges.

you clear your throat. “so what did you say your name was? since we went through this emotional moment together.”

his arm slowly drops down to the counter. that once expression-ate smile fades into a solemn one.

“se—sebastian,” he answers after a moment, not meeting your gaze.

you know he is lying, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything. he slides over the lottery ticket to you.

“write your name and turn it in first thing in the morning, okay?” he asks, that pleading undertone returns.

out of awkwardness of the situation and now wanting to be as far away from him as possible, you can only nod. you bite your lip.

out of spite, something does escape your lips. “can’t put your real name, sebastian?”

he sighs and tilts his head down, not meeting your gaze. “i’m already putting you into so much trouble by being next to you. i can’t let them hurt you even more. just trust me.”

for some reason, your eyelashes feel damp.

you whisper, “i’ll trust you.” you languidly clasp the lottery ticket, waiting for him to reach his hand out and clasp yours. he doesn’t.

he glances around, never looking at you. “sorry about the mess you’ll have to clean up…and i’m sorry. take this money and quit right now.” you wonder if he is crying as he rubs his cheeks with his arm. “that boss of yours is a piece of shit.”

you hug the slip, daring it not to be soaked with your tears.

the camera’s red light blinks on.

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turns out, that ticket was the jackpot winner: a whole 970 million dollars.

you didn’t think much when you turned it in. hell, you didn’t think much when you grabbed all your things and left the gas station in the middle of your shift. your boss called many times, berating you for leaving and threatening to ruin your life.

somehow, a few days later, the scheme of him installing and spying on the girls in their bathroom was revealed. when you watched the news segment on it—on the brand new tv you bought—it appeared to have been hidden in a spot you don’t even recognize; only someone who knew this was going to happen could have figured it out (obviously..).

you think back to that man every now and then. eventually, you believe you conjured him up and that the whole scenario was a dream or premonition; that theory doesn’t go far as you did win the lottery against all odds.

this reminds you of when you were retelling this dream to your friend, they brought up how you might have found a time or dimension traveler; since, according to them, lotteries are just a scheme to expose them.

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“yah..that was really risky coupsie,” jeonghan mumbles under his jacket, covering his mouth to shield him from the cold.

scoups—or rather sebastian or seungcheol—kicks a pebble for some form of control.

“you told me that we didn’t need to let that lottery ticket fall into that asshole’s hands, and i didn’t,” seungcheol retorts.

jeonghan sighs, a puff of air flowing through the fabric. “yes, that was the mission. but you just had to see your partner—or well this universe’s version of them.”

seungcheol scoffs. “like you weren’t the one that redirected the shipment to their workplace.”

jeonghan giggles with a smirk, face molding into his chest as far as it can. “that wasn’t me. that was shuji—“

“don’t bring me into this.” joshua walks past the open doorway where the other oldest are conversing.

jeonghan clicks his tongue.

the second oldest now directs his attention to his friend. “well now you are their dream man, maybe when this universe’s version of you runs into them, something of recognition will spark.”

seungcheol looks away. “yeah recognition of fear and anger.” he rubs his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. “ahh, i can’t even think of this universe’s-me getting his shit beat out of him for something i did.”

jeonghan points out, “they never seem to have a mean bone in their body.”

seungcheol laughs. “this one does—i can tell when they hide it. it’s always the same habit of fiddling with something. i thought they were gonna snap when they brought out the baseball bat.”

jeonghan laughs and claps his sweater paws. “that was hilarious! i’ve never seen hoshi turn that pale when he tuned in when a loud slam reverberated through his ear piece!”

seungcheol cannot hide his proud smirk. “someone needed to give them a push—even if my life is at stake.”

the two travelers laugh together.

jeonghan’s smile softens toward his friend.

seungcheol continues, “if i can make this one’s life a little easier, i’ll do anything.”

a/n: remembered the whole tumblr post about the conspiracy about lotteries being traps for time travelers and had to write something. also mainly for @jcxbliss cause how they have been having a rough time at work.

also another scoups fic returns after i reached 2.5k likes?!??

as sad yet hopeful as the ending sounds, i hope this did make you feel better or cathartically worse. i did write this in two hours LOLOL

anyways have a good day/night! 🫶🫶

[fangweaver2099]

𝐅 𝐀 𝐖 𝐍 𝐓 𝐄 𝐄 𝐓 𝐇 - Prologue pt 1

MINORS DNI 18+ FIC

You’ve always liked the idea of having a dominant partner - BDSM was something you’ve read about, watched videos about.

Something you made Pinterest boards and aesthetic tumblr posts about when you were 18 and curious, the idea always sounded nice, but you’ve never done it in practice, not really. Sure you bought fuzzy handcuffs at a gag gift store once, but that didn’t really count.

You’re still a virgin.

You’ve always had that chronically awkward, workaholic type of vibe that made typical dating near impossible at worst and frustrating at best. Normal dating apps have proven fruitless and agitating. So poor curious little you talked yourself into making a fetlife account. You weren’t looking for true love, but at least you could get laid.

DM Request from: 10:13 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Hello, Fawn.”

College was for new experiences after all.

CW: BDSM heavy/centric fic. Safe, Sane & Consensual. Miguel is your professor, but you both don't know that. Age Gap (Y/N is 23, Miguel is mid 30's)

PART 2

DM Request from: 10:13 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Hello, Fawn.” 

You squint at the request - you can see his icon is his torso.

You knew you had to snoop - be careful. The classic teen girl not wanting to be abducted shit. His skin was tanned - pale palms and even skintone told you he wasn’t a white guy. NYC was a melting pot - so you weren’t about to think too hard about it. You scroll through his writings. Most were boring and formal. You debate reading over the ‘contract template’ he had posted but decide against it.

His pictures are, mostly, not entirely him. A few torso shots showing off dark hair and abs - or more casual showing off a normal looking body of a dude who clearly worked out. The others are a few different women in different states of undress smothered in bondage ropes, always a bright red. The one that intrigues you the most again has the face censored by a black bar, but she’s hung upside down against the wall, diamonds of rope on her thighs as she’s suspended before red rope that was weaved into a massive spider web. He was a fan of spiders - the user name made sense.

The photos were old, from 2016 at the newest. The photos of him were new - posted just 6 months ago.

His wall was what told a touch of his story. You scroll down dozens of posts, women and men acting friendly or asking to meet up again. You wonder if he used to be a community person, the anon nature of his account was new? Could you check on the wayback machine? 

You tab back into his chat.

“hey. are you really 6’9? ” - Fawnteeth - 10:19 PM

 10:19 PM - WebRigger2099 - “You think I’d lie about that?”  

“maybe. I know a lot of guys who lie about their height, I’m tall enough to tell.” - Fawnteeth - 10:20 PM

 10:20 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Smart to ask. Yes, I am really 6’9”. Is height a big seller for you?”  

“when you’re a tall woman, it is.” - Fawnteeth - 10:20 PM

 10:21 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “You want me to make you feel small. Noted.”

“what had you messaging me? you seem popular.” - Fawnteeth - 10:21 PM

 10:22 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “I’ve been in the scene for a long time, made my way around. Your interests line up and you seem at least somewhat concerned about your own anonymity.”  

“here I thought you’d say you found me pretty.” - Fawnteeth - 10:22 PM

 10:22 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Shallow compliments hardly get us anywhere. Besides, that’s a given.”  

“well, thank you anyway. need to keep this and my personal life separate, like you I see.” - Fawnteeth - 10:23 PM

 10:24 PM - WebRigger2099 - “ “We all have our secrets and reasons to keep them.”  

“serial killer sorta secrets?” - Fawnteeth - 10:24 PM

“I’m kidding.” - Fawnteeth - 10:24 PM

 10:24 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Would you believe me if I said no?”  

“I can try. it’s not like you’re a blank profile, web.” - Fawnteeth - 10:25 PM

 10:26 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Maybe you shouldn’t. Things like that are easy to fake. You’re clearly trying to keep a secret, which means if I met up with you no one would know where you went. Would be a good tactic if  I was preying on little girls.”

You stare at his message for a moment, forcing in a quick breath you sit up as your bed creaks. Okay, time to take things a bit more seriously.

“Good thing I’m not a little girl. I do appreciate the concern, it’s attractive.” - Fawnteeth - 10:27 PM

 10:27 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Lot’s of untrustworthy people on sites like this. Ones that will lull you into a sense of security.”  

“Trust me, I’m well aware. You think I should be afraid of you?” - Fawnteeth - 10:27 PM

 10:28 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Yes. You can’t trust me right away.”

“Well, I like the honesty. I don’t think I have any plans to meet up with anyone soon - not even you.” - Fawnteeth - 10:30 PM

 10:30 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “Of course you don’t. You’re new at this.”

“Did I really give it away that quickly?” - Fawnteeth - 10:31 PM

 10:31 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “Yes.”

You stare at the screen for a long moment, eyes wide. How the hell do you reply to that? Is he ending the conversation? Did you already fuck things up? At this point, most men would be falling over themselves to impress you, not making you feel intimidated . You feel your core throb as you click back to his profile, scrolling over dozens of comments on his wall from years ago - the fact is, his profile spans back years. Longer. He’s experienced, and… he isn’t wrong, either. 

“Is that a problem? I hope it isn’t. You’re the first dude who hasn’t asked me for nudes yet.” - Fawnteeth - 10:32 PM

 10:34 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “No. You should be more careful though, me explaining that and this is something you should be suspicious of. Wanting to ‘protect’ you because you’re young and need to be taught the ropes, so to speak.”  

“Got it, Sir.” - Fawnteeth - 10:34 PM

“Wait, can I call you that?” - Fawnteeth - 10:34 PM

You cringe, placing the laptop on the bed for a moment. Shit - you’ve already messed up.

 10:35 PM - WebRigger2099 -   “That’s acceptable. If you ever call me ‘Daddy’ however I will block you.”  

 10:35 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “That’s not a joke.” 

You open your eyes, glancing over at the chat and his two messages. Raising a brow, you lean in, shifting the laptop back into your lap. 

“Understood. Not my thing.” - Fawnteeth - 10:35 PM

 10:36 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “What is your thing, Fawn?”

“Well… I like giving up control… Feeling like prey. I’ve always loved deer, something about being so fiercely defenseless as a fawn in a wolf’s maw is thrilling.” - Fawnteeth - 10:37 PM

 10:37 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “No wonder you brushed over the red flags.”

“Maybe.The whole giving up control is why most submissives are here, aren’t they?” - Fawnteeth  - 10:38 PM

 10:40 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “The illusion of giving up control. Any good dominant knows the submissive is the one with the power. Safe words, limits, contracts - it all relies on knowing they can end things whenever they want to explore it safely.”  

“Of course.” - Fawnteeth  - 10:40 PM

 10:40 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Of course? So you have those things ready for me?”  

“ Safe words and how I prefer them - yes. Limits, I think so. Contract - no. ” - Fawnteeth  - 10:40 PM

 10:42PM - WebRigger2099 -   “I need one for slow down/ease up and one for an immediate stop. I also need a physical sign if you are unable to say your safe words. Please list them.”  

 10:43 PM - WebRigger2099 -   “Send me 4 lists: Favorites, Yes, Maybe, and No not ever. Include everything you can think of. If you do not include something that I am interested in I will ask about it and we will consider it a maybe until you’ve had time to consider it and possibly research.”

 10:43 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “You will not need a premade contract. I have a basic format we can edit to our needs. If it goes that far.”  

“Is the green, yellow, red method good with you?” - Fawnteeth  - 10:44 PM

 10:44 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “Yes.”

“That’s good.” - Fawnteeth  - 10:44 PM

“...And I'll get you the other things - do you have any hard nos I should know of?” - Fawnteeth  - 10:44 PM

10:45 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “Send me yours and we’ll go from there.”  

“Okay.” - Fawnteeth  - 10:45 PM

You take your time in a Google document, carefully considering your late-night Archive Of Our Own feed. Anxiety tells you to rush, but you get the energy that Web isn’t the kind of guy who wants you to rush.

“ Will you click links? Google Docs. ” - Fawnteeth  - 10:55 PM

 10:55 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “ I applaud you if you somehow hack me from a google docs link. I have a very good firewall as a warning. ” 

You couldn’t help but grin at his reply - you’re charmed by him. Oh no.

“I’d figure as much. Here.” - Fawnteeth  - 10:57 PM

“ [Google Docs Link] “ - Fawnteeth  - 10:57 PM

 10:57 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “I’ll ask specifics soon but I want to be clear about this - I want something in person, but that is not on the table until the end of the summer. I have obligations. If that is a problem I don’t want to waste your time.” 

“That’s fine. I know we’re both in NYC. I’m kinda glad as I don’t think I’m ready to meet up soon anyway.” - Fawnteeth  - 10:57 PM

 10:58 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “Gives us time to get to know each other and learn expectations.

“Then it sounds like we’re on the same page.” - Fawnteeth  - 10:58 PM

 10:58 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “Good. Due to this being a distance-based arrangement for the time being I cannot touch you myself; Have you heard of a lovense?”

“I have. Aren’t those expensive?”   - Fawnteeth  - 10:58 PM

 10:58 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “Money isn’t a concern for me, and anything I get you is a gift. The only expectation is to use whatever I provide. Acceptable?”

“Yes. I don’t take pictures or videos with my face in them.” - Fawnteeth  - 10:58 PM

 10:58 PM - WebRigger2099 - “I noticed.”

 10:58 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “Neither do I. That isn’t a problem.” 

“Glad to hear that.” -   Fawnteeth  - 10:59 PM

“...So…”   - Fawnteeth  - 10:59 PM

 10:59 PM - WebRigger2099 -   “Your list says nothing about exhibitionism. If I were to tell you to wear your lovense during the day would that be acceptable?”

For a moment you stare at his message. Now that you’re not under your father’s roof, you have free reign to do whatever, and it’s honestly not like your roommates haven’t done weirder, less appropriate shit in far more public spaces. 

“That’s fine as long as I’m not visiting family. I live somewhere else.” - Fawnteeth  - 10:59 PM

 10:59 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “ You say you like roleplay. Are there specific scenarios you’re interested in?”

“Do you know what dead by daylight is?” -  Fawnteeth  - 10:59 PM

 11:00 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “I can’t say I do.”

“...Well. I wasn’t joking about the idea of enjoying being hunted. I guess. Kinda embarrassing to admit to a stranger.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:00 PM

 11:00 PM - WebRigger2099 -   “Does that embarrassment excite you, Fawn?”

“Maybe.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:00 PM

 11:00 PM - WebRigger2099 -   “I expect yes or no answers. If you’re not sure say so.”

“Yes, then.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:00 PM

 11:00 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “Good girl. What do you want me to do when I catch you?”

There’s no hesitation, no doubt in the message. What do you want when I catch you. Not would you want, not if I caught you. When. You can’t help but squirm. For a moment, you consider pacing your tiny, cluttered bedroom.

“Is whatever you want the wrong answer?”   - Fawnteeth  - 11:01 PM

“I might be new, but I think I’m kinda open. I want to please, I suppose.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:01 PM

 11:01 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “ Not at all a wrong answer.”

 11:02 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “Have you ever been spanked before? You said it was a favorite.”

“Yes.” - Fawnteeth - 11:02 PM

You bite your lip - it technically isn’t a lie. You have been spanked - just… not sexually. It’s fine .

 11:02 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “Would you be willing to use a paddle, crop or belt in my absence if I believe you need punishment?”

“I’m not sure. I have a very high pain tolerance, but I don’t live alone, sound is a concern.”   - Fawnteeth - 11:02 PM

 11:03 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Not a problem. Making a small list for a care package if you show me potential is all.” 

“Well, what can I do to impress you, Sir?”  - Fawnteeth  - 11:03 PM

“I don’t mind homework, for lack of a better word.”   - Fawnteeth  - 11:03 PM

 11:04 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Eager, aren’t you? I’m not done.”

 11:04 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Dirty talking. What are your limits, and do you have a specific pet name you want me to use?”

“I like Fawn, obviously. Affectionate things, I think it’s better figuring it out organically. Feels more genuine.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:04 PM

 11:04 PM - WebRigger2099 - “And no humiliation.”

 11:04 PM - WebRigger2099 - “ Understood.”

 11:04 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “I have rules. It’s better that I tell you about them early. They’ve scared most people off.”

“ Well. I won’t pass judgment immediately.” - Fawnteeth - 11:05 PM

“I don’t cut my hair.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:05 PM

 11:05 PM - WebRigger2099 -   “I would be disappointed if you did. Speaking of, I only allow my submissive to trim their pubic hair for one, no shaving it.” 

“That’s fine with me. I haven’t shaved anything in a while.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:05 PM

 11:06 PM - WebRigger2099 - “ If you are going to be unavailable for more than a few hours I expect an explanation so I know you are safe. I don’t allow my partners to go to clubs or bars without me either. If this becomes serious I expect you to download a location tracking app so I know where you are at all times.”

“Okay. That’s fine. I don’t go out much.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:06 PM

 11:06 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “I am not polyamorous. If you want to be mine you are only mine, and I will hold myself to the same standard.”

“That’s fine with me. I have been talking to someone else, but about as much as you at this point. Honesty and all that stuff.”   - Fawnteeth  - 11:06 PM

 11:06 PM - WebRigger2099 - “I don’t let things I own go into disrepair; You will take care of yourself and report what you don’t complete. Punishments will be given if you do not complete these tasks.”

 11:07 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “The basic daily requirements are the following: Three meals a day, showering every day, an hour of exercise and a consistent bedtime during weekdays.”

“Okay. Did this really scare people off?” - Fawnteeth  - 11:07 PM

 11:07 PM - WebRigger2099 - “People have called me controlling. It sounds like you want to surrender your control though.” 

“Not wrong.” - Fawnteeth   - 11:07 PM

 11:07 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “ You’re not hard to read.”

“I’ll try and take it as a compliment.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:07 PM

 11:07 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “Deception and confusion are a waste of time. Own it.”  

“I’ll try my best. I’m used to being considered odd.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:08 PM

 11:08 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Are you?”

“I’m on fetlife. So, yes.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:08 PM

 11:08 PM - WebRigger2099 - “I suppose.”

 11:08 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “ We already established you’re new to this. Will I be your first dominant?”

“Yes. Not my first partner.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:08 PM

 11:09 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “ Were they not interested in this?”

“I never brought it up to them. I don’t really want romance right now.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:09 PM

 11:09 PM - WebRigger2099 -  “And if you fall for me?”

“I’d rather talk about it then, I suppose. I don’t get the vibe from you that you’re looking for romance, just a pet.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:09 PM

 11:09 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Good, and no, not right now.”

“But you think I’ll fall in love with you?” - Fawnteeth  - 11:09 PM

 11:10 PM - WebRigger2099 - “You’re young and inexperienced. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t.” 

 11:10 PM - WebRigger2099 - “ My last important rule - no drugs, limited alcohol. If you drink you must have friends with you that are reliable or myself. Drinking and doing drugs is just asking to put yourself in a vulnerable situation. It’s a precaution some have complained about.” 

With how much he spoke of other people not liking his rules it was almost like he was trying to talk you out of it.

“That’s fine. I celebrated my 21st by watching movies.”   - Fawnteeth  - 11:10 PM

 11:10 PM - WebRigger2099 - “What movies?”  

“Midsommar, it’s my favorite. Silence of the lambs too. Roomies insisted on watching Barbie after that. lol ” - Fawnteeth  - 11:10 PM

 11:10 PM - WebRigger2099 - “ You like horror.”

“Yes. I thought the ghostface poster in my 3rd photo gave it away.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:11 PM

 11:11 PM - WebRigger2099 - “And you’d like him or some other violent thing to chase you down and do whatever they wanted with you instead of killing you.”

 11:11 PM - WebRigger2099 - “It must make watching movies with a group tense if that’s what is going through your mind.” 

“I won’t say it doesn’t.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:11 PM

 11:11 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Let me guess: some part of you likes the discomfort?” 

“Honestly. I haven’t thought about it. Probably.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:11 PM

 11:11 PM - WebRigger2099 - “I think you’d like to walk around with a lovense in you, never knowing when I might turn it on or increase the settings. You enjoy suspense.”

“ It’s appealing, yeah.” - Fawnteeth  - 11:12 PM

You sit back on your bed, propping up the laptop with your pillows. Why did you love that this guy was reading you like an open book? You take in a deep breath, remember - play it cool.

 11:12 PM - WebRigger2099 - “What do you want out of all of this?” 

“My first thought is sex - but also to learn myself a bit more, I guess. Explore something with a partner I can trust… Please someone, feel better about myself. Like I said - I’m a tall woman, it doesn’t exactly make you feel pretty.”  - Fawnteeth  - 11:12 PM

 11:12 PM - WebRigger2099 - "Okay, sounds good."  

You bite your lip, reading over the message on your dimly lit phone screen over and over again. Curling up tighter into the cotton blanket on your bed, you exhale, the cheap mattress creaking underneath you. You flinch, eyes flickering towards the shut door of your bedroom. Your heart flutters in your chest for a few moments until silence rings in your ears. 

You haven’t woken up any of your roommates.Thank god. 

Sighing, you turn your attention back to your phone, looking over the message again.

 11:12 PM - WebRigger2099 - "Okay, sounds good." 

Usually men are more expressive in their text speech when it comes to you - to the extent that some even make you uncomfortable. But WebRigger2099… is very much not . You’ve dubbed him 'Web' in your head, easy enough with his username. 

Web is formal, speaks with proper punctuation and never a single spelling mistake or emote. He’s direct, not flowery or soft in any way. But… you kind of like that. Direct is easy. There’s no guessing games with instructions and meanings laid out plainly.

 11:12 PM - WebRigger2099 -“ You are very pretty, by the way. ” 

You blush.

[jinxfixeseverything]

4/26 The Inn (Chapter 4)

Notes and disclaimers: Story is JINX/FEMALE READER. Most chapters contain SMUT and or FLUFF, there is LIGHT ANGST in a few.

Important notes: Jinx is canonically bisexual in this story. I do not own any of these characters, I just play with them. 

Warning: Story will contain VERY graphic depictions of WLW, main coupling will consist of two switches to keep everyone happy.  I’ll shut up now and I really hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I’m just a little concerned, Cait, that’s all.” Vi responds to her girlfriend. “I know, I know.” She continues in a fake British accent. “She’s a grown woman and you have to let her find her feet, Violet.”

Cait looked at her girlfriend with mirth. 

“Oh that’s how I sound is it?” Caitlyn asks.

“Yeah, some times ya do.” Vi answers, trying not to laugh. 

Smiling, Cait closes the space between them and kisses Vi. Vi responds, purring out her enjoyment. Cait slowly starts to pull back, making Vi move forward to stay in contact with her. Cait smiles into the kiss and backs away. 

“Tease.” Vi complains, when Cait gets up and walks away. 

“I’m just saying, your sister is perfectly capable of looking after herself. You have to trust her.” Cait says, pouring herself a cup of tea. Crossing her long legs. 

“It’s been over two weeks, Cait. Each time I go to the gates she already left.” Vi said with concern. “She’s never usually away this long, like even just to stop by and say ‘Hey, missed ya, fuck you, whatever.’ But nothing. It’s like she avoiding me.”

“I think she’s seeing some one.” Cait said sipping her tea. Looking over the rim at Vi. 

“Jinx? Seeing someone? Yeah, good one Cupcake.” Vi said with amusement, an eyebrow raised as if it were a complete impossibility. “She’s avoiding me! That’s gotta be it.”

“This is really bothering you?” Cait says in a serious tone.” Worried about her girlfriend. 

“Yes.” Vi replies, frowning. 

“I know! Let’s go out tonight, to the Undercity. We’ll get some of that pongy food you love so much, grab a few drinks, then we’ll swing by to Jinx’s place, just to say hi, keep it casual, like we’re not checking up… we’re just… checking in. What do you say?” Cait suggested, leaning forward to engage her girlfriend.

“I’d like that.” Violet replied in a half smile. 

You’d spent the majority of the past couple of weeks hanging out with Jinx . You hadn’t meant to, but she was just so much fun to spend time with. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed this much. She was a sassy and hilarious, had a come back for everything, and when she didn’t she’d just kiss you and send your head spinning to shut you up. It wasn’t all sex, even though the sex was incredible, hot and passionate. She was also surprisingly sweet for all her bravado and unpredictably vulnerable at times. Your heart did a little flip when she smiled at you. ‘The fuck was that about?’ You’d think to yourself, that had never happened before. 

You mainly hung out in the arcade, talking, kissing and getting to know each other better. It was kind of nice having a friend, with obvious benefits.

Jinx fixed up some of the machines in the arcade and you’d compete. She told you all about her best friend Isha, who had passed away. Becoming emotional when she told you of her death, you held Jinx like a big spoon on her bed all night and let her cry ‘til she fell asleep. It didn’t feel like too much, you genuinely cared about her, there was just something drawing you to each other ever since the night you met. She’d been through shit, it was visible on her body. Scars along the right side of her arm and side. Any morning you woke up next to her you’d kiss them lightly, ‘making them better.’ She’d yawn and call you a dope, pulling your arms back around her and falling back to sleep as little spoon. The talks you’d had over the last couple of weeks making you closer in a way neither of you expected. It was just… easy. 

Jinx mused to herself as she lay nestled in to the warmth of you. Sleeping on you was easy. The best sleep she’d ever had. It was quite addictive. She was hooked on you. She didn’t understand why, but she just couldn’t leave you alone, and when she did she couldn’t think about anything else. She couldn’t concentrate on her gadgets or work and would make silly mistakes when she tinkered. She liked having a friend again, though this friendship was completely different to anything she’d experienced before. You’d come along at just the right time. You expected nothing from her, it was simple and uncomplicated. You just clicked and liked hanging out. The hanging out also came with its own x-rated perks. Jinx found herself rushing back to the lanes to hang out after working maintenance on the bridge. Vi had stopped by a bunch of times over the last couple of weeks but they’d missed each other every time. Jinx always got the message the next day. 

“Your sister stopped by!” The other engineers would call to her. Jinx would pull off her oily overalls, rolled under the knees, leaving her signature outfit underneath and toss a spanner back in her graffitied tool box. “I’ll get back to her.” Jinx called over her shoulder in a rush and she headed back to Zaun. Then it would just slip her mind. She was preoccupied with hanging out with you, listening to tales of your travels and thinking about getting you naked when you weren’t together. 

She didn’t know why but she couldn’t stop touching you, to fix your hair, or brush imaginary dirt off your shirt. She’d never felt this way before. Jinx wasn’t much for being touchy feely, or at least not since she was a kid. She found you comforting and genuine, and felt she could kiss your face for hours and still not get bored. The sex was always intimate. She felt safe with you. Which was new and kind of terrifying. So she pushed those thoughts away. 

Even when you left her place to head back to your inn to shower, she got too impatient and when you came out of the shower into your room she was sitting nonchalantly on your windowsill one leg pulled up to her chest, the other swinging while she chewed on some complimentary straw shaped candies left in your room. 

“You took your time, Slow Poke. I was starting to think you fell down the drain. What’s a girl gotta do to get an invite these days?” She drawled.

Seeing Jinx in your room startled you, but in truth you’d been thinking about her all that day. You’d really missed her and was planning on heading back to the arcade once you were done, hoping she’d be finished up for the day. 

“Wow, you must have it pretty bad if you can’t wait for me to come back.” You teased her. 

“Can it.” Jinx said flipping herself off the windowsill, feeling called out, she walked towards you. 

You wrap your arms around her when she came close enough, telling her. “You’ve already done everything a girl needs to do to get an invite. You could have just joined me.”

“I can think of a lot of things we haven’t done.” Jinx said, leaning in to kiss you. “Lots.” She said between kisses. “And lots.” 

“I’m getting your clothes wet.” You coyly acknowledged. 

“Well, take ‘em off me, Sport.” She quipped back.

“I just got clean and you’re gonna get me all sweaty again?” You feigned annoyance. 

“You got me wet, it’s my turn to get you wet.” She said suggestively. You weren’t sure if she meant from the shower or not, it didn’t matter. You drop your towel and start undressing her. 

Both naked, you kiss your way back into the shower and turn the water on. 

“Turn around.” You tell her between kisses. 

“Hey-yo! Kinky.” She teasingly reprimanded you.

“No, Dork.” You laugh, rolling your eyes turning her away from you by her shoulders.

You start releasing the braids of her hair. Pulling her under the water to wet it throughly. She makes small, gurgling sounds. Exaggerating, as if you’re drowning her.

“Shut up.” You laugh lightly. Reaching for the soap bar and lathering her hair. It was lavender scented, you’d picked it up on your travels. She makes a tall Mohawk when you finish sudding her hair. 

“What’d ya think?” She ask, turning her head side to side to model it. 

“Very cool. You always smell like axel grease when you come straight from work.” You say absentmindedly, as an observation not a complaint.

She snuffs a bitter sweet laugh you couldn’t quite understand. “All the best ones do.” She said quietly. Again, making no sense to you. “That’s nice.” She said as you massaged her head with your fingers. 

“Rinse.” You tell her once you’re done. 

She smoothed her hair back with her hands, the soapy Mohawk completely gone. 

Wrapping your arms around her and kissing her shoulder, she leans back into you. The back of her head resting on your shoulder. 

You run your hands along her abdomen. 

“You forgot the soap.” She teased. 

You grabbed the soap and ran it slowly up and down her stomach. Placing it back in the dish and begin running your hands over her soapy body. Her small, pert tits and between her legs. 

“Mmm. That feels good.” She cooed. Melting further back into you. After a few minutes of washing her and inadvertently turning yourself on by touching her so intimately. Jinx brightly chirps “My turn!” and reaches for the soap. It slipped out of the dish hitting the bottom of the shower, making a horrendously loud sound, startling you both. “Oh shit!” She exclaimed. 

“You better get it then.” You say, a smug smirk creeping over your face. She narrowed her eyes at you over her shoulder. “You are such a pervert.” She chided. 

Clearing her throat she slowly bent at the waist to pick up the soap. Your hands instinctively running to her hips. With a devilish grin you pressed yourself against her butt. 

Jinx fumbled for the soap as it slid around the bottom of the shower. You jokingly pounded against her, pulling her hips to you while in her bent over position, making the soap pop out of her hand and slide around the bottom of the shower again. 

“Quit it, you Paddlemar!” She reprimanded, trying not to laugh. Finally clutching the soap in victory. 

She turned to face you. 

“Hardly an insult. Paddlemars are quite cute.” You say in a self assured tone.

“Exactly.” She replied, kissing you. She started to run the soap up and down your body as she did so. 

“I literally just showered.” You remind her. 

“I know but I like it when we’re all slidey.” She replied dreamily before kissing you again and pressing your bodies together. 

She kisses your neck and you tilt your head back a little, giving her full access. 

“That feels good, huh?” She speaks against you skin before continuing.

“Uh-huh.” You reply. As her hands slide up your soapy body to cup your breasts. Your hands running lazy trails up and down her back, on her waist and down to her butt. 

“Bet I know what feels better.” She tells you, nipping her way down your neck. You close your eyes to enjoy the sensations. Using her hands to rinse you, she runs them gently all over you. The tiny, teasing bites move lower to your breasts. Then you feel the loss of contact. You open your eyes, disappointed, only to see her dropping to her knees. 

“Move it.” She reprimands your thigh, nudging it to the side. You were about to laugh at her impatience, but feeling her hot mouth on you made it catch in your throat instead. 

Jinx gently sucks on you, she liked wiping that cocky smile off your face. But she liked making you cum even more. Moving her tongue up inside she felt your hand on the top of her head, to steady yourself. She laughed on you, before snaking her tongue back inside you. 

Her eyes a dark pink with arousal. “Look at me.” She tells you. 

You try to keep your eyes open and fixed on her as she slowly makes out with your pussy, but they fall shut again as the sensation of her tongue inside you is too much to handle. 

She stops. “Hey.” She softly calls to you. “I want you to watch me.” 

“I can’t, it’s too hard!” You protest. 

“Try. For me. Right here, Slugger.” She says motioning to her eyes. 

You sigh and try to lock in as she goes back in again. Furrowing your brow the instant you feel her, you try to stay as focused on her burning eyes as you can. Her soft, warm tongue fucking you. 

You feel her edging you closer, her hands on your butt pulling you to her, not letting up. A slow tingle starts within you. Your head tilts back as you cum loudly into her mouth. Your hand on her head pulling her in. She stays with you riding out the after shocks ‘til you start to catch your breath. 

“Fuck sake.” She laughs at you frowning. 

“Listen, I can’t cum AND look at you at the same time. I’ll combust!” You whine, trying to reason with her. “That’s on you! For being so…” You gesticulate towards her. She laughs shaking her head. Then stands “You’re such a dork.” She jokes, smiling and wrapping her arms around you. You grab the back of her neck and kiss her roughly. 

[kysstar]

BURN FOR THE SPOTLIGHT | CHAPTER TWO : : RIVALRY NEVER DIES

pairing : : kang yeosang x idol!reader

series synopsis : : you and yeosang have been rivals since childhood—outsmarting, outshining, and outdoing each other at every turn. years later, just when you thought you were free, he shows up at KQ as a trainee. on camera, you're civil. off camera, it’s war all over again. but rivalry feels different now.

genre : : academic rivals to lovers, idol au

chapter warnings : : mentions of alcohol

word count : : 2.4k

[ series masterlist ]

—You never meant to become a trainee.

In fact, you could probably write a whole essay titled "The Many Reasons Why I Would Never Be a K-pop Idol." At the top of that list? You weren’t the type. Too loud. Too opinionated. And absolutely not the kind of person to spend hours perfecting a dance move when you could be sleeping or binge-watching dramas.

But life had other plans. And those plans started with karaoke and bad decisions.

It was your best friend’s birthday. Which meant drinks, singing off-key, and screaming your lungs out to second-gen hits in a tiny, overly decorated karaoke room.

You had been gone. Drunk off cheap soju, yelling the lyrics to Wonder Girls’ “So Hot” like it was your last performance on earth. Somewhere in between pretending you were the main vocalist of a nonexistent girl group and fake crying through a sad ballad, a man had stepped into the room.

You barely remembered him.

Just the vague image of him standing there in slacks and a half-unbuttoned shirt, holding some business card you couldn’t be bothered to read. He’d said something about “potential” and “audition” and “KQ Entertainment,” but you waved him off, too busy fighting for the mic with your friend.

“Cool story, man,” you had said, mid-song. “Go scout someone who can actually hit this high note.”

The next morning, your head was pounding.

Your phone buzzed with a new number and a message that read:

“Congratulations. You’ve been selected to join KQ Entertainment’s trainee program. Please report to the address below by Friday.”

You blinked. Then read it again.

“What the hell is KQ?”

Your friend nearly choked on her cereal. “BLOCK B’s company.”

“Okay... and?”

“ZICO used to be under KQ. ZICO. You have to go. For me.”

You laughed it off. “They probably got the wrong person. I was drunk, remember?”

“They heard you drunk and still want you. That’s either insane or you’re secretly talented.”

You weren’t convinced. But your friends? They staged a whole intervention.

“You literally hate school right now.”

“You have nothing to lose.”

“Just go for a day and ghost them if it’s weird.”

And so, against your better judgment, you went.

And it was… quiet.

Suspiciously quiet.

Where were the rooms packed with hopeful trainees? The hallways buzzing with nervous energy? You’d heard stories—other companies had floors filled with them. But here, the lobby was empty, the halls silent. You walked around, confused, until a staff member finally guided you to the training floor.

That’s when you met him.

Kim Hongjoong.

He was sitting cross-legged on the practice room floor, scribbling into a notebook, headphones in, completely absorbed in whatever track he was building.

He looked up as you entered. Paused. Then stood up so fast his notebook flew off his lap.

“Hi—! Are you a trainee?”

You blinked. “…Yeah. I think so?”

His face lit up like someone had turned on a switch inside him. “You’re new?”

You nodded slowly. “I just got in today.”

He practically beamed. “I’m Hongjoong. I’ve been here alone for—like, months. You’re the first person they brought in after me.”

He looked like he wanted to throw a welcome party on the spot.

From that moment on, you stuck together.

Hongjoong was your first friend in KQ. He showed you where everything was, how to check the schedule board, when Eden usually came in for training sessions, what to eat from the vending machines when lunch breaks got skipped.

You weren’t used to the schedule yet. Dance at 9 a.m. Vocals at 12. More dance. Then monitoring. Practice rooms stayed open late—sometimes until midnight—and Hongjoong? He’d still be there. So, you stayed too.

You didn’t know why at first. Maybe it was guilt—he really had been alone for months. But slowly, it became something else.

The two of you trained together under Eden, side by side. Hongjoong was serious about it. Focused. He had this hunger in him, like he had something to prove. And you? You had no idea what you were doing. But Hongjoong never made you feel behind.

He’d stay after hours to help you polish your choreo. Show you how to project in the vocal room without blowing out your throat. He laughed when you fell, encouraged you when you nailed something.

Sometimes you’d sneak out together during breaks—nothing wild, just grabbing snacks from a convenience store down the block or sitting on the rooftop with hot drinks, legs swinging off the edge as you talked about anything but training. Music, family, stupid memes. The pressure was suffocating some days. But it helped, having someone who understood it exactly the way you did.

The thing about the entertainment industry was that nothing was guaranteed. One minute, you were training to debut as KQ’s first female soloist. The next minute? Everything was gone.

You still remembered the way the company sat you down, the way they told you, in the most business-like tone, that the project was being terminated.

Not postponed. Not restructured. Terminated.

Just like that, years of hard work went up in smoke.

You had been so close. And now, you had nothing.

Hongjoong had found you later that day, plopping down next to you on the floor of the practice room. He didn’t say anything at first, just passed you a can of soda.

Then, after a long silence, “You’re not gonna quit, right?”

You exhaled. “Should I?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But you’re too good to waste this.”

You stared down at the can in your hands. “There’s nothing left, Joong.”

“There will be.”

—You had almost gotten used to it. Almost enjoyed the peace.

KQ had become your second home—the kind that exhausted you, challenged you, and sometimes made you want to scream into a pillow, but still, home. You liked the quiet, the tight-knit feel. Just a few trainees working in the same dusty rooms with the same scuffed mirrors and overworked speakers. You knew the schedule, the staff, the vending machine that always jammed when you needed it most. And for a while, it felt like you were part of something small but steady.

Then came the announcement: new batch of trainees.

The first one was Yunho. You remembered him clearly—tall, bright, loud in the best way. He had a smile that made people relax, even when they were sweating through choreography. He introduced himself like he’d been waiting for this his whole life. Said “nice to meet you” with both hands clasped and eyes shining like it wasn’t just a formality.

Then came a few more. You didn’t memorize all their names at first, but you remembered Hongjoong talking about one of them—Mingi. Apparently, he and Yunho knew each other from before. “He’s got stage presence,” Hongjoong had said. “And confidence. Like, dangerous confidence.”

As the weeks passed, the halls got louder. The lunch table filled up. You finally had other girls to train with. It was weird, having people in the changing rooms again. Having someone to talk to about the hell that was cardio Fridays.

The instructors started asking older trainees to help the new ones settle in. Minji, your dorm partner, got assigned a guy named San—small, scrawny boy, endless energy. She came back from his building tour half in love and half exhausted.

So when your name was called to introduce another new trainee, you had felt a sense of pride. This meant the company recognized your hard work. It meant you were someone they trusted.

But then, Instructor Yang casually mentioned that the new trainee had come from Bighit.

You blinked in surprise. That wasn’t something you heard every day. Unlike KQ, Bighit was an established company, home to one of the biggest groups in the industry. If a trainee had transferred from there, they had to be good.

You felt a flicker of curiosity. Why would someone leave Bighit to come here? What kind of person was talented enough to train under such a powerhouse, yet willing to start over at a much smaller company? You didn’t know, but for the first time in a while, you were genuinely interested in meeting someone new.

That excitement lasted exactly five minutes.

The moment you stepped into Instructor Yang’s office and saw him, everything around you seemed to freeze. Your breath caught in your throat. Your body locked up. Your mind short-circuited.

Kang Yeosang.

You hadn’t seen him in years—not since graduation day, when he had walked across the stage, accepted his diploma, and vanished from your life. No more competing test scores. No more petty fights. No more constant one-upping each other. You had thought you were free.

And yet, here he was. Standing in front of you once again.

Yeosang looked just as shocked as you, his sharp eyes widening the second they landed on your face. His lips parted slightly like he was about to say something, but nothing came out. You doubted he even remembered how to speak in that moment.

“This is Kang Yeosang,” Instructor Yang’s voice broke through the silence, though it felt like a distant echo. “He’s transferring from Bighit to train under KQ. Since you’re one of our most experienced trainees, we’d like you to show him around, introduce him to the others, and help him adjust to the environment.”

Your jaw clenched. You wanted to refuse. You wanted to tell Instructor Yang that someone else—anyone else—could do it. Maybe Hongjoong. Hongjoong was great with new trainees, great at making people feel comfortable. He could handle it.

But then, reality hit you like a slap in the face.

You were close to debuting. So close. The company had been hinting that you'd be debuting as a soloist. You had worked for years to get to this point. If you wanted to secure your spot, you couldn’t risk anything—not even something as simple as rejecting a tour.

So, instead of saying what you truly wanted to say, you swallowed back your pride. You forced your lips into a small, controlled smile, ignoring the way your stomach twisted in protest.

“Understood.”

The moment you stepped out of Instructor Yang’s office with Yeosang trailing behind you, you already regretted everything.

You could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating, like the universe itself was laughing at your suffering. Of all the people KQ could have brought in, of all the trainees you could have been assigned to, it just had to be Kang Yeosang.

You barely glanced at him as you started walking down the hallway, your pace brisk. “I’m only doing this because I have to,” you muttered under your breath. “So keep up.”

Yeosang scoffed lightly behind you. “Didn’t realize you were so excited to see me again.”

You almost stopped in your tracks just to glare at him. Instead, you tightened your jaw and ignored him, leading him toward the first stop of the tour.

“The practice rooms,” you announced flatly, pushing open a door to reveal one of the smaller training spaces. “This is where you’ll be spending most of your time. Vocal training, dance practice, self-evaluations. Pretty much your second home, unless you’re planning on slacking off.”

Yeosang stepped inside, glancing around. “Bighit’s were bigger.”

Your grip on the doorknob tightened. “Well, you’re not in Bighit anymore, are you?”

He smirked at that, clearly enjoying the way your voice tensed. “Guess not.”

You ignored him again and kept walking, not even waiting to see if he followed. If he got lost, oh well.

“This is the main dance studio,” you continued, pushing open another door. This one was a lot larger, with full-length mirrors lining the walls and speakers set up in the corners. You crossed your arms and turned to him. “We use this for group evaluations. If you suck, everyone sees. No pressure.”

Yeosang chuckled, stepping inside. “You still talk too much.”

You shot him a glare. “And you still have an ego the size of a stadium.”

He grinned. “Good to know nothing’s changed.”

You really had to fight the urge to throw your shoe at him. Instead, you turned sharply on your heel and kept moving. “This way.”

The next stop was the vocal room, a small space with a single piano and a setup for recording. “You’ll be doing monthly vocal assessments here,” you explained. “But I doubt you’ll have much of an issue, since you probably think you’re great at everything.”

Yeosang raised an eyebrow. “Why? You worried I’ll score higher than you?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, please. I’ve been training here for years. You’re new. You have catching up to do.”

Yeosang tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “We’ll see.”

God, you wanted to wipe that expression right off his face.

As you continued the tour, you begrudgingly led him through the trainee lounge, the cafeteria, and the small recording booths. Each time, you kept your explanations brief, not because you were trying to be efficient, but because you refused to let him think you cared about helping him.

When you reached the rooftop—one of the only peaceful places in the building—you hesitated.

You almost didn’t want to show it to him. The rooftop was where you and Hongjoong would sometimes escape when things got too overwhelming, when the pressure of training became suffocating. It was your space.

Yeosang noticed your pause. “Something wrong?”

You sighed, pushing open the door. “This is the rooftop. People come here when they need a breather. Not an invitation for you to follow me up here whenever you feel like it.”

He stepped out onto the rooftop, looking around. The city lights stretched far in the distance, the breeze cool against the night sky. He shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing at you. “Didn’t think you’d still be here after all these years.”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the railing. “Well, I’m not a quitter.”

He hummed, leaning beside you. “Never said you were.”

You turned to him, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you here, Yeosang?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted out toward the skyline, his usual cocky smirk fading into something unreadable.

“…Bighit wasn’t for me,” he finally said.

You frowned, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. Yeosang never admitted weakness. Never showed anything beyond confidence and arrogance.

For a brief moment, you almost felt… something. Not sympathy, but curiosity.

But then he turned back to you, smirk returning. “Figured I’d come here and make your life hell instead.”

And just like that, whatever momentary softness you felt vanished.

You rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder as you pushed off the railing. “You already are hell, Kang. Let’s go. I still have to show you the dorms, and I’d rather get this over with today.”

God help KQ. The war had started again.

© kysstar

taglist : : @yoonbroom @charlie-xo @xionarauwu

[simp-ly-writes]

Suits, Ties, and Thus Spy's (pt.2)

Pairing: Spy!Task Force 141 x Handler!Reader

Summary: The boys get suited up and training begins but as fate would have it, Whitby is keen on keeping your attention or rather making you gain more grey hairs as a mission goes south. Now having to take the task force out of training early, you can only help that under your guidance- they all make it back out alive.

Warnings: light swearing and teasing. A/N: hope you guys enjoy this next part! Masterlist | Taglist | edited.

Your design team and weapons master come through the door moments later, each coming up to press a kiss against your cheek in greeting as you do your best to not go pink with the jealous displays your team is already portraying to the new recruits. Pulling Head Tailor Jason down by his tie, you hiss in his ear, “do NOT mess this up for me, please” you add sweetly at the end before letting him go and displaying your smile once more for the crowd. 

A series of assistants soon come from the secret back entrance, large on-wheel displays of shoes, watches and premade suits waiting to be tailored sit in wait as Jason nods twice, shuffling his tie from your outburst as he clears his throat, all eyes moving to cast upon his next words. “Afternoon recruits. I am the head tailor, Mr. Jason Carlisle. My associate Doctor Charlotte Derby who serves as our weapons master alongside my assistants Thomas and Evan will be serving you today.”

“And with that!” you start to say just as Jason raises an eyebrow, a missed call from Whitby being pinged to your phone takes your priority, “I will have to make my departure early for today, apologies- truly but you are in good hands I assure you. Laswell I expect a report in my inbox by the end of the day, thank you all.” Removing your fake earrings for your communications headset left in your briefcase set upon the desk. You shake each task force members hand with a firm grip before kissing Kate's cheek goodbye as you race back to your desk. 

--

Johnny leans towards Kyle who watches you leave, leather shoes ticking against the marble floors as the elevator chimes and you are out of sight. “Where do you think they are headed?” Kyle merely shrugs in response, curious as well but holds any further thoughts as Mr. Carlisle has them all stand in a row as his assistants measure their proportions, check their eye colours and hold up various fabrics for them to feel. 

Their hands work like a well oil machine as Jason camly states orders while moving up and down the line, not looking a singular man in the eye as he pinpoints miniscule details and chooses accessories best suited for the upcoming training season with the new gear. 

Coming to stand in front of “Ghost” as Jason had been told in the notes, he had a special request to keep some form of mask. “Ghost is it?” Jason asks, eyeing the man's response- only to receive a singular nod. “About the mask dear, we have many options some more subtle than others but your comfort in the field is my sole priority under this position.” Jason snaps his fingers as Thomas comes running up, a box in hand that houses various forms of technology sat in velvet. “We can graft a digital face to cover your own, no one would be able to see your true identity unless you allowed them to or… if you like the…” his hand waves over the skull and bones patterns found throughout the man's combat attire. “Agent of death composition, we can keep the balaclava but place a more matte design for on-field missions. Now I must state that the second option might limit your position and the missions you will be assigned to but that is up to you to decide, sir.”

Ghost looks towards John who is begging man-handled by Evan at the end of the line, various fabrics thrown over his shoulder as they complain about accentuating his features the right amount. Kyle is tensing beyond relief as the Doctor shows the various weapons hidden throughout his attire, shivering in realization of how he almost impaled himself when a knife appeared from his wrist watch. Johnny was bright eyed, practically jumping around in his new suit, punching a mannequin in the corner- amazed how the design allowed him flexibility while being bulletproof. “I’m keeping the mask,” Simon states in a monotone towards the Tailor. Jason claps his hands together, murmuring a “good choice, sir,” before dressing him in a black suit with silver detailings. 

Taking a step back, hours had passed before Jason was happy with each man's look as Laswell with a thoughtful smile across her features, hands drifting over the fabric of her own suit as she went through a similar experience all those years ago. Doctor Charlotte Derby addressed the room after receiving confirmation from the tailor and the group followed her out towards the training rooms. White marble soon transitioned to modern soundproof walls and black rubber floors that housed various maps upon them. 

Walking past gym after gym, the boys were aghast to seeing the brutal training happening in each room- it looked like torture. From rehearsed waterboarding survival classes, crafting found-object masks to survive gas filled rooms or water-filled ones. It was nightmarish at times yet each agent held a proper smile of confidence as they navigated through each issue. 

'`Will we be attempting the same, Doctor?’ John asks, trying to hide his slight concern for his task force as he looks towards Laswell for guidance. She offers him only a blank face, her own memories resurfacing. Even though she never had to go through the training, she bore witness to you going though each trial in order to gain the title you hold today. Kate remembers your screams, your broken-noses and blue-skin. But she would trust you more than anyone she ever would know to save her no matter the situation. 

Charlotte looks back over her shoulder, only shrugging as she continues to walk and swipes her card to reveal you, still taking through your headset as you worked your way through three junior agents, burning them to the floor in seconds as they tapped for air. Wiping your forehead with some nearby towels, you smile towards the group just as Whitby whines for your attention to his mission once more. 

“Whitby darling, I know you enjoy hearing my voice whispering in your ear but I am not your handler for this mission… yes, yes-I understand mr. But-nothing. Alright Whitby, I am hanging up now, kisses! Yes I am, grow a pair-” you end up growling at the end before ripping your headset off and standing beside the Doctor. 

“You really have to reel that man of yours back in,” Charlotte states while looking over her nails, throwing a water bottle towards the rookies still catching their breaths on the mats as she hands you your gun back. Casting her a tight smile, “a conversation to be held later, apologies again,” you address the group, “I have a few agents out on the field currently that need my attention every now and then, you all will understand in time,” you charismatically chuckle after before stripping off your suit jacket, laying it flat across a steel table as you roll your sleeves up to your elbows. 

The task force seemingly in a daze for your slight change in appearance has Charlotte clearing her throat and rolling her eyes, “you better not start those eyes,” she begins while pressing a pair of safely glasses to her face, handing each member a pair of their own before signalling the rookies to make their way back to training. “Have another four members to compete with for her attention, don’t want any in team fighting when you are here trying to steal them away in more ways than one.”

“Charlotte,” you criticize with a scoff before loading your gun, shivering with a smile to the satisfying click, “you all look handsome in your new suits, Jason did well as usual.” They each nod in conformation, Price finds himself in navy blue with neutral brown tones of shoes and a belt. Simon of course wears all black as Kyle wears a maroon ensemble. Johnny sports lovely charcoal grey pieces that have you making a mental check note to request another suit in a similar colour-way. “Now, Charlotte and I will continue to show you the various… safety features implemented into your new uniforms.” 

Clicking your shoes together, a blade extends from the toe just as you repeat the actions to hide the blade once more as you comment, “Poison tipped blade in there, one good lick and anyone would be seeing the pearly gates.” The men copy your actions as the all take an extra wide step away from one another. “Of course our ties as well,” your hand drifts up your chest and towards the knot, “great for choking out an attacker,” you wink at Laswell while saying this as she chokes, whispering about her wife as you throw your head back laughing as she soon does the same. 

Walking back over to your suit jacket, you feel around for your fountain pen inside before walking down the line, presenting them with the object for them to hold. Taking the pen back out of Simon's gloved hands you click it thrice in quick succession that extends a small pill at the top. “In case of emergency, this will kill you as well,” you add in a sweet, sarcastic tone. “But I will do my best to make sure it never comes down to that,” you add once seeing the concerned faces looking at you and Charlotte. 

“Now,” you smirk, turning your shoulder slightly before whipping your arm around, a blade emerging from between the fabrics of your suit as its flies in between Johnny and Kyle's head, their shoulders tensing, eyes wincing before letting out a breath of relief. “You really think I would try and kill you guys off that quickly?” you tease, receiving no response as you click your tongue, skating your head as Charlotte begins to go over the various guns they will have on their person depending on the mission. 

Picking up your custom engraved glock that your first handler gave to you upon promotion, you traced your fingers over the rides before taking aim at one of the targets at the back of the room. Each shot landing at the centre of the head, between the eyes as you flicked back on the safety and placed the barrel on the back of your waistband. A series of small claps go around the room as you turn to bow just as Charlotte hands each of them a weapon of their own. You both stand at the back, taking notes alongside Laswell to their techniques, strengths and weaknesses. 

Your phone rings as you curse out, ‘What Whitby?!” you cry out, they merely clear their throat before answering your question as you look towards the ceiling, patience wearing thin, “I am currently being shot at Handler! I need some assistance pronto~” he sing songs out as you look towards the line of men who have their backs still turned to you. “Give me 15 minutes,” is all your state before starting up a new call with Handler Jacobs, “Okay Jay, what fucking game are you playing at- get a hold of your agents before I get a hold of you- is that clear?” you state with utmost vice, your words like blades in pleasure in hearing him wince at your tone. 

“Of course, Handler D… I would not want to become part of your name's history,” he replies, shuffling of various papers easily heard from the otherside as they grip their desk in a panic, Samantha shouting from down the hall as an agent comes running into the headquarters, clearly injured and lacking the presence of another certain agent. 

“Fantastic.” You end the call soon afterwards, not wanting to hear another word as you put your hand up and Charlotte signals for everyone to unload their gun and set them upon the table to be cleaned. “It appears that you will be testing out everything you learned sooner than I expected. Do not disappoint me in making this decision.” 

“Yes, Handler” is sung throughout the space as you nod your head in approval before they trail behind you and towards your office where Jacobs anxiously awaits your presence. Palms sweating as they understand the hole they have dug themselves into. “I don’t wish to see your face Jacobs-” you state as they rush out the room, tail in between their legs as Samantha soon follows, not wishing to witness your wrath. 

Handing each task force member a small chip to set in their ear. You test communications before using your desk phone to request a vehicle at the back of the store. The Task force looks between one another, nervous for your next move. Pulling out a drawer from your desk, a series of labelled envelopes meet their eyes as you pull out four and press them gently into each of their pockets. “Inside these packages are any unique identifications that may be requested on the designated location, arrival time is set for 30 minutes from now where you will be meeting up with Agent Whitby, top of the division and you will respect each other. I will hear nothing from either side and on that note, you are all to find and destroy the fake artifacts pictured inside the envelope. I will be live on communications alongside Handler Jacobs if you have any questions, conversions or need for immediate evac. If communications do go down, Whitby will be there to assist your team as he is being briefed currently- is that clear?”

Laswell nods her head for the group who are seemingly entranced by your sudden calmness as you sip the fresh tea at your desk, making yet another mental note to thank Samantha when this mission was over for the drink. Clapping your hands to your knees, Charlotte comes running in, keys in hand as she states the car and model they are to drive. Sending Laswell a smirk in reassurance, you all watch as they make their way back upstairs for the festivities to start. 

Just as John is last to leave the room, you call out, halting him in his steps, “and do insure John-darling, that all equipment used today is back unscuffed.” He sends you a thumbs up before jogging back down the hall to catch up as you fall back into your chair and press your finger to the scanner. The room soon closes into security measures as a table emerges at the centre of the room, casting a 3D projection of the building and street they would be infiltrating. 

Your fingertip casts over the top of Whitby's head, you watch as he moves up and down the halls with elegance. Shoving suits of armour into unsuspecting guards heads while silencing their screams by kicking their faces into the plush rugs below. “And so the fun begins…”

↳ Taglist: @thriving-n-jiving @cringeycookies @lilliumrorum @brokenpieces-72 @ashy-kit @notsaelty @hindi-si-ikay @sleepyycatt

[luciemggio]

Something like love

Genre: Fluff, romance, actor fan fiction

Warnings: some insecurities, Sebastian being a kind hearted man ( yes it is a warning ;) )

Author’s note: Hi everyone this is my first post so please be kind and respectful, I hope you will like it, don’t hesitate to give me some feedback or suggestions. Requests are open !!!! Thanks!!

Y/N was used to lights. Bright ones. Blinding ones. The kind that followed you from red carpets to supermarket lines, the kind that exposed every inch of your skin and every doubt you tried to bury beneath concealer.

It was supposed to be a dream, starring in a romantic drama opposite Sebastian Stan, sharing scenes with the man who’d once carried Marvel movies like he carried that quiet, aching charisma. They’d met on the set of Heartlines, a sweeping love story that ran parallel to a fictional war, the kind of film the studio hoped would earn critical acclaim and sell posters with foggy silhouettes of almost-kisses.

She wasn’t new to the industry. She’d played a bold, sharp-witted mutant in the latest Marvel phase. But even superheroes aren’t immune to real-world scrutiny. Y/N had soft curves and a height that didn’t lend itself to runway elegance. A hundred gossip accounts online had already labeled her “brave” for not conforming to the Hollywood mold. As if existing in her own body required courage.

Sebastian noticed before anyone said a word. He saw the way Y/N flinched after checking her phone between takes. The way she hunched slightly when standing next to other actresses. The way she made herself smaller.

But what Sebastian saw, when the cameras stopped rolling, was a woman who radiated authenticity. She was quick-witted, observant, and heartbreakingly kind. She made the crew laugh when filming stretched past midnight. She brought cookies she’d baked herself. She made people feel seen.

He’d fallen in love with her before he realized it was happening.

It was late, somewhere past 1AM. The crew had just wrapped for the day, and the rain machine had been shut down after soaking them both for a complicated kiss scene under fake thunder. Y/N sat on the edge of a bench near the trailers, her damp hair braided loosely, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands.

Sebastian found her there. He hesitated for only a second before sitting beside her.

“You okay?” he asked.

She gave a tired smile. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

He waited. The silence stretched comfortably. She finally added, “Sometimes I think people watch me not because they think I’m good, but because they want to see how far I’ll fall out of place.”

Sebastian turned, looking at her directly. “Y/N… I’ve watched a lot of people pretend to be someone else for cameras. But you—” he gestured gently, “—you show up as yourself. That’s rare. And it’s beautiful.”

She blinked. “Beautiful?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “They can’t stop looking at you because you’re not like anyone else. They just don’t have the words for what they’re seeing.”

Y/N laughed, but it caught in her throat. “You’re sweet. But I’m not what people expect.”

“Good,” he said. “Because what they expect is boring. What they get with you… it’s real.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him—like maybe she could believe it if it came from him. He had that kind of face. Honest. Gentle. A little broken around the eyes, but always steady.

He reached for her hand, his fingers warm against hers.

“You’re enough,” he said. “And you’re stunning. And every time I look at you, I’m not acting.”

Her breath caught. “That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You can’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

“I mean them.”

And then he kissed her, softly, slowly, like she was something delicate but fierce. Like she was exactly the woman he’d been waiting for in a world too quick to forget that beauty has nothing to do with perfection.

The next day, the tabloids speculated on the kiss they’d shared between trailers. Photos surfaced of them laughing at lunch, walking too closely, smiling too openly. And for once, Y/N didn’t check the comments.

Because the way Sebastian looked at her when the cameras weren’t watching—when it was just the two of them and the hush between heartbeats—that told her everything she needed to know.

He didn’t love the idea of her.

He loved her. Just as she was.

And maybe, slowly, Y/N could learn to love herself, too.

[waywardmillennial]

PH 7x05 Reaction and Theories

This post will contain spoilers for all of PH season 7 so far from Watcher TV

Contains moments from 7x05 but also some overall notes on s7 as a whole while we theorize for the finale next week

Since a lot of the non-WTV subscribers are looking for 7x01 posts everything will be under a read more to try and avoid spoiling things and also you can filter out #Puppet History spoilers for anything I post like this

Click at your own risk!

First, not a Lore bomb but I'm giggling that 7x05 is about a jester and we learn they were chosen to perform because they could make fart jokes and the Professor calls Ryan his jester lolll

For the Lore at the end, I want to point out that they really make a point of telling us how addictive the Phorgedytol pills are and how much both Ryan and the Professor are wishing for more - I hope this isn't used against them!

they also trust Sprat enough to warn him about Elmer and the Professor says that Sprat is "really friendly" (ominous maybe?)

whoever had "Ryan tries to contact ghost!Shane via Spirit Box" on their 2025 Bingo card is correct!

this exchange between Ryan and ghost!Shane is so great lmao

During Shane's flashback he's singing a song "I once had a Lassie whose eyes were all glassy" but I couldn't find if that song actually exists

Then we get confirmation that it was Elmer who pulled the trigger and we see him walking from beside a dumpster - aka the last known location of the substitute's hologram device :eyes emoji:

After saying how he was shot, Shane mentions running into some interesting celebrities

Past guests referenced by ghost!Shane and links to the PH episode:

Abraham Lincoln & Kate Warne - Kate was a detective who foiled an assassination attempt on Lincoln

Adolf Sax - aka the "unkillable weirdo" who lived through many things that could have killed him

Pickle Boys - they were brought back to life by Santa Claus

Seems to be a common theme about avoiding murder/death with these guests. My theory is that this is how Estranged Producer Shane Madej can still win! (come back to life)

and I want to point out again that Dr. Sprat wears triangle-shaped glasses and I can't help but feel like this is significant to 7x01 with Pythagoras and the Triangle and Reincarnation...

I think that every time we see Sprat through the season we're supposed to remember that Reincarnation is on the table

Also, Shane mentions the human participants of these episodes and not the anthropomorphized puppets (train, instrument prototype, or various guests from the xmas special). Maybe he's in a different place than purgatory, since we know that's where the puppets are or are being sent, and he's not seeing the puppets.

Now for some general notes about the season I've been rotisserie-ing in my mind the past few weeks:

7x01 Pythagoras -Themes of mysticism and reincarnation -Triangle sings that "Math will never die" and then is the first one to be sent to Purgatory by the Retirement Machine. Ironic but also perhaps foreshadowing that the machine isn't really killing them permanently?

7x02 Straw Hat Riots -Themes of violence especially against those in "other" groups -Dorothy Ruth tries to warn Ryan and the Professor

7x03 Shajar al-Durr -Pretending someone you're close to isn't dead -Dead body inside the puppet -Dino parents tricked with Liza Minnelli fake and sent through the Retirement Machine (Note: Elmer is the one supervising this usage of the machine and not Dr. Sprat, who seems to be against this part of his job)

7x04 Lisztomania -Puppet was a discarded pile of trash (a metaphor for Shane shot "like a dog in the street") when it could have been a piano for Liszt -Professor and Ryan remember what happened at the s6 wrap party

7x05 Jester -Dead body inside the puppet -Professor and Ryan contact ghost!Shane

7x06 Topic TBD -Only episode that hasn't been announced yet -Double-checked the trailer and there were no animations from 7x06 as all the ones we saw have been for the other five episodes -We know the guest will be Sara Rubin and her line from the trailer about "this is heading toward eating people" -The puppet seems to be a broken ship based on the s7 banner art on WTV with a skeleton on the bow

shots from all the animations we saw in the trailer

NOTE: All of the puppets this season have been fairly simple (triangle, hat, tent, trash, rug) compared to some of the major guest stars we've had in previous seasons (god, death, cupid, Antarctica) which I think is due to Elmer or someone else besides Shane being in charge and not really caring about who is booked for the show

But Elmer's title is Branded Content Manager, so maybe he's only working for a producer in the shadows (like the Genie perhaps?? but my money is on the Substitute)

I want to believe Sprat is a good guy, but his reluctance to retire the puppets could all be a ruse!

In 7x05 we didn't get any updates on Dorothy Ruth, and the Professor and Ryan didn't learn what the Department of Puppet Safety is really up to with the guests, so I'm interested to see how much Lore is packed into the last episode. It could be a long one!

My other PH posts about s7 are in this tag if you want to refresh your memories while we wait for 7x06

Thanks for reading! Comment or reblog with your finale theories!

[tomorrowusa]

Don't expect to find facts any more on Facebook, Instagram, Threads, and other Zuck-owned social media.

Multibillionaire Mark Zuckerberg apparently wants to add even more loot to his enormous fortune. So he has increasingly been kissing up to Donald Trump.

Trump dwells in a universe where any content which contradicts him or disagrees with him is disparaged as "fake news". In such a space, fact checking is considered a hindrance to Trump's firehose of bullshit.

So getting rid of fact checking is a green light for conspiracy theorists, hate speech, and (of course) unsubstantiated Trump bullshit.

Meta is abandoning the use of independent fact checkers on Facebook and Instagram, replacing them with X-style "community notes" where commenting on the accuracy of posts is left to users. In a video posted alongside a blog post by the company on Tuesday, chief executive Mark Zuckerberg said third-party moderators were "too politically biased" and it was "time to get back to our roots around free expression". The move comes as Zuckerberg and other tech executives seek to improve relations with US President-elect Donald Trump before he takes office later this month. Trump and his Republican allies have criticised Meta for its fact-checking policy, calling it censorship of right-wing voices. Speaking after the changes were announced, Trump told a news conference he was impressed by Zuckerberg's decision and that Meta had "come a long way". Asked whether Zuckerberg was "directly responding" to threats Trump had made to him in the past, the incoming US president responded: "Probably".

It's time to get off of META (Facebook, etc.) as it is to get off Twitter/X.

Your presence there just makes broligarchs richer and feeds the Trump messaging machine.

Don't whine that you somehow need Facebook to keep in touch with friends. People had lasting friendships for hundreds of years before Zuck started Facebook to rate girls at Harvard. And people in pre-Facebook times had fewer worries about privacy.

And please don't spew the insipid line: "I don't click the ads there." Clicking ads is not the point. You are giving broligarch social media credibility just by being there. Without people like you, Facebook and Twitter/X are just clones of Truth Social.

Quitting META and Twitter/X in not just good politics and good for your privacy, it's excellent for your mental health.

Should You Leave Social Media?