#Give Me the Tapes I Need Them to Edge! | Crack | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

izzih22 · 13 days ago

Note

U should write a fic abt Paige crashing out and being upset over not winning any games and azzi comforting her

Built to Break

Note: I would crash out too if I was being coached by Chris😂😂

The locker room was empty when Paige walked in, but it didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt hollow. Loud with silence.

She dropped her duffel on the floor with a heavy thud, then stood there, frozen in the middle of the room. She could still hear the crowd echoing in her head, but it wasn’t cheers. It was disappointment. Booing. Silence.

Another game. Another loss. Another headline tomorrow.

“Bueckers can’t carry team alone.”

“Star rookie struggling to deliver.”

She tore the tape off her leg violently, each rip louder than it needed to be. Her whole body was buzzing. Rage. Exhaustion. Shame.

She had dropped 28 points, 7 assists, 4 steals. Played all 40 minutes.

And still…

They lost.

And it wasn’t even close.

She walked over to her locker and threw her water bottle against the wall. It exploded on impact, spraying across the tile.

Then her sneakers.

Then the stat sheet one of the assistants had left on her seat.

The paper fluttered to the ground. She stared at it. Her line looked good. Impressive even.

And yet they were 0–11.

Winless.

She braced both hands on the edge of the bench and leaned over, chest heaving. The fluorescent lights above hummed. The buzz in her head screamed.

She was so tired of carrying it all.

Being the face. The leader. The hope.

Doing everything she was supposed to and still walking into that tunnel every night with her head down.

She had never known this kind of losing.

And it wasn’t just losing it was watching teammates quit mid-game. Coaches freeze. Systems fall apart in real time.

She was giving everything and it wasn’t enough.

Her palms curled into fists. Her jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

She wanted to scream. To smash something.

But instead she sat down slowly on the bench, shaking, and buried her face in her hands.

⸻

She didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

It wasn’t until a voice said, “Paige…” that her head jerked up like someone had struck her.

Azzi.

Standing in the doorway in a grey hoodie and leggings, her bag still slung over one shoulder, eyes wide and soft and worried.

Paige blinked. Her breath caught in her throat.

“What are you—” her voice cracked, harsh from shouting and silence. “What are you doing here?”

Azzi took a cautious step forward. “I flew in this afternoon. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know if you’d want me here after—”

“After another loss?” Paige snapped before she could stop herself. Her voice wasn’t aimed at Azzi, but it was sharp. Bitter.

Azzi stopped moving. “No,” she said gently. “After everything. I just wanted to be here. With you.”

Paige stood suddenly, pacing again, her hands going to her hips. “You shouldn’t have come. You don’t need to see this.”

Azzi frowned. “See what?”

Paige motioned to the mess the water, the papers, her torn jersey on the floor. “This. Me losing my mind. Me doing everything I can and still watching it fall apart. I dropped almost thirty tonight, Az. And we still got smoked.”

Azzi opened her mouth, but Paige kept going.

“I’m killing myself out there. I’m fighting for every possession, I’m in the gym until midnight most nights, I’m trying to lead a team that looks at me like I’m just some kid who got lucky. And no one else steps up. No one.”

She was pacing faster now. Her hands flailing a little. Her voice rising with every word.

“I talk to coaches, I rewatch every game, I adjust, I push. I carry. Every damn game, I carry them. And it doesn’t matter. We lose. Every time. And I—” Her voice broke. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

Azzi was watching her closely. Quiet. Focused.

Paige looked like she was about to combust.

“I don’t sleep,” Paige said, laughing bitterly. “I dream about missed shots and broken coverages. I dream about being back at UConn where people cared. Where it mattered. Where I had you.”

Her voice caught again.

Azzi finally stepped closer. “You have me now.”

Paige shook her head. “No. Not like that. Not in the locker room after a loss. Not in my ear during huddles. Not when I need you in those seconds before the game starts and I’m trying to remember who I am.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. “Then let me remind you.”

Paige was still shaking her head, eyes glassy, trying to hold it in, trying to keep the heat boiling instead of letting it turn into tears.

Azzi didn’t ask again. She just reached forward, slowly, and placed a hand over Paige’s chest.

Right where her heart was pounding.

That single touch steady, warm, grounding, hit like a lightning strike.

Paige went still.

Her breathing hitched.

And then everything shattered.

Her face crumpled as a sob broke out of her throat. Her knees buckled slightly, and Azzi caught her, pulling her into her arms without hesitation.

Paige collapsed against her, arms tight around her waist, forehead pressing into Azzi’s shoulder. She was shaking with the force of it now not from rage, but from the crash.

“I can’t do this alone,” she whispered. “I can’t. I thought I could but I can’t.”

Azzi held her tighter. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

Paige’s grip tightened like she was afraid if she let go, everything would fall apart again.

“I’m trying so hard,” she sobbed. “I really thought I could change things.”

“You are changing things,” Azzi murmured. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

They sank down onto the bench, still wrapped around each other. Paige’s face was buried in Azzi’s hoodie. Azzi just let her cry no rush, no judgment. Only hands in her hair, soft murmurs, the quiet safety of being known.

Eventually, Paige’s breathing slowed. Her body stopped shaking.

Azzi looked down at her. “You did good tonight.”

“We lost,” Paige muttered.

“You didn’t.”

Paige looked up at her, tear-streaked and exhausted. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

Azzi smiled softly, brushing hair out of her face. “I’ve never said anything I didn’t mean to you.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Don’t let go.”

“Not planning on it.”

⸻

They didn’t talk much on the drive home.

Paige kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Azzi’s thigh not gripping, not fidgeting. Just there. Grounding. Her thumb moved in slow, steady circles like she needed to feel something real. Azzi never moved it away.

The city lights blurred past them in streaks of gold and red. The traffic hummed. But inside the car, there was only stillness.

When they reached the apartment, Paige unlocked the door and stepped aside to let Azzi in first, like she always used to. Muscle memory. Like nothing had changed.

But it had.

And yet… not this.

Not them.

Azzi stepped out of her sneakers and looked around the place, soft smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Her UConn hoodie was still tossed over the back of one of the kitchen chairs from the last time she visited. There was a single scrunchie sitting on the bathroom counter. Her favorite brand of tea still had a spot in the cupboard.

Paige walked in behind her and let the door close with a quiet click.

She didn’t say anything. Just wrapped her arms around Azzi from behind and buried her face in her neck.

Azzi didn’t speak either. She just covered Paige’s hands with her own.

They stood like that for a long moment, the city muted behind the windows, the quiet stretching out between them like a blanket.

When Paige finally pulled back, her voice was soft. Rough around the edges.

“I know you don’t technically live here,” she murmured, “but it still feels like ours.”

Azzi turned around, her expression gentle. “You think of it that way?”

Paige’s eyes flicked around the apartment. The framed photo of them at nineteen sitting on the bookshelf. The pair of slippers Azzi had left under the bed back in February. The mug that Paige still hadn’t used since Azzi last did.

“Yeah,” she said simply. “It’s never not felt like ours.”

Azzi stepped closer, fingers brushing Paige’s wrist. “Even when I’m not here?”

Paige swallowed. Her voice broke again, quieter now. “Especially then.”

Azzi’s face softened. She touched Paige’s cheek, thumb grazing lightly beneath her eye. “You didn’t need to be strong for me tonight.”

“I didn’t know how not to be,” Paige whispered. “Until I saw you. Until you… touched me.”

Azzi leaned in and kissed her. Just once. Slow and steady and deep not because it was leading anywhere, but because it had nowhere else to go.

Paige exhaled against her lips like she’d been holding her breath for days.

And then she took Azzi’s hand and walked her to the couch, pulling her down gently, guiding her right into her lap. Azzi settled against her like second nature, legs folded to the side, head tucked under Paige’s chin.

Paige wrapped her arms around her like she couldn’t bear to let her go.

⸻

They stayed like that on the couch, wrapped around each other, the room dim except for the low streetlights bleeding in through the windows. Paige’s arms hadn’t loosened since Azzi climbed into her lap if anything, she was holding tighter now. Not like she was afraid Azzi would leave, but like she needed something solid to keep herself from unraveling again.

Azzi didn’t speak. She didn’t try to fix anything. She just let Paige hold her. Let Paige breathe through the heaviness. Let her be quiet.

Eventually, Paige shifted slightly, her hands still curled at the hem of Azzi’s hoodie.

“I hate how everything feels right now,” she said, voice low. “Basketball. My body. The pressure. The way people look at me.”

Azzi rested her chin on Paige’s shoulder. “But not this?”

Paige shook her head once. “No. Not this. This is the only thing that doesn’t feel like it’s slipping.”

Azzi nodded, her fingers brushing softly over Paige’s side.

Neither of them moved to get up. The clock ticked quietly in the background. The apartment smelled faintly like cinnamon from that candle Azzi left behind months ago.

Paige smiled at the thought and adjusted the blanket, shifted a little, holding Azzi tighter chest to chest, arms firm around her back, like the only thing she needed tonight was the feel of her girl breathing.

No fixes.

No pep talks.

Just this.

And for once, it was enough.

#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi #paige and azzi #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #azzi fudd

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leejenowrld · 1 month ago

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What’s something super filthy that y/n and Jeno have done with each other that they wouldn’t consider doing with other people?

this has left me soaked and i hope it’s left you guys feeling the same way LMAO, ask for part two as i have so much more to write. i��m horny as fuck.

update — part two

1. jeno letting her dom him because only she could jeno doesn’t submit. he never has. he’s dominant by instinct, physical, commanding, obsessed with control. but there’s something about the way y/n undoes him that makes it different. it’s not about power for her, it’s about knowing him. and that’s why he gives it up. because when she ties his wrists to the bedframe with his own jersey, straddling his hips with her nails digging into his stomach, he isn’t afraid of looking weak. he trusts her not to humiliate him. he trusts her to ruin him the way he likes: slow, deliberate, and just cruel enough to make him ache. she edges him with her palm wrapped around his cock, makes him say “please” while riding his thigh, spits in his mouth just to see him flinch. and when she finally sinks down onto him, she says “you’ll come when i tell you to, and not a second before,” and he moans like she owns his body. no one else has ever had that kind of access. no one else ever will. he gives her control because she’s the only person who doesn’t use it against him. she just uses it to make him fall apart.

2. her eating his ass and him begging for it jeno never thought it was something he’d want. he thought it was too exposed, too dirty, too out-of-body. but with her? it happened once and he folded. they were already fucking. she was on her knees, mouth soaked from sucking his cock until his legs were shaking, and she licked lower, teasing his balls, fingers digging into his thighs to keep them open. and then she went lower. licked between his cheeks, slow and filthy, and jeno choked on a breath so hard he nearly came untouched. he’d never felt so humiliated and so loved at the same time. she didn’t mock him. didn’t laugh. just whispered “good boy” while he moaned into his own forearm, trembling from how good it felt. now it’s become something he asks for, in that low, desperate tone he only uses with her. “can i lay back? can you do that thing again?” and when she does, he spreads his legs wider, cock leaking onto his stomach, hands in her hair while he grinds into her face like he’s losing his mind. he’d kill anyone who even joked about it. it’s only hers.

3. sex on his game tape while it’s playing jeno’s obsessive about basketball, about winning, about legacy, and she’s the only one who knows how to weaponise it. one night, during the season he almost cracked under pressure, she came over wearing nothing but his old team hoodie and put his game tape on the tv. then sat on his lap. started sucking his cock while he watched himself play. and the moment he got close, she climbed on top of him, riding him with her back to the screen, hair sticking to her neck, moaning “you want legacy? this is it. me bouncing on your cock while your whole career plays behind us.” and he lost it. he came harder than he had in weeks, fucked her through it like she was the only win he ever needed. now it’s a ritual. before every major game, she gets him off with footage of himself in the background, not to distract him. to remind him he’s a god on the court, and her entire life off of it. he’d never let anyone else turn his ambition into sex. she’s the only one who could make him feel that dirty and that powerful at the same time.

4. fucking her ass while she’s still crying from her orgasm jeno only goes there when she’s deep into subspace, when he’s edged her for so long she’s half-sobbing into the sheets, body slick with sweat and slick, thighs shaking, voice gone. it’s not casual. it’s not about novelty. it’s about ownership. when she’s too sensitive to take more but still opens up for him, breath hitching as he slowly pushes into her ass while her pussy’s still twitching from her last orgasm, crying softly into his hand, and he murmurs “you’re doing so well, baby. look how good you take me. fuck, you’re made for this.” he uses lube. fingers her open slowly. holds her face the entire time like he’s reminding her that she’s safe, even when it feels overwhelming. and when he bottoms out, deep and dirty and filthy, she claws at the sheets, sobbing “i can’t” while he shushes her and says “yes you can. you are. you’re mine.” she’s never let anyone else do that. she never will. it’s a level of surrender she only gives to jeno because he’s the only one who knows how to break her without ever making her feel broken.

5. making her squirt on his shoes it started as a joke. she teased him for being too obsessed with his trainers. said “you’d never let anyone touch those, huh?” and he grinned. said “only if you’re gonna come on them.” and she did. he had her legs over his shoulders on the couch, angle brutal and precise, two fingers rubbing her clit as his cock hit deep and hard, and when she came, she squirted across his stomach, down his thighs, soaking his shoes. and he groaned. looked down at them, breathless, muttering “fuck. do it again. i want you to come on my shoes.” it became a game. sometimes he wears specific pairs he wants her to ruin. watches her ride him while she leaks down his legs, makes her kneel between them while she fingers herself just to leave wet marks on the laces. it’s disgusting. it’s ridiculous. it’s so hot he can’t think straight after. they don’t tell anyone. it’s their own sick little tradition.

6. pegging jeno after he loses a bet it was a bet they both knew he’d lose, over something stupid, something competitive, something soaked in tension. and the prize? her fucking him. with the strap. jeno laughed when she said it. smirked. didn’t believe she’d actually do it. until he’s on his knees, hands gripping the headboard, flushed and hard with lube dripping down his thighs and her voice in his ear saying “what, you nervous now?” she starts slow, licks down his back, reaches under to stroke his cock, works the strap in inch by inch while he breathes hard and doesn’t say a word. but when it’s in — when it’s fully in — he whimpers. moans. his arms go tense. he presses his forehead to the sheets. and she fucks him. hips rolling, hand on the back of his neck, telling him “you take it so well. look at you. bent over for me.” he starts leaking onto the bed without even being touched. he begs to come. she says “only if you say you belong to me.” he says it with his whole body.

7. coming in her panties and making her wear them to class jeno loves marking her, not with bruises, not with scratches, but with mess. the kind no one else sees. the kind only she feels. and the filthiest thing he ever did was the morning he pulled her into his lap before lecture, made her grind on him until she was soaked, then shoved her panties to the side, jacked himself off while kissing her neck, and came inside the fabric. thick. warm. sticky. he pressed them back against her and held them there. told her “keep them on. go to class like this. think about me every time you shift in your seat.” she tried to argue. he slid a hand between her thighs, pressed hard over the mess, said “you owe me.” and she wore them. sat through a 90-minute lecture with his cum drying against her pussy. texted him “you’re sick” halfway through. he replied with a picture of his hand wrapped around his cock. “so are you.”

8. tying off his cock until he begs jeno’s always in control but she knows exactly how to take it from him. she pulls him onto the bed, strokes him until he’s fully hard, and then ties a silk ribbon around the base of his cock, tight. tight enough that he hisses. tight enough that he aches. and then she leaves it. doesn’t touch him. doesn’t jerk him. just kisses down his stomach and says “you’ll come when i say. not before.” he starts begging at minute five. “baby, please. just a little. i’ll be good.” she laughs. straddles him. grinds against him. but won’t let him inside. won’t take the ribbon off. his abs flex. his thighs twitch. he’s dripping pre-cum down his shaft and he can’t do anything about it. when she finally fucks him, finally unties it and slides down slow, he comes instantly, groaning into her neck, shaking like he hasn’t come in days. and she kisses his cheek and says “told you you’re mine.” he doesn’t even pretend to argue.

9. making her suck her own squirt off his fingers he’s obsessed with the way her body falls apart, the way her pussy gushes when he plays her right. he gets her there slowly, two fingers inside, thumb on her clit, mouth low and filthy in her ear, telling her “you’re so fucking wet for me. you gonna make a mess? gonna soak my fucking hand?” and she does. it’s not just slick, it’s squirting, full-body, soaking his wrist and his stomach, loud and obscene and soaked. and he grins. brings his fingers to her mouth, coated, dripping, holds her jaw and says “clean it.” and she does. tongue out, lips around his fingers, eyes fluttering as she sucks it off like it’s the only thing she’s hungry for. he watches her with his other hand stroking his cock, leaking hard against her thigh, moaning “look how fucking nasty you are. god, you taste yourself for me.” he doesn’t let her stop until his fingers are clean. and then he makes her come again.

10. using her spit as lube + spitting in his mouth jeno lives for her mouth, not just because it’s pretty, or tight, or looks good around his cock but because of what she does with it. he’ll make her suck his fingers first, tongue heavy, eyes locked, until they’re dripping with spit, then drag them down to her pussy and fuck her open with the same fingers, slow, obscene, letting her hear the mess she’s making. but what he loves most? is when she lets a strand of spit fall from her mouth directly onto his cock. it lands on the tip, sticky and warm, and he groans like it’s the filthiest thing in the world. he strokes it in with one hand, gets her on her back with her knees spread, and before sliding in, he grabs her jaw, tilts her face up, and says “give me some.” and she spits. into his open mouth. tongue out, breath shallow, watching his eyes flutter as he swallows it without shame. when he fucks her after, it’s brutal. he doesn’t slow down. doesn’t stop. just moans, “fuck, you taste so good,” while wrecking her from the inside.

11. eating her out from behind while she’s crying into a pillow jeno’s mean with his mouth. he’s slow, possessive, and cruel in the way that makes her scream. when she’s on her hands and knees, face down into the pillow, thighs trembling, he’ll kiss her inner thighs like he’s got all the time in the world, tongue soft and slow until she starts grinding into his face. and then he’ll grab her ass and bury his tongue in her pussy — filthy, wet, groaning into her while her whole body starts twitching. the more she moans, the harder he holds her down, spreading her wider, licking from clit to hole over and over until she’s gushing, thighs soaking his chin, sobbing into the pillow like she can’t take another second. and he doesn’t stop. he keeps eating her through it. “cry all you want, baby,” he growls against her, “you taste better like this.” she comes so hard she forgets how to speak. when he pulls back, his face is wet, his eyes dark, and he kisses the back of her knee like he’s worshipping something sacred.

12. fucking her with a toy while her hands are tied it’s punishment but only because she asked for it. he has her naked, kneeling, wrists bound behind her back, a toy strapped to the bed and already inside her. and she’s shaking. panting. begging him to touch her, to move, to do something, but he just watches. leans against the wall with his hand wrapped around his cock, eyes locked on hers, and says “ride it. come without using your hands.” she moans. tries to move her hips. the toy drags slow and deep, and it’s not enough but he won’t help. just strokes himself harder, muttering “come on, you’re smart. you know how to fuck yourself. show me how desperate you are.” she starts crying. starts grinding faster. when she finally comes, whole body bucking, he kisses her forehead and says “good girl.” then he fucks her himself. no mercy.

13. jerking him off under the table at a family dinner they shouldn’t have been sitting next to each other, jeno knew it the second her hand found his thigh under the tablecloth. her palm slid higher, fingers sneaky and slow, until she was brushing over his hard cock like it was nothing. he tried to act normal. tried to nod at whatever his uncle was saying about business school. but her hand wrapped around him under the table, and she started stroking slow. teasing. her thumb circled his tip. he coughed. shifted. bit back a groan. she leaned in and whispered, “be good, or i’ll stop.” he nodded. breathed hard through his nose. when she felt him twitch in her hand, she sped up. not fast, just enough to make his thigh shake. he came silently, jaw locked, body frozen, cum spilling into his boxers while she kept her eyes on her plate like nothing happened. she wiped her hand under the table, leaned into his ear, and whispered “you owe me for that.” he nearly choked on his drink.

14. stairwell blowjob before lecture and coming on her face they were late. she was teasing him all morning, bending over in her skirt, brushing past him shirtless, licking her fingers while eating fruit like it wasn’t a threat. he snapped. dragged her into the stairwell of their building, pushed her against the concrete, and said “on your knees. now.” she dropped without blinking, unzipped his jeans, pulled his cock out with both hands and went to work. fast, messy, throat deep and spit heavy, slapping sounds echoing off the walls while he tried not to moan too loud. she looked up at him with her mouth full and he nearly came just from that. “fuck, you want it on your face?” he asked, breath ragged. she nodded. he pulled out and came hard, cum hitting her cheek, her lips, dripping down her chin. she licked it off with a smile. he zipped up, kissed her forehead, and said “go ace your test, baby.” she did. without wiping it off first.

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violetsrxse · 6 months ago

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Vi x f!reader where reader gets a head injury and Vi takes care of her

A/N - Hi! So sorry this took so long, I've been suuuuper busy lately. I really do hope you enjoy though!

CW - fluff and a wee bit of angst (if you squint), worried Vi :(, brief mentions of blood, established relationship, fem!reader

Main Masterlist

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the dull but persistent ache in your head. Throbbing and pulsing at a steady tempo.

Everything seems fuzzy, like static from a TV. Your eyes are closed, feeling almost glued shut as you bring a hand to your head.

Well, try to anyway.

Your hand is intercepted on it's path by Vi, her voice breaking through the static and soothing your nerves.

"Hey hey, don't touch it, angel." Her voice is firm but soft, laced with concern.

You groan, trying to force your eyes open. It's difficult but you finally manage to open them a crack, the lighting of the room is low, seemingly turned down by Vi to lessen any discomfort.

"Vi..?" Your voice cracks, raspy with disuse.

"I'm here, angel." She brushes some hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear as you look around the room, confused. "You're alright."

Trying again to bring your hand to your head, much to Vi's dismay, you search for the source of the incessant throbbing. As your fingers come in contact with the side of your head where the pain is most intense, you furrow your brows at the warm, wet liquid.

Pulling your fingers away, you look to your fingers, blinking at the sight of the blood staining the tips. You look to Vi, brows pinched together in question.

"What- what happened?"

"You had an accident, angel. But you're alright, I'm gonna get you all cleaned up and you'll be good as new in no time." Her words are more for her comfort than yours.

You sigh heavily, no memory of the accident coming to mind.

"An accident?" You ask, pushing up on your elbows. "What kind of accident?"

She rests a hand on your back, guiding you gently into a seated position at the edge of the bed.

"Don't exert yourself too much." She shuffles to sit closer to you, her arm snaking around your waist. She holds a warm, wet cloth in her free hand, reaching up to clean away the blood that has managed to seep from the wound.

It causes you to wince and she whispers a soft apology, gentling her touch.

"You were helping Jinx with one of her new inventions, and something wen wrong. It combusted, you were blown against the wall and you hit your head." Her voice trembles almost imperceptibly but you notice, a small frown pulling at your lips.

"Oh." You turn your head to look at her better just a bit too fast and you hiss as the throbbing intensifies, vision blurring. "Fuck." Your hand flies to your head.

"Whoa whoa careful, sweetheart. I can't have you passing out on me again." She tosses the cloth to the side, rubbing your back. "You took a pretty bad tumble."

Careful not to disturb your wound, you slowly lower your head, pressing your forehead to her shoulder.

"Thank you for taking care of me." Your words are a hushed whisper against her skin.

"Anytime, angel. But I'm not finished, we need to get you bandaged up." She reaches for the gauze and makes sure the area is clean and dry before taping the gauze over the wound. "There you go." A pause, her thumb moving to caress your cheek gently. "Good as new."

She leans in, replacing her thumb with her lips, pressing a soft kiss to the apple of your cheek. You can feel the way her breath stutters as her lips touch your skin.

"I'm okay, Vi." You reassure, giving her a sweet kiss to her lips in return. "I've just got a bit of a headache."

She nods, her eyes meeting yours.

"You scared the shit out of me, angel." Her arms band around you, pulling you flush against her as she presses a flurry of soft kisses all over your face.

You don't respond, you just guide her onto her back and snuggle into her side, reassuring her with your touch instead of your words.

And that's where you both drift off, a peaceful sleep pulling you under, and despite your injuries and the now dull throbbing in your head, you smile softly at the comfort of knowing how much she loves you.

Thanks again for the request, I enjoyed writing this!

#arcane #vi #vi arcane #vi x reader #vi x reader fluff #arcane x reader #vi fluff #vi angst #vi x reader angst #ask aves #vi is such a sweetie omg

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sv3t1ana · 2 months ago

Text

<< Master list ⋮ Next chapter >>

SYNOPSIS ᯓ A Bonnie and Clyde-esque, high-stakes, multi-chapter smut romance that follows a deadly criminal duo whose intense, chaotic love becomes as dangerous as the heists they pull off. Trust forged in blood, bonds built on risk.

PAIRING ᯓ Criminal! Sukuna x Criminal! Fem. Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ protectiveness?? themes of depression, mentions of weapons, planning for a heist, cute FLUFF for two criminals, stealing a vehicle, cigarette smoking, scouting, he calls you good girl!

WORD COUNT ᯓ 3.0k

Chapter 6.

Sukuna shakes you awake, palm pressing into your shoulder, fingers heavy and warm. The weight of his touch lingers, an anchor dragging you back from the depths of sleep.

“Wake up,” he says, voice slow. His sharp face is too close, the burn of his eyes the first thing you see as your eyes flicker open.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Your voice groggy, thick with sleep.

“Got somethin’ lined up. You in, or you need more beauty rest?”

You blink at him, mind tangled in the remnants of sleep. Something feels off. Not wrong, just different. You don’t remember your dreams, but you can usually recall the weightlessness of them, how your body sank into rest so deep it felt like falling into nothing. And yet, here you were awake, feeling clear-headed. The best sleep you’ve had in years, despite the circumstances. Despite the ache in your limbs and the scratch of an old blanket against your skin.

“Fine. What’s the job?” You push at his chest, a futile attempt to get him out of your space. He settles back into his haunches.

“Bank vault. Big payout. But it’s not some dumb smash-and-grab. We do this clean.”

He stretches, body shifting as he sits at the foot of the bedroll, taking up too much space, always too much space. His presence is a silent command against your senses. You sit up, rubbing your eyes.

“So why the fuck are you waking me up now?”

He shrugs. “We gotta move. New hideout. And we gotta figure out how the fuck we’re pullin’ this off.”

The drive is long, leaving yet another city. Another desolate stretch of nowhere, just far enough from prying eyes. The motel Sukuna picks is a step above the last, a rare indulgence. Two beds, fresh sheets, bulbs that actually work. Apparently he has connection here, someone on the inside slipping him a room off the books. It’s cleaner, quieter. The kind of place people check into but never talk about.

He moves like a man with a ticking clock beneath his skin. Always on edge, always looking for the next move. You’ve never seen him sleep, not really. Even now, after hauling bags into the room, he’s grabbing your wrist, pulling you back outside.

“Let’s go.”

The car is stolen, rusted, an old sedan sure not to draw attention. It sputters to life as he navigates through empty streets.

The restaurant is one of those places that exists outside of time. A 24-hour diner tucked between a pawn shop and a liquor store, the kind of place where the coffee tastes like burnt rubber and regret. The sign outside is sun-bleached, letters peeling at the edges. The door creaks when pushed open, the smell of stale cigarettes filling your nose before you even took a step in.

The floor is sticky, red leather booths cracked and patched with duct tape. A lone jukebox sits in the corner, humming some slow, bluesy song. The waitress behind the counter looks like she’s been working here since the place opened.

Sukuna slides into a booth near the window, stretching an arm along the back of the seat. You settle across from him, glancing at the laminated menu.

“Really? Out of all the places, this is where you bring me?” you ask.

His teeth flash. “What? Too fancy for you?”

You snort. “I think I can feel the FDA violations from here.”

He gives a short chuckle before glancing out the window, expression unreadable. The street outside is slick from last night’s rain, broken blinds casting thin lines of light across his face.

“So,” you prompt, “you gonna tell me more about the heist, or are we here to test our immune systems?”

He flips a sugar packet between his fingers before tearing it open and dumping it into his coffee.

“Bank vault. Big score.”

Your eyes narrow. “Yeah, you mentioned that. But you still haven’t told me how we’re getting in.”

He grins, unbothered. The waitress sets down a plate in front of you, waffles, burnt at the edges, cold in the center. He ordered for you, of course. Asshole.

“That’s where you come in,” he says, pouring way too much syrup over his own food. You never pegged him as the type to have a sweet tooth.

“What do you need?”

“I need you to scout. Go in like a regular customer. Watch the guards. Count cameras, exits, all the good shit.”

“Alright, what else?”

“There’s an alley behind the bank. Check for a back entrance. Some places have emergency exits leading to employee-only areas. We could use that for our escape.”

You nod. “So what’s your lazy ass gonna do?”

He laughs, unbothered. “I’ll handle the fun part. Gettin’ our weapons and gear. Can’t exactly walk in there with no armor and expect to come out alive.”

The morning passes like this, half-eaten food, plans laid out between sips of burnt coffee. Sukuna finishes your waffles without a second thought, barely reacting when you push the plate toward him in disgust. He eats just like he moves and fights, deliberate, all-consuming, like the world owes him everything and he’s here to collect.

After the horrible meal, you both walk over to the pawn shop. It’s dimly lit, air thick with dust, the scent of old metal and desperation. Shelves are stacked with stolen jewelry, forgotten heirlooms pawned for rent money, and cheap firearms locked behind a scuffed glass counter.

The man working behind the counter barely glances up. He’s burly, shoulders hunched forward with exhaustion, the kind that settles into the bones. Bags sag beneath his eyes, beard unkempt and flecked with gray.

“What do you need?” He rasps, voice scratchy from too many cigarettes.

“Two phones. Cash deal.” Sukuna’s voice is measured, no room for negotiation.

The pawn shop owner grunts, barely acknowledging you two as he bends to drag out a plastic bin filled with burner phones, cheap, pre-paid models with screens cracked like old porcelain, key letters worn to nothing. He slides it across the counter. “Pick.”

You sift through them, fingers brushing over devices that have passed through too many hands, seen too many secrets before being discarded like spent bullet casings. You pull out two of the least battered models. Sukuna doesn’t even hesitate before throwing a few crisp bills onto the counter, more than enough to cover the cost. An unspoken message, keep the change, keep your mouth shut.

And the owner takes the money without counting, these types of transactions routine, another brick in the foundation of his co-conspirator lifestyle.

When you step outside, Sukuna hands you one of the phones, the weight of it insignificant in your palm, the implications heavy.

“First rule,” he murmurs, sticking his pointer finger in the air. “Take the SIM out.”

He moves without hesitation, sliding the back off his phone, plucking the tiny card out with a flick of his fingers. You follow suit, prying the fragile thing loose, watching as he drops both to the ground and grinds them under his heel. Circuity crunching beneath his shoe like brittle bones. Final, absolute.

No trace.

Never a trace.

Today was like some fucking field trip, because before you knew it, you were hitting up a gas station, buying different pre-paid SIMs with cash, and now you were in some abandoned lot near a scrapyard. The scent of rust and oil clinging to your clothes.

Sukuna gets out first, and you follow suit. His eyes scan the graveyard of dead machines, picking through them like a vulture. He settles on an old black ‘97 Honda Civic, all worn down and paint chipping. No modern security, just a simple lock and ignition begging to be exploited.

He turns toward you, hands on his hips, wearing that menacing look like you’re a student getting scolded. “Lesson time. You ever hotwire a car before?” His voice turns up at the end, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it.

You roll your eyes at him. “You really gotta ask?”

He nods toward the car, a silent command. “Then show me.”

You approach it, eyes flicking around the lot to see no cameras or eye witnesses, nothing but silence. From his bag, you fish out a thin metal tool, sliding it between the window and door frame, fishing for the lock mechanism. Your first attempt is shaky, a slight fumble. But with your second try, the door pops open with a satisfying click.

He leans against the hood, ankles crossed. “Not bad. Now, the fun part.”

You slip into the driver’s seat, ripping off the panel under the steering wheel. A nest of wires stare back at you. Your fingers work at it quickly, stripping the two you need and twisting them together. A few sparks leap into the air, then the engine roars to life, coughing out a growl like some beast being dragged from its slumber.

You glance at Sukuna, grinning for his approval. “That good enough for you?”

He chuckles before sliding into the passenger seat, legs sprawled out like he owns the place. “Drive.”

So you peel out, tires kicking up dust, heading toward the bank to scout it.

You park in a narrow alley, nestled between brick and shadow. It hums faintly, engine cooling. Close enough for escape, out of sight enough to be nothing at all.

Sukuna lingers near a newspaper stand, idly thumbing through a tabloid, its pages whispering beneath his rough fingers. A performance. He doesn’t care about ink-smeared scandals or drying print, his interest is elsewhere, tracking your movements like a silent god surveying the faithful.

The bank stands with an emblem of trust, the downtown of this foreign city thrumming around you. Voices overlapping, horns sharp in the distance, the scent of fresh espresso curling through the air. Life moves forward, blind and oblivious to the shifting current beneath its feet.

Inside, the bank breathes in wealth. Polished marble underfoot, ceiling high enough to inspire confidence. Recessed lighting gleams off the chandelier like a quiet promise to the money moving within the walls.

A glass partition is separating customers and tellers. Beyond it, a hallway stretches into the building’s bones, leading to the secrets.

Security stands at quiet attention, five in total. Two flanking the entrance, their presence seeming more like a formality than a deterrent. One stationed in the lobby, hands clasped while his gaze sweeps with absent authority. Two more are near the back hallway.

You don’t move for the counter, instead lingering in a side alcove stacked with pamphlets that promised home ownership and financial freedom. A glance, a whisper of calculation. There, in the far right corner, a door.

No keypad or reinforced lock, just a push-bar exit meant for employees. It leads somewhere, a maintenance alley? Parking? Either way, it’s a way out.

The burner phone is cool in your grip as you lift it to your ear, expression usual as you murmur low, a quiet thread only Sukuna can hear.

“Five guards. Two at the entrance, one on patrol, two by the back.”

His voice slips through the other line. “Armed?”

“Standard pistols. No rifles, no vests.”

A soft scoff. “Tch. They’re underestimating us.”

“There’s a back exit too, no security lock, just a push-bar.”

Silence, then, “good girl. Then that’s our way out.”

The counter gleams sterile as you approach. The teller, a woman in her late thirties, offers a practiced smile, so professional and polished.

“Welcome. How can I assist you today?”

“Thinking about opening a business account.” You let your tone dip into casual interest, the edge of idle concern. “Just wanting to know how secure you guys are. I had some issues with my last bank.”

She adjusts her glasses. “We take security very seriously. Armed guards during business hours, 24/7 surveillance, timed locks on the vault.”

“Timed locks?” You feign curiosity, tilting your head just enough. “So, like, no one can just walk in and open it?”

“That’s correct. Even employees can’t override the system. It’s a built-in safety measure.”

As she speaks you shift, angling slightly so you get a different view through the glass partition. Past the hallway you can see the vault, a steel monolith, matte black, heavy. Positioned at the end of a short corridor, tucked just out of sight from the main lobby.

You nod, taking a pamphlet at random, flicking your gaze across it without reading. You step away after thanking the teller, slipping between civilians.

Your phone is back at your ear before you reach the door.

“Got everything we need. Meet me back at the car.”

His reply drips with amusement. “Try not to sound so smug about it.”

The alley yawns ahead, Sukuna waiting, a smile carved into his face like a wolf at leisure.

Time to plan the hit.

Later that night the motel room is quiet, save for the distant sounds of traffic outside and the slow, steady burn of your cigarettes. You and Sukuna sit on opposite beds, mirroring each other, the space between you thick with smoke.

He takes a drag, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion, watching the ember glow at the tip before exhaling. “You ever think about the past?” His voice is rough, casual, like he’s not about to admit something real. “There used to be a time where I didn’t give a shit about anything. I was in and out of jail for small-time robberies to get by, some real dumb shit.” he laughs, amused at his own recklessness.

You study him through the haze. “Why did you do it?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then his eyes drop to the floor, fingers tapping against the cigarette in thought. “My little brother, Yuji.” His voice quieter now, rough in a different way. “I wanted to make sure we had enough, y’know? I wasn’t trying to be some big-time criminal, just wanted ‘em to be safe.”

He flicks the cigarette into the glass ashtray, watching as the ashes scatter. “It just spiraled. I got in too deep, so I just roll with the tide now. Stay a step ahead.”

There’s a pause, he glances at you. Catching your face, expression dull, something that makes him sigh as he rests his elbows on his knees. “But what’s the point of thinkin’ about it now? Shit’s already been done. No turnin’ back.”

He leans back against the mattress, arms folded beneath his head and exposing the ink on his bare chest. You let your eyes trace the dark lines, the stories etched into his skin before finally speaking. “But don’t you ever think about getting out? Like, retiring? A family? A house? A life that doesn’t involve all… this?” You gesture vaguely to the scattered weapons on the floor, the silent proof of the world you live in.

He tilts his head at you, abs flexing as he shifts to meet your gaze. His lips curl, laughter slipping past them. “Me? A house with a fenced-in backyard? A fuckin’ dog? You got a beautiful imagination, doll.”

But there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the smirk on his lips. It’s gone just as fast as it appeared, but you caught the crack in his armor.

So you press. “Yeah, but no, really. There should be more to life than just being on the run always, right? Don’t you want more than this?”

His expression shifts as he weighs your words. Then, he tilts his head, all playfully like a puppy. “What about you, huh? This what keeps you up all night?”

You blink, caught off guard and accidentally answering too honestly. “No. I don’t think about it. I never even thought I’d make it to this age.”

That does something to him, and you see it. It’s subtle, the way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers twitch slightly before curling into his palm. His expression softens, just slightly, gone before you can call him on it.

He pushes up from the bed, discarding his cigarette before clapping his hands against his thighs and standing. The floor creaks under his weight as he moves to switch off the light. “Tell you what,” he says, voice lighter. “If we pull this off, if we can make it through, maybe I’ll think about it.”

Without another word, he’s climbing into bed, back to you, leaving you sitting in the dark with a cigarette still curling between your fingers.

So you retreat as well, crushing the cigarette before turning and tugging the sheets up.

Sukuna.

A man of contradictions, cold and calculating, ruthless and strangely human. There’s a darkness in him you can’t grasp, a hunger that keeps him moving forward. And yet, in the flicker of a moment, his guard falters and you catch a glimpse of something softer. Not exactly vulnerability, but the remnants of a past he can’t outrun. A past that continues to shape him in ways he doesn’t even seem to understand.

You can’t figure it out. Shifting under the covers and exhaling into the air.

Part of you wonders if there’s more to him than just bloodshed and violence. Maybe he’s a man trying to make sense of a world that’s constantly breaking him. Or maybe, he’s simply a monster who’s learned how to wear the skin of someone who isn’t.

And then there’s you. Why are you still here? Why do you play this game with him, knowing full well what he’s capable of? Why does the weight of his eyes make you shiver and pull you in simultaneously, tethering you to him in ways that feel inevitable?

It couldn’t just be the thrill of the job. You know that much. If it were, you would’ve walked away after the first heist. Instead, it’s something about the way he moves through the world, something about the way he doesn’t apologize for who he is.

Is that what you want?

He’s the chaos you don’t know how to escape, the question that never stops echoing in your mind.

You don’t trust people. That was something you established long ago, only engraving further in your mind when Hakari turned his back.

Why you? You’re subpar at best, not the smartest nor the most experienced. He could have anyone. But he keeps offering you these jobs, willing to teach you if need be.

You stare at the ceiling, probably for the thousandth time in your life.

You might be starting to want it.

taglist: @cutesytwt, @tojis-ball-sack, @gojoscumslut, @sukubusss, @vicravluv, @newasskid, @grignardsreagent, @garden0fyves

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dearjoons · 3 months ago

Text

🛹 SKATERBOY!JIMIN HEADCANNONS

warnings: rodrick heffley-anna coleman (freaky friday) crossover. set somewhere between 1994-2006. he’s also never beating the bitch allegations (no version of jimin is). mentions of smoking, etc. IT GETS A LITTLE SPICY DOWN THERE! reader discretion is advised.

lulu speaks: aka what boredom and loneliness does to a girl. also yes ik vapes weren’t popularized until later but the sentence sounded good 💔

★ skaterboy!jimin who is rarely ever spotted in class.

★ skaterboy!jimin who always has some stupid little injury. bruised hip from trying to ollie a shopping cart. split knuckles from a rough landing off his stolen skateboard.

★ skaterboy!jimin who grins with blood on his teeth like it’s a flex, the painful aftermath of a stupid fight.

★ skaterboy!jimin who drives a beat-up hand-me-down car that smells like weed, sweat, and cinnamon gum. it’s a mess inside—burnt CDs everywhere, ripped seats, duct-taped glovebox—but it’s so him.

★ skaterboy!jimin who once kissed you in a gas station parking lot while Nirvana blasted from his car stereo. it tasted like peach vape and rebellion. you swore you wouldn’t let it happen again. It happened the next day.

★ skaterboy!jimin keeps a polaroid of you in his wallet, maybe half-naked. when you ask, he just shrugs and says, “you looked hot. why wouldn’t I keep it?”

★ skaterboy!jimin who once showed up at your window completely drenched from the rain, hoodie soaked through, bruised and breathless. no explanation. just, “i needed to see you.”

★ skaterboy!jimin who climbs through your window like he’s never heard the concept of a door.

★ skaterboy!jimin who keeps his helmet covered in stickers. you put a sparkly heart one on it once. he pretended to hate it. never took it off.

★ skaterboy!jimin who’s flicking a cigarette off the curb one second, the next he’s curled up in your lap like a cat, nuzzling into your tummy with his busted-up knuckles holding your thigh. “only sleep good when I’m with you,” he murmurs.

★ skaterboy!jimin who loves when you’re laid out on his bed in his band tee, legs over his shoulders, his grip bruising your hips as he devours you—eyes dark, lips slick, hair messy from the way your hands gripped for dear life.

★ skaterboy!jimin who had crawled in through your bedroom door at midnight on a school night. his excuse? he just “missed you”. bullshit. he had you laying down on your own bed, chain dangling from his neck as his arms propped himself up form either side of you.

★ skaterboy!jimin who was very obviously hated by your parents.

★ skaterboy!jimin who is kinda dumb in other subjects, brilliant in art class.

★ skaterboy!jimin who will doodle on his desk, your hand, or his jeans—skulls, roses, hearts with your initials in them.

★ skaterboy!jimin who would turn the world upside down for you. mention someone giving you a hard time? he’s already cracking his knuckles. doesn’t care who it is—he’ll throw hands and come back grinning with a split lip like it was worth it.

★ skaterboy!jimin who steals little trinkets just to give them to you. a cutesy keychain, a lighter, a lollipop. he offers it to you like it’s precious, saying, “this made me think of you,”

★ skaterboy!jimin who only shows face at school so he can be around you. carrying your things for you, doodling you from the other end of the classroom, begging you to skip class with him—only for you two to sneak into an empty bathroom stall to makeout.

★ skaterboy!jimin who is a little rough around the edges. not everyone’s cup of tea, but he was yours, and that was all either one of you cared about.

lulu speaks (pt2): ok it’s official i’m in love w this loser. cai bot coming soon bc unfortunately i’m such a slut for him 💔

cai bot. masterlist. navigation.

#ᯓ★#dearjoons #jimin oneshot #bts jimim #jimin x reader #bts jimin #jimin fanfic #park jimin #skater #oneshot #headcanon #character ai #bts #bangtan sonyeondan #jimin #whorecore #90s aesthetic #grunge

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justwhisperingfantasies · 5 months ago

Text

Saving People -1-

Request from @deanwinchestersgirl8734

Idk if you can but can you do a dean and 911 crossover fic like dean comes to get the reader like he did Sam but finds the reader is a firefighter and friends with buck

Supernatural/911 crossover count me in!! I had so much fun writing this one. I hope this is what you were looking for 🤍

P.s - I did tag my Dean girls. I understand it's a crossover, so if you don't want to be tagged in this mini series just reach out 🤍

Your eyes shot open as you heard the thud from downstairs. Heart pounding, you strained to listen, every nerve on edge. The silence that followed was almost deafening, but you knew you hadn't imagined the sound. You slowly slipped out of bed, grabbing the silver knife from under your pillow.

You moved through the darkness ready to strike, approaching your roommate’s door you peeked through the crack.

You watched his chest for breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall confirming he was asleep. Reassured, you crept further.

You descended the staircase, peering into the dimly lit kitchen, finding a figure in front of your fridge.

“Heya Sweetheart.” He said as he turned around.

“Dean?!” You let out a sigh of relief. You walked over to the bar, laying your knife down. “Dumbass! I could have killed you.”

He chuckled. “It’s gonna take a lot more then that little knife to kill me, but it’s nice that you’ve kept it.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Right now, making a sandwich. Are you out of mayo?” He turned back to the fridge. “Never mind found it.”

“Oh, sorry.” Your roommate stood at the bottom of the stairs in his boxers. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine, Buck, go back to bed.”

He nodded and went back up the stairs.

“Well, he’s cute.” Dean muttered as he continued with his sandwich.

You rolled your eyes. “He’s my roommate.”

“mmhhmm” he smirked, holding a beer out to you.

“No, I have to work in the morning.”

“Well look who sold out.” He teased.

“What do you want, Dean?”

“I need your help.”

“Oh my God. The amazing Dean Winchester needs my help?” you said dramatically “I need to mark this date in my calendar”

“You done?”

You chuckled. “What’s up?”

“It’s my dad. I haven’t talked to him in a few days.”

“Sounds like classic John Winchester to me.”

“No, it’s different now. He always checks in.” you raised your eyebrows. “He’s changed “

John Winchester was capable of a lot of things, but you wouldn’t put change on that list.

“Please.” Dean pleaded, staring into your eyes, using those damn emeralds against you.

“Give me 5 minutes.” You huffed.

You walked out the front door of your apartment building, oversized coffee mug filled, Dean had the trunk of the impala open, sorting through some papers.

“Look at you.” You said walking up to the car. Dean’s head turned towards you. “Just as pretty as the first time I seen you.” You ran your hand over the rear fender of the Impala.

Dean laughed. His smile faded as he looked at the emblem on your chest. “Did you shrink your roommate’s hoodie?” he used air quotes on roommate and pointed to the L.A.F.D printed in bold red letters.

You sighed. “Whatcha got Deanie?”

He glared at your smirked face.

He exhaled sharply “So Dad was checking out this thing just outside of Jericho. About a month ago, this guy vanished.” He held up the printed-out report.

“Are we sure he didn’t.”

“There’s another one a month before that, another one in December.” He flipped through the printed reports. “Another, another, anoth…”

“I get the point.”

“10 over the last 20 years. Their cars were found in the exact same spot. Just gone.” Dean collected all the papers and placed them into a folder. “Dad went to check it out about 3 weeks ago, I haven’t heard from him since he got there.” He put the folder in the trunk and picked up a tape recorder. “And I got this a couple days ago.”

You listened as he pushed the play button. It was John’s voice mixed with static and a screeching sound.

“Did you.”

He smiled at you. “of course I did.” He fast forwarded a little bit and hit play again.

“I can never go home.” You repeated. He nodded. “What the hell?”

Dean put everything back in the secret compartment and shut the lid.

“I’m not quite sure.” He sat down on the back of the Impala, Trunk still open. You held out the mug to him. He took a sip. “Come find out with me.”

You sighed.

“Oh, come on y/n. I can’t do this alone.”

You scoffed a laugh. “Yes, you can.”

“You’re right I totally could, but I don’t want to.” He handed your coffee back and stood up. “Picture it. Cruising in the Impala jamming out with your best friend and kicking ass.”

“I can’t just leave. I have a job, a life, a.”

“a roommate.” He cut you off.

You rolled your eyes again.

“Alright. I get it.” He huffed.

“I hope you find him, Dean.”

“Me too.”

“I’m sorry I interrupted last night.” Buck slid to your side and nudged your elbow with his.

“You didn’t.”

“What did Buck interrupt?” Chimney asked as he walked into the firehouse kitchen.

“Nothing.” You told him.

“Y/n had a boy over last night.”

There was a gasp behind you. “A boy?” Hen asked making her way to the coffee pot.

“It’s nothing. Can we focus on something else please.”

Buck smiled. “of course.”

The three of them looked in different directions for a minute. Then Hen turned to Buck. “What did he look like?”

You huffed

“Good looking guy.”

“Were they?” Chimney waggled his eyebrows.

“No!” you sneered.

“Well, who knows what would have happened if I didn’t walk in.” Buck teased.

“I hate all of you.” You turned to walk away, almost walking right into Captain Nash. “Sorry Cap.”

“What are they up to now?” He asked you

“Torturing me.”

“About what?”

“Nothing.”

“y/n had a boy over last night.” Chimney spoke up.

“A boy?!” Cap’s mouth fell open.

You sighed and walked away.

Dean walked into the firehouse he followed her to this morning.

“Hey, you lookin’ for y/n?”

Dean looked up trying to find the source of the question “Yeah, have you seen her?”

Buck poked his head over the firetruck.

“Oh, you’re the roommate.” Dean acknowledged

Buck chuckled and got to his feet. “That’s me.” He said climbing down the ladder on the side. He stuck his hand out to Dean once his feet were on the ground. “Evan Buckley, everyone calls me, Buck.”

“Dean Winchester.” He said, shaking Buck’s hand.

“Thee Dean Winchester?”

“Depends. Have you heard good or bad things?”

“Some good, some bad.”

Dean chuckled. “I guess I’ll take that.”

Buck grinned. “Hey Chim!”

“Yeah?” Chimney answered leaning on the railing of the upper level. Dean turned toward him.

“Is y/n up there?” Buck pointed at Dean behind his back mouthing, this is him.

“y/n!!” Chimney yelled. “I don’t think so. Try the gym.”

“You guys have a gym?” Dean asked as he followed Buck.

“Yea, it was actually your girl’s idea.”

Buck opened the door to the gym, “Hey Hen. Have you seen y/n. She has a visitor.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Nope sorry. Try the dorm.

“There she is.” Buck whispered as he led Dean into a room full of beds. She was laying with one arm resting on the forehead, one earbud in, Toes tapping to the music. “It was nice to meet you, Dean.”

“Same.”

You felt the bed dip below his weight as he sat down. You didn’t move or open your eyes.

“What are you doing here, Dean?”

“How’d you know it was me?” he asked.

“You smell like leather and coffee.”

He chuckled. “Whatcha listenin’ to?”

“Music.”

“Smartass.” He chuckled again. “So, a firefighter huh?”

“Yep.”

“Can’t imagine where you came up with that one.”

You opened your eyes to find a big grin on his face.

You shrugged “Some guy.”

He laughed.

“Ya know I could really use your help on this one.” Dean whispered.

“Dean…”

“Come on you can’t get a few days off?”

“What’s wrong?” Bobby stopped as he walked by.

“Dean Winchester, Captain Bobby Nash. Cap This is Dean.”

“Nice to meet Sir.” Dean shook his hand.

“Likewise. So, what’s going on?” Bobby asked.

“It’s my dad Sir.” Dean explained “He went on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

“y/n can I see you in my office?” Babby asked and walked away.

“Damnit Dean. You’re not here 5 minutes and I’m in trouble.”

“Just like old times.” He grinned.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

“I’m sorry, Cap.” You apologized as you walked into his office.

“Sit.” He pointed to the chair facing him. You did as you were told. “You told me the Winchester were the closest thing to family you had before you came here.”

“Yes Sir.”

“So why are you here?”

“I have a job to do Sir.”

“I’ll call in a floater, you go help your family.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, go.”

You turned around before you closed the door. “Thanks Cap.”

“Be careful.”

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

You walked back to the dorms, Dean was still sitting on your bed.

"Alright Winchester." You playfully kicked his boot. "One condition."

Dean's face lit up "Anything."

You smirked. "I drive.

Part 2

@idk6505 @jackles010378 @mqdhvtter @nightxcreature @kamisobsessed

@perpetualabsurdity @barnes70stark @wonderland2022 @quietgirll75 @nancymcl

@hobby27 @madebyhappymeals @hunter-or-the-hunted @deanwinchestersgirl8734

@deansimpalababy @roseblue373 @1313diana @lmg14 @aand13b

@phoenixqueen @spnaquakindgdom

#supernatural #spnfandom #911 show #spn #dean winchester #spn reader insert #dean fanfiction #911 buck #911 fox #911 abc #crossover #whisper writes

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estellan0vella · 8 months ago

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Sunshine's Guide To Murder│Lee Minho

Chapter Eighteen: Window To Your Soul SS: N/A (ignore time stamps and dates) Word Count: 2.9K Content Warnings: Mentions of being complicit in sexual crimes, receiving money for being complicit in crimes, discussions of rape Previous Next Masterlist

The tension in the room is suffocating, heavy like the weight of a thousand unspoken accusations. Hayun, Minho, Felix, and Jeongin sit on the couch, their eyes locked on the scene unfolding before them, as if afraid to blink and miss something crucial.

Jisung stands in front of them, his body coiled with barely controlled rage, while Lia sits in the armchair opposite him, small and cornered. Her usual confidence is gone, replaced by a pale, drawn expression that makes her look years younger, fragile even.

The moment she stepped through the door, Jisung’s fury had hit her like a tidal wave. Now, he stands over her, fists clenched, every word dripping with venom.

“You’re a fucking monster,” Jisung snarls, his voice sharp, shaking with the raw edge of his emotions. “I know what you helped Mingi do. What you and Yuna did.”

Lia flinches, her eyes darting nervously around the room. For a second, her gaze lands on Hayun, something unreadable flickering in her eyes, guilt, shame, maybe regret, but she doesn’t get the chance to say anything. Minho, his face cold and expressionless, wraps a protective arm around Hayun, pulling her closer. Hayun leans into him, her face carefully blank, though her body is stiff as a board.

Jisung notices the glance. “Don’t look at her!” he snaps, his voice like a whip. “You don’t get to look at her. You hear me? Me and you, we’re talking right now.”

Lia’s lip trembles as she opens her mouth, struggling to find words, but Jisung cuts her off before she can even speak. He steps closer, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles are white. “You knew what Mingi was doing. You knew what he did to Hayun, and you just stood by, helping him.”

Her voice is barely a whisper, cracked and weak. “I was young-”

“Young?” Jisung spits the word back at her, disgust clear in his voice. “You think being ‘young’ is an excuse for serving up girls on a platter to a fucking rapist? You were old enough to know better. Did he have a tape on you? Is that it? Is that why you helped him?”

Lia’s eyes widen, shaking her head quickly, her voice trembling. “No, he didn’t.”

Jisung’s eyes narrow, leaning closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “Then why? Why the fuck did you help him? What did you get out of it?” His voice rises, shaking with disbelief and rage. “Why would you do this to Hayun? To all those girls?”

Lia’s hands wring together in her lap, her voice shaky and desperate. “Dad... Dad cut me off, and I needed money. Mingi- he... he paid me. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Jisung’s face twists into a look of pure disgust, his eyes blazing. “He paid you? He fucking paid you?” His voice is incredulous like he can’t wrap his mind around it. “How much, Lia? How much was Hayun worth to you? How much did Mingi give you to serve up your little brother's fourteen year old best friend on a silver platter to a twenty year old man?”

Lia hesitates, her voice barely audible. “Four and a half million won,” she mutters, her face crumbling as she speaks. “And when Yuna disappeared, I got her cut too.”

Jisung reels back, his face twisted in revulsion. “Nine million won? Nine million fucking won? You sold Hayun to a rapist for nine million fucking won?”

Tears pool in Lia’s eyes, but Jisung doesn’t care. He’s past the point of sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she chokes out, the words trembling on her lips.

Jisung shakes his head, stepping back as if her apology is physically repelling. His voice is raw, filled with an ache deeper than the anger. “Why the fuck are you apologizing to me?” he yells, his voice cracking. “You didn’t destroy my life. You didn’t drive me to an opiate addiction. You didn’t break me, Lia.”

He stares at her, his chest heaving with the weight of his emotions. "You didn't betray me. You betrayed her." He points at Hayun, his voice dropping into something darker. "How many?” he demands suddenly. “How many girls, Lia?”

Lia stares at the floor, her hands trembling in her lap, her voice a whisper. “I... I don’t know.”

The admission sends Jisung into a rage, his face flushing red with fury. “You don’t know? You don’t fucking know? You led me around that party looking for Hayun, knowing exactly what was happening to her, and you didn’t even keep track of how many lives you ruined?”

Lia’s breath hitches, tears streaming down her face as she looks up at him, pleading. “I would have been homeless, Jisung. I didn’t have a choice.”

Jisung’s laugh is harsh and bitter, like shattered glass. “Didn’t have a choice? Bullshit! Dad would’ve taken you back in a heartbeat. Don’t you fucking dare stand there and pretend you didn’t have another option. You did this because you wanted the money. Because it was easy, quick cash”

The room is suffocating in its silence. No one moves, no one speaks, as Jisung looms over her, his fury like a storm ready to break. Lia’s sobs are the only sound, but they fall on deaf ears. Jisung isn’t moved by her tears.

Finally, he grabs her by the chin, forcing her to look at him, his grip rough. “You’re dead to me,” he hisses, his voice low and venomous. “Do you hear me? Dead. When Mingi goes down, you’re going with him. I’ll make sure you rot in prison for what you did. No deals, no easy way out. You’re going to pay for this.”

Lia nods weakly, her entire body trembling, but Jisung doesn’t let her go right away. He lets his words sink in, lets her feel the weight of his disgust and hatred. His grip tightens for just a moment longer before he finally shoves her back into the chair.

Jeongin, who has been watching the entire scene unfold with quiet intensity, speaks up, his voice steady but firm. “It’s time to go, Lia”

Lia stands shakily, her legs barely able to hold her as she stumbles toward the door, not daring to look at anyone. But just as her hand touches the doorknob, Jisung calls after her one last time.

“Oh, Lia?”

She freezes, her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t turn around.

“If you try to warn Mingi that we’re coming for him...” Jisung’s voice drops into a chilling, deathly whisper. “I’ll kill you.”

Lia’s breath catches, her entire body going rigid. “I’m... I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

Jisung’s face twists with rage, and in a sudden burst of fury, he grabs a nearby vase and hurls it at her. The vase shatters against the wall, shards of glass flying everywhere, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. Lia flinches, and without another word, she bolts out of the door, slamming it shut behind her.

The room falls into a heavy silence, the sound of Lia’s retreating footsteps fading into nothing. Hayun sits stiffly next to Minho, her face still unreadable, though her hands tremble slightly in her lap. Felix stares at the shattered vase, his jaw clenched tightly. Jeongin stands near the door, watching Jisung with quiet concern.

Jisung stands in the centre of the room, his chest rising and falling heavily, the anger still coursing through him like a wildfire that hasn’t been fully extinguished. His hands are shaking, and he can’t seem to unclench his fists.

“I should kill her,” Jisung mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “I swear to God, I should kill her.”

Minho stands up slowly, crossing the room to stand beside Jisung. He places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it firmly. “We’ll make her pay,” he says quietly, his voice steady. “But not like this.”

Jisung’s breathing slowly steadies, but the fire in his eyes doesn’t fade. “She’s going to rot,” he says, his voice hard and cold. “Both of them.”

Hayun slips away from the chaos downstairs, her legs moving on autopilot as she makes her way to her bedroom. The weight of everything that had been revealed, of the confrontation with Lia, presses heavily on her chest, making it hard to breathe. As soon as she steps inside her room, she presses the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling the scream she so desperately wants to let out.

Her mind is spinning. The betrayal, the lies, the darkness that has followed her for years... it's all too much. She can feel the sting of it behind her eyes, but she refuses to cry. Not now. Not after everything.

The door creaks, and she hears footsteps approaching. She doesn't turn around, knowing instinctively who it is.

Minho leans casually against the doorway, his presence grounding her, even when her world feels like it's falling apart. "You did well, princess," he says softly, his voice a soothing balm to the chaos in her head.

Hayun turns to look at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her throat feels tight, the words stuck behind the lump forming there. She wants to say something, anything, but the weight of it all is too much.

Minho crosses the room in a few strides, cupping her face gently in his hands. His touch is warm, solid and real. Something she can hold on to when everything else feels like it's slipping through her fingers.

“God,” he murmurs, his eyes searching hers, “if only you knew how beautiful you were.”

Hayun huffs a bitter laugh, her voice hoarse. "I'm a fucking mess, Minho."

He tuts softly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “You’ve known sadness, and it made you kinder,” he whispers, his voice gentle but firm.

Hayun narrows her eyes, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite the heaviness in her chest. “Nathan Filer?”

Minho nods, his fingers still resting lightly on her cheek. “You are beautiful, Hayun, but you don’t believe it. I can see it, the doubt, the fear, it’s all there in your eyes. They’re the windows to your soul, princess. Everything you don’t say, I can see.”

His words hit her like a wave, crashing over her with an intensity she wasn’t prepared for. The vulnerability she’s been hiding behind her walls, behind her silence, suddenly feels exposed under his gaze.

Minho leans in, resting his forehead gently against hers. His breath is warm against her skin, and she leans into his touch without thinking, seeking the comfort and connection she’s been craving for so long but has been too scared to admit.

“You are not beautiful for something as temporary as your looks,” Minho whispers, his voice soft but unwavering. “You are beautiful deep down to your soul.”

Hayun’s lips tremble as she whispers back, “F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

Minho chuckles lightly, his forehead still pressed against hers. “Well, I’ve seen all the books on your shelves. Figured there must be something good in them.”

Hayun lets out a soft breath, her eyes closing as the tension in her shoulders finally begins to ease. In this moment, in the silence between them, she feels like she can finally breathe.

Minho’s hands are still on her face, his thumbs brushing softly against her skin, grounding her in the moment. She doesn’t need to say anything. She knows he understands. Somehow he always does.

They stand there, foreheads touching, breathing in sync. The world outside might be chaotic, but right here, right now, it’s just them. Just Minho and Hayun, existing in the silence together, finding comfort in each other’s presence.

Minho and Hayun remain there, standing together in the soft glow of the room, foreheads pressed together, eyes still closed. The weight of the world feels lighter between them, and the stillness of the moment wraps them in a fragile bubble of comfort. Minho’s voice drops to a whisper, barely audible in the silence.

“If you said the word,” he murmurs, his breath warm against her skin, “I’d kill Mingi. You know that, right?”

Hayun’s lips twitch into a faint smile, though her eyes remain closed. “You would?”

“Princess,” Minho’s voice is low, soft but serious, “there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for you. Except maybe butt stuff.”

A laugh bubbles up from Hayun’s chest, and she giggles, her body relaxing further against him. “But you have such a nice ass.”

“I know,” Minho sighs dramatically, playing along. “It’s a curse.”

Another giggle escapes Hayun, and Minho grins, the sound of her laughter filling the small space between them. “Your laugh,” he says, his tone affectionate, “is so fucking sweet. Sweet as sugarcane or something.”

Hayun’s nose scrunches up at the comparison. “You compliment me too much.”

“I compliment you because you deserve it.” Minho’s voice turns serious again, his forehead still resting against hers, his thumbs gently brushing her cheeks. “And you deserve me to do this properly, dates, learning your interests, all of it.”

Hayun’s smile falters slightly, her voice dipping into uncertainty. “I have baggage.”

“So?”

“Everything with Mingi. The drugs. The mess that I am.” She feels herself pulling back slightly, like the weight of it all could pull her out of this moment.

Minho’s hold on her doesn’t loosen. “I know all of it, Hayun. And I’m still standing here. I'm still her and I'll stay here,” He leans in a little more, his breath mixing with hers as their foreheads stay pressed together. “I still want you, Hayun. The good and the bad.”

For a moment, they stand there in silence, the weight of Minho’s words sinking in. Hayun’s heart races, a strange mix of relief and apprehension washing over her. Could it really be this simple? Could someone accept her with all her broken pieces and bruises?

She takes a deep breath. “Okay then,” she starts, her voice light, trying to test him. “My favourite flowers-”

“Chrysanthemums, sunflowers, and hibiscus,” Minho interrupts smoothly, a smirk playing on his lips. “Your go-to wines are red and white. Absolutely no rosé. As for movies, you're not picky. Music? Your favourite songs are Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls, Delilah, and Stand By Me by Florence and The Machine. And your favourite game is Kingdom Hearts, specifically the one with Frozen and Tangled in it.”

Hayun’s mouth drops open, her eyes finally fluttering open to meet Minho’s. His smug grin is in full effect as he tilts his head.

“Jisung, Jeongin, and Felix gave me the rundown,” he admits, the corners of his lips twitching in amusement.

Hayun stares at him, dumbfounded. “You... how... you memorized all of that?”

Minho shrugs nonchalantly, though his eyes sparkle with mischief. “Like I said, I’m doing this properly.”

Hayun can’t help but smile, her heart swelling at the thought of Minho actually taking the time to learn all these small, seemingly insignificant details about her. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible.

"You’re... you’re something else, you know that?" she whispers, her voice softer now, filled with something she hadn’t let herself feel in a long time. Hope.

Minho chuckles softly, leaning his head even closer until their noses brush. “I know,” he murmurs, his voice playful but laced with sincerity. “But you’re worth it, princess. All of it.”

The moment between Minho and Hayun is interrupted by the door creaking open. Jisung pokes his head in, his eyes a mix of guilt and determination. "I know you guys are having a moment," he begins, stepping fully into the room, "but Yunnie, I-"

Before he can finish, Hayun shakes her head gently, her voice soft but firm. "Jisung, please don’t apologize. You were fourteen, just like me. Lia was nineteen, Yuna was nineteen, Mingi was twenty. We were kids, Ji."

Jisung swallows hard, visibly trying to keep it together. “That’s my point. You were a kid, Hayun. You were a fucking kid living with all that, and I didn’t know. I couldn’t help you. I-” His voice cracks, and he rubs a hand over his face. “I love you, Yunnie, okay? You’re my ride-or-die.”

Minho snorts beside her, clearly trying to suppress a laugh, and Jisung whips around, flipping him off without missing a beat. “Fuck you, Minho. This is emotional bonding time.”

Minho raises his hands in surrender, grinning. “By all means.”

Jisung turns back to Hayun, his voice softer now but still filled with intensity. “Yunnie, I’m sorry I didn’t see that you were drowning yourself just to hold my head above the water.”

Hayun smiles sadly, her eyes flickering with memories of the past. “I got really good at holding my breath and holding you. It’s okay, Ji.”

Jisung shakes his head, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Well, you’re not holding your breath anymore. You’ve got a Han Jisung life raft now. A Felix floaty. A Jeongin life vest. And a Minho pool noodle. Whatever the fuck you need, we’re here, alright?”

Hayun chuckles at the absurdity of his metaphors, her heart swelling with affection for him. "A Minho pool noodle?" she echoes, grinning up at Jisung.

Jisung grins back, shrugging. "Hey, it floats, doesn’t it? It’s weird, but it gets the job done."

Minho rolls his eyes, though there’s a smirk tugging at his lips. "Great. Now I’m a noodle."

Hayun laughs softly, the tension that had been weighing her down for days lifting, if only for a moment. “Okay,” she says, her voice a little lighter. “I get it. I’ve got you guys.”

Jisung leans in close, brushing his nose against hers, a playful smile on his lips. “You haven’t done that since we were twelve,” Hayun teases, her voice filled with fondness. “You were so convinced it would make you look like a loser and you wanted to impress that girl at school.”

Jisung grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, I don’t care now, so shut up and accept my Eskimo kiss.”

Hayun giggles and she presses her nose back against his, accepting his goofy gesture of affection. The familiarity of it, the nostalgia, makes her heart swell. For a brief moment, they’re back to being those kids again. Back when the world was a little simpler, a little less broken.

Jisung’s nose crinkles against hers as he leans back, a satisfied smirk on his face. “See? Wasn’t that nice?”

Hayun nods, her eyes soft as she gazes at him. “Yeah, Ji. It was nice.”

(9 million won = £5049 / $6,549.89 (approximately))

Taglist: @hityoulikebahng @drewsandsebastianswife @fackeraccount @lily-loves-kpop @stilldontknowhoiam

@ziggy1221 @justaspoonofjam @tr-mha-fan @candycurshidkwhatthehell

@heeseungspookie @smigcrazy

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gcrdenview · 24 days ago

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Glisten with other Toons VS Glisten with Finn

#Win Big with Vee! | Askbox Games and Dashboard Memes #Give Me the Tapes I Need Them to Edge! | Crack #(( Bro's got beef with a fishbowl and for what reason? XD I love him ))#(( Okay I think I do have a HC reason as to why but I'll make a different post on that ))

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b0amagination · 2 months ago

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I am giving declan a box of a hundred cute little scorpions they got lil baby venomous tails but i think he’ll be okay they probably won’t get scared and sting him. probably

Thank you for the present and the patience Nemi! Happy happy deccy :)!

Content warnings: scorpions, and the viewer is referred to with she/her pronouns because Nemi POV is a joy to write from.

~~~

“Nuh-uh. You can have it back,” Declan grimaces. “I don’t need any more presents.”

The box in his hands is wrapped in obnoxiously polka-dotted paper and tied up with a bow. He rubs the velvet ribbon between his fingers, cold with trepidation.

“The store said no returns,” you shrug. “I didn’t buy it for myself.”

“It’s- it’s hissing!”

It’s faint, but when the room goes quiet there’s a faint hiss to be heard as if someone left an air valve open. When Declan shakes the box, you can’t help but giggle.

“You’re gonna hate yourself for that.”

But he’s more concerned with rolling and tilting it around, feeling the motion of its contents.

“Just open it, Dec!” Hasan chimes in, arms folded.

“This is a really, really roundabout way of hurting me. Can’t we make it straightforward?”

“Her idea of fun–” Hasan jabs a playful thumb at you “–is dissecting you. I’d suggest you stick to this.”

“Vivisecting,” you insist. “There’s a difference.”

The commotion has encouraged Declan’s trembling hands to slip the ribbon off and peel the paper away to reveal a, frankly, boring brown box. Packing tape seals the top shut, and he sets himself at picking away the edge before you produce a pocket knife.

“Move your fingers.” And it slices right through, allowing Declan to pop the flaps open. “They might be agitated. I’m not sure how well the air was flowing.”

He tries to shut them in. He really does. But the moment a tiny scorpion scuttles free, he screams and throws the box on its head.

“Oh my god I- how many are there?! Fuck!” His voice cracks when one finds his sock and gets expeditiously kicked off, sending his ankle chain skittering across the floor, frustrating a few more of its comrades. “Why are all of your friends fucking insane?! Are these poisonous?!”

“No. Do you plan on eating them?” Your amusement only feeds the fire.

“Venomous! Whatever! Jesus Christ, they’re everywhere!”

“Maybe. You shouldn’t let them sting. Just in case.”

The scorpions can’t be longer than a finger, but their pincers are comparatively massive when they latch onto Declan’s leg and scamper up it.

“Oww, oww! Put your stupid little hands away! Seriously, am I gonna die if they-”

And at that moment, the agitated fellow halfway up his thigh has had enough. It stings him, tail pumping venom, before retreating with a soft hiss. Declan’s eyes go wide.

“They’re not venomous. You wouldn’t let that happen. You- no. They’re not.” But he falls haplessly backward when he abandons stability in favor of inspecting his throbbing leg. The pain is only comparable to that of being shanked with a needle, and now he’s waging a mental war to decipher if venom could purposefully numb the pain for a silent, tragic death.

“Hasan, I swear to fucking God!”

“Oh you little crybaby, you’re not gonna die! The venom isn’t potent enough to make you more than a little sick. So unless you get stung, like, fifty times, you’ll be just fine.”

“More like thirty but yeah, you’re probably fine!” you correct.

“A sting a minute then! You can avoid that, can’t you Declan?”

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?! Are you kidding, these things are gonna want a sting a second!” He stumbles forward, but trips when his chain pulls taut and falls face flat into the swarm. “You can’t just leave me here! Ow- fuck!”

“It’s only half an hour. You’ll figure it out, dear!” Hasan calls out, and then you’re gone.

#whump #my writing #answered asks #brutal-nemesis #scorpions #scorpion #whump writing #hasan badeaux #declan labelle #writing #Hasan and Declan #woah i never post things this late lol

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timeofjuly · 2 years ago

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And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree

Chapter 2 - Violently, Vividly Vibrant

Summary: You decorate the Christmas tree with Edge and avoid being restrained by tinsel.

Notes: The second chapter of And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree, my four-part holiday series focusing on festive-themed dates with Rus, Edge, Stretch, and Papyrus.

Tags: Reader/underfell Papyrus, tree decorating, fluff, established relationship.

Read it on AO3 or read it below the cut!

“Are you actually going to contribute, or do you just intend on sitting there and watching me do all the work?” Edge asks you, hands on his hips.

“I tried to put one bauble on, and you threatened to restrain me,” you say. “Forgive me if I feel a little safer outside of tinselling range.”

He sniffs. “It’s not my fault that you’re blind to my aesthetic vision. What kind of philistine does the ornaments before the lights?”

You and Edge are in the living room, surrounded by boxes of ornaments and the scent of pine. You sit on the couch, legs crossed beneath you as you watch him fuss with a string of lights. The Christmas tree, a lush evergreen, is in the middle of its festive transformation.

And what a regimented transformation it is. You should’ve known this process would be akin to a military operation the moment Edge brought the tree in. He meticulously adjusted the tree stand at least six times, making sure it was perfectly centred and level. It had taken you retrieving your spirit level from your toolbox to convince him that it was actually straight and even now, you’ve caught him nudging it with his foot a few times.

Actually, no, you should’ve known how seriously he was going to take this well before that, when you’d picked out the tree with him. He insisted on manually inspecting every single tree on the farm and grading them on overall shape, density of branches, size, and needle quality. Your joking suggestion to add another category, strength of pine-y smell, had been received with great enthusiasm.

You’re now the lucky owner of the largest, most conically shaped, most fragrant, and densest tree the farm had to offer. Unfortunately, you had needed to compromise on needle quality to satisfy the other requirements.

“No, I see the vision,” you say, eyeing the tree critically. “It’s definitely very… matchy-matchy.”

Edge’s browbone twitches. The fearsome affect is lost on you, though, as an errant piece of tinsel is clinging to a crack just above his socket. “Matchy-matchy? It is not matchy-matchy! I intentionally picked different ornaments in the same colour palette to avoid that. It is festive and timeless.”

Your gaze flickers to the tree. The tree, laden in red tinsel and red lights and redder ornaments, stares back at you. You’ve never seen so many shades of scarlet in one place, which is saying something considering that you’ve seen the inside of Edge’s closet.

The boughs are heavy with precisely spaced baubles and perfectly fluffed tinsel, each branch artfully uniform. It wouldn’t be out of place on the front page of a magazine.

You’ve always just thrown lights and tinsel at the tree and put ornaments wherever you thought they looked good. You’ve never had anything like a theme, or even a colour scheme. It’s not the holidays, in your opinion, if it doesn’t look like someone’s vomited rainbow everywhere.

“I just think it might be nice to get some more colour in there,” you try.

He looks unconvinced. You swing your legs down and jostle the nearest box of ornaments with your foot, the baubles inside giving a great rattle of plastic. “I bought these ones from home ‘cause I wasn’t sure what you already had. Do you want to have a look?”

Edge throws his arms up with a sigh. “If they ruin the aesthetic, I am removing them immediately.”

You grin, undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm. “Yay!” You rip the plastic tape from the cardboard box and tear it open, angling it towards him. The ornaments all tumble over each other, narrowly avoiding spilling over the sides. “This is just what wouldn’t fit on my tree at home, so it’s a bit of a mix.”

His long, slender phalanges dip into the box. His claws return cradling a misshapen clay angel, its lumpy surface covered in patchy pink paint and garish glitter glue.

“I made that,” you say.

His browbone twitches again and with admirable restraint, he says, “… recently?”

“No! As a kid,” you laugh. You pluck it from his fingers and hold it up to the light. “Don’t you think it’s cute?”

It’s cute in the same way that ancient, decrepit small dogs are cute, but whatever. You turn it around and show him the back, where your name is scrawled in huge, clumsy handwriting. “I made it in preschool.”

He considers the angel, eyelights narrowed. “I consulted several different sources on optimal Christmas tree decorating and none of them used ornaments that looked like that,” he says.

“Sources? What kind of – oh.”

The only sources you can imagine exist for tree decorating are beige mommy bloggers with their soulless, Pinterest-perfect décor. No wonder the tree looks like something straight out of a holiday display catalogue and to be fair, he has done an excellent job of mimicking that look.

That’s the problem. It looks everything like someone else’s style and nothing like his. The theme, though undoubtedly festive, contributes to the sensation that the tree is more of a stylish display than a reflection of the nature of the holidays.

“Yes, sources,” he says, taking the angel from your hands. He rubs a thumb over it, the bone coming away flecked in transferred glitter. “The first step in successfully completing a new task is to do extensive and comprehensive research. I couldn’t find a manual, unfortunately, so I had to resort to the internet.”

That… makes sense. You know that there was a tree for Gyftmas Underground – in this universe, at least – but you have no idea if it was decorated or, if it was, doing so was a communal activity. And even if it was here, you very much doubt that that would’ve been the case in his universe. No wonder he hasn’t done this before.

Well. That just means you get to make those memories with him.

“That’s true,” you say. “Oh, hang on -.” You dive your hand back into the box and unearth another ornament. This one is a small, festively framed picture, with a loop at the top threaded through with red silk ribbon. “Here’s a primary source for you; this is another preschool craft project. We made the frames from popsicle sticks and bought in photos from home to put inside. This is my tree from that year.”

You show him the picture of your parents standing in your childhood living room, your decorated tree between them. Your four-year-old self smiles toothily at the camera, very pleased at the explosion of colour behind them.

“It’s very colourful,” he says. “Aggressively colourful. A visual assault on the senses.”

You hold your breath.

“I like it,” he continues, and you exhale. “I want my tree to be even more violently vivid. I want it to be so vibrant, so bright, that it’ll leave a burnt impression in the human retina if you stare at it for too long.” He looks at you thoughtfully. “We may need to get you sunglasses.”

You hold the box up to him and shake it enticingly. “I think there’s a highlighter yellow snowman in here somewhere. That’ll be a good start.”

“A start,” he agrees, taking the box from your hands.

The two of you start adding your ornaments to the tree; you still eye the tinsel warily, but he seems more open to your input now that you’re not sticking to the original theme.

He’s delighted by the more ridiculous ornaments; some of them are childhood mementos, but most of them are just silly things you’d stumbled across in holiday markets or online. A handmade ornament shaped like a grinning cat wearing a Santa hat, more childhood crafts, the promised eye-watering yellow snowman. The tree slowly becomes more and more garish, a splash of hues breaking up the wall of red.

"We need to fix this section. It's too concentrated," he says, gesturing towards the bottom left side of the tree.

You tilt your head at it and squint. You suppose that there are a few extra pieces in that area, but it’s towards the back!

"Come on, it gives the tree character! Plus, the more, the merrier, right?" you say.

Edge’s answering looks makes it clear that he doesn’t share that sentiment. “Not when it makes my tree look lopsided, no. The more the miserabler, in this case.”

Well, he’s compromised on the ornaments, so you can give a little too. “Argh, fine, I’ll shift a few around.”

So you do. Soon, the tree is complete, covered in a mixture of the red ornaments and the older ones you brought from home. Countless multi-coloured lights twinkle from amidst the foliage, casting a festive glow that dances across the room. Strands of tinsel cascade down the branches, catching the light and shimmering with every movement. Hand-painted globes, paper snowflakes, and beaded garlands intermingle with the polished red ornaments, other pops of colour emerging as pastel popsicle stick reindeer and glitter-covered pinecones.

It’s still a lot more cohesive than what you’d normally do, but you find that you actually quite like the effect. A little bit of control amongst the chaos.

Edge stands back from the tree and scans it discerningly. “Violently, vividly vibrant, excellent bough-to-bauble ratio, and -,” he holds his hand straight up between his eyelights and then closes one, “- the weight of the decorations hasn’t compromised the tree’s structural integrity.”

“Don’t need me to get the spirit level out again to make sure?” you tease.

“No need. My symmetrical sensitivity is unparalleled,” he says, affect entirely serious. If you weren't so used to his brand of scathing sarcasm, you would've missed it completely.

You snort and then look back at the tree. There’s only one thing left to do.

“Can I put on the topper?” This isn’t technically your tree, after all, but the disgustingly sentimental part of you wants to have your little Hallmark moment.

You spot the topper in one of the boxes. It’s not one of yours; it’s a star, bright and glittery, though it’s not red like the rest of the decorations he purchased. It’s a vivid yellowy gold and when you pick it up, little bits of light refract around the room.

“If you’d like,” he says.

“Awesome, I’ll get a stool,” you say. The top of the tree is far too high for you to reach, even on your toes.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs, and then you’re flying through the air.

You squawk in shock, which makes sense, considering that you feel rather bird-like. You manage to avoid flailing; a good thing, since your windmilling arms would’ve ruined all of your hard work.

His hands are firm around your waist, phalanges pressing into your sides. He’s gentle; you can tell that he’s being careful to avoid poking holes in your clothes with the sharp points of his claws and he’s slow as he brings you to the top of the tree.

Even still, it takes you a second to get your bearings. How’s this for a romcom moment, huh?

“Is this what life’s like for you tall people?” you say, scanning the room from your new vantage point. “The view’s not bad.”

“Should I add shoe lifts to your gift this year?” he asks, managing to sound completely serious. “Or perhaps some stilts?”

You snort. “No thanks, I’ll leave the top shelves to you.”

You nestle the star at the top carefully, mindful of the delicate needles. Despite your best efforts, it’s lopsided, standing at a jaunty angle.

You fuss with it a little longer, but the fucker just doesn’t want to cooperate. You get it a bit straighter, but it’s never going to pass for level. You look down at Edge, craning your head back. “Sorry, I don’t think I can get it much straighter than that.”

You’re lowered back down, your slippered feet gently touching the ground. Edge doesn’t take his hands from your waist; he wraps them around you a little tighter and sets his skull atop your head. You both look at the tree – it doesn’t look any straighter from down here.

“You can fix it if you want. I won’t be upset,” you offer.

“No,” he says. “I think it’s perfect as it is.”

#reader x edge #underfell papyrus #underfell papyrus x reader #And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree #papyrus x reader

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demonpikmin · 10 months ago

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MASTER SHAKE'S STRAW FOR COSPLAY

EVA foam (I used 6mm thickness) first time using Eva foam? https://youtu.be/dN3NHy7Asqc?si=xw5WCLOEKci1tYAp

youtube

Contact cement (for EVA foam)

Respirator and/or a well-ventilated area like outside

Heating gun or an iron

Exacto knife/Hobby knife

Kwik seal

Clear Plasti dip

Acrylic Paints

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Pink structured baseball cap (Velcro backing works best imo)

Lipton ice tea bottle

Needle and thread

Scissors

—————————————-

If you have prior experience with using Eva foam this is relatively a light project. Eva is great for armor and prop cosplay, it’s light and durable. If this is your first time using Eva foam I highly recommend watching KamuiCosplay on YouTube she goes over the basics and what you need to know about Eva foam, heat sealing it and priming it.

This is my first time making a step-by-step thing, i don't have every photo for each step due to being in a time crunch.

EDIT: for cosplay something called like the 5 foot rule (someone please correct me if I’m wrong) where it’s you make something big enough to be noticeable from a couple of feet or more because thats how far away people are going to see you at a con.

____________________

Inside of hat

1 Empty Lipton iced tea bottle (using the neck up from the bottle)

Extremely important to not lost the cap and to keep the rest of the lid and twist part intact along with the long neck of the bottle (cut the neck just above the body of the bottle) The circumference of the cap will be used to measure the circumference of entirety of the straw. I am not good with math so what i did was tape the edge of a piece of paper and gently rolled it until it met with the paper again

The neck of the bottle will be cut into 4 sections length wise; these flat sections will lie inside of the hat and on top of your head. This is where to use a heating gun or an iron. In my case I only had an iron available to me. So, I took parchment paper between the iron and the plastic and heated it and bending them back one by one. Be sure to either sand or heat the cut corners so they don’t cut into you or the hat. I was under a time crunch so most of this prop was half assed

The flat parts will be used for support and keeping the straw upright

The twist and cap part of bottle will be used as a base to hold the straw in a “up” position

Very important to have a structured hat, it will help give support.

The button on the hat will be cut out, It seems small BUT this is where the bottle will be pushed through the hole in the hat.

After a hole is cut, much smaller hole than the circumference of the cap. This will be so the hat will be fitted around the neck of the bottle. Push the top of the bottle through so it’s just the twist part showing. KEEP THIS IN WHILE SEWING. Start to stitch below the cut to keep the seams of the hat secure and together.

heres how to start a knot: Basic Hand Sewing - Tying a Starting Knot (youtube.com)

heres how to finish off with a knot: Basic Hand Sewing - Tying a Finishing Knot (youtube.com)

i did the blanket stitch so the hat was fitted around the neck of the bottle. like the picture above the plastic support is now fitted onto the hat. So, if the hat gets knocked off of you or anything the prop will still be in one piece!

Building the straw

The foam will shrink a bit due from the heat making make a snug fit on the cap. When this happens, after the contact cement has been applied and the foam has been shaped to your desirer Kwik seal is good for filling those cracks in. when the whole thing is glued together there will be some spaces where the bendy part meets the top straw, i honestly filled it with a bunch of Kwik seal and painted it over. Once it's all glued this is where Plasti Dip comes in, it help seals in the foam from the acrylic paints. it takes a few layers of Plasti Dip i think i used 2-3 layers with 30 mins in between dry time. I also diy some metallic paint with eyeshadow to make it glisten in the sun.

Below are the mesuments of how long the bottom and top straw should be. (8 inches and 3/4ths) 9 inches basically VVVVV

this is the bottom half of the straw (7 1/2 inches to make it easier)VVVVVV and the bend of the straw, it will be 2 pieces. I really struggled with the bendy part. if anyone else finds a better way to make it please tag me ill add it onto this

the top half of the straw is short so when the straw is glued inside the "bendy" part of the straw so it may seem shorter when all put together. I don't remember much of putting the straw together to due outside stressors and con crunching

After the foam has been cut heat it up, you should see it seal itself. when its hot get it into a round tubelike shape, it make take a few times depending on what tool you're using (heating gun or iron) MAKE SURE YOU DO NOT MELT THE CAP!! while its still warm fit the cap in one end of the straw so it keeps that shape. i did not glue the straw to the cap. the foam will be tight enough for it NOT to need glue and now if needed it can be broken down for easier storage.

but it was basically heat shaping the bend of the straw, it was 2 sperate pieces that were beveled inward, heated and shaped and then glued. after that the upper straw piece was inside and when it was ready, it was heated and then glued finally. I glue some scrap pieces of foam on the bend to give it more wrinkles,,,i honestly don't know why i did that i was already mentally checked out

Sooo i think thats it for the tutorial. Hopefully i covered everything best I can. Feel free if you guys have found better ways to build this prop, all i ask is that DONT put it behind a paywall and please tag me/credit me when sharing and reposting.

It’s not required but is appreciated if you leave a kofi for me https://ko-fi.com/zimvatt

#Youtube #eva foam #cosplay #cosplay props #master shake #aqua teen hunger force #athf #cosplay tutorial #athf master shake #demonpikmin #kofi #buy me a kofi #props #cosplaying #convention #aqua teen forever #art #artists on tumblr

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mjonthetrack · 13 days ago

Text

blue bangtan

Chapter 97 – “Now I Stay”

The boys filtered in like quiet ghosts.

No cameras. No stylists. No flashing lights. Just five grown men trying to keep it together as they stared at a hospital bed that held someone who’d unexpectedly carved out a place in all their lives.

Yoongi entered first, arms folded, eyes sharp but softening the second she cracked a sideways grin.

“I thought you hated hospitals,” she croaked.

“I do. But you hate rest, so I came to keep you hostage.”

Namjoon brought flowers and snacks, awkwardly setting them down like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. Jin held her hand and examined the bruises with a scowl. J-Hope rubbed her shoulder, whispering “you scared me” with that sunny warmth that cracked just slightly around the edges.

And Jungkook?

Jungkook laid his head gently on the edge of her bed and didn’t say a word.

He just sighed and said:

“Next time I’ll drive the van myself.”

Later, after they'd all drifted out to give her rest, Taehyung stayed.

Sat on the edge of the seat, fingers lightly brushing her wrist as if afraid she might disappear again.

“They said you were lucky.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’re not acting like it.”

She looked over at him, tired eyes crinkling.

“I had a literal paparazzi-induced Final Destination moment and woke up to five idols in pastel sweatpants judging me like I ruined group brunch.”

He smiled. Small, warm, wrecked.

Then he leaned closer.

“Sariah…”

She looked at him carefully.

“What now, Tae?”

He didn’t flinch.

“Now I stay.”

Her throat bobbed.

“Even if I’m a mess? Even if we’re still working through it?”

“Especially because of that.”

He reached out, knuckles brushing her cheek.

“I love you. I didn’t say it before because I was scared. But I’m not leaving this room until you believe it.”

Later That Week…

She was very much not supposed to be out of bed.

But schedules were savage, and the show didn’t stop. So there she was: ankle in a compression brace, rib taped up tight, minor concussion meds kicking in at all the worst moments—

—and trying to finesse crutches in platform boots.

“I GOT IT—” clatter “Actually… maybe I don’t got it.”

Jessi: “You look like Bambi on ice.”

Jungkook caught her elbow just before she faceplanted into a soundboard.

“Noona, please. I’m begging. Use the damn wheelchair.”

“My outfit doesn’t match the wheelchair.”

“Your ankle doesn’t match the floor, either.”

Taehyung appeared mid-chaos, masked up and silent.

Sariah froze as he walked over.

No drama. No tension. Just a soft hand reaching to grab one crutch from her death grip and slide it under her arm the right way.

“Push off your good leg. Don’t lean your full weight. I practiced just to help you.”

“You practiced for me?”

“Watched three TikToks and a hospital YouTube series. I’m basically licensed.”

She snorted. Quietly. Looked down.

“You really meant it… huh?”

“Every word.”

Then she lifted her head slowly. Eyes glazed but determined.

“Alright, lover boy. You’re stuck with me now.”

He looked her dead in the eye.

“Good.”

Chapter 98 – “You’re So Stubborn”

The event was massive. Stage lights, LED walls, screaming fans. It was a celebration of the new era—a rare moment where idols from different agencies showed up to support each other, and Sariah being there in the background said enough.

She wasn’t center stage.

She didn’t need to be.

She was in fitted black Chanel joggers, dark lipstick, a crutch she left backstage after two minutes, and sunglasses big enough to make it everyone’s business and no one’s business at the same time.

Jessi was glued to her side, sipping a smoothie and whispering messy commentary about which stylists were doing entirely too much.

Meanwhile, the boys were lined up in formation, rehearsing one last run before heading to stage. Taehyung hadn't spotted her yet.

But he would.

And the second he did, he’d freeze.

She was leaned against the wall near a crew member’s monitor, ignoring her rib pain like it was a minor inconvenience and not an actual injury. Her hair was long and sleek, lips glossy, crutch nowhere to be found.

Yoongi muttered under his breath from across the room.

“This girl has zero self-preservation.”

She wasn’t trying to make a scene. Swear.

She just needed air. The noise backstage was thick, and the lights were making her dizzy. So she waved Jessi off, muttering something about “just down a few steps and back” as if that wasn't a setup straight from the drama gods.

Except... the staircase wasn’t lit.

She was in heels.

And when she stepped onto that second stair—

Her ankle twisted. The bad one.

Everything went sideways.

The fall wasn’t cinematic. It was quick. Hard. Loud.

Her arm slammed into the rail. Her hip bounced on the step. Her sunglass flew off.

She didn’t scream, but she gasped loud enough for several heads to snap in her direction.

And somewhere in the distance—

“Sariah?!”

Taehyung’s voice broke.

He was sprinting before anyone else processed it.

Jungkook’s eyes widened.

Jessi cursed in three languages.

Taehyung was already kneeling at the base of the stairs, scooping her into his arms like it was a damn wartime romance.

“Why were you on the stairs?! Where’s your crutch?!”

“I’m—ow—I’m fine!”

“You’re literally not fine!! Look at you!”

She winced as he adjusted her gently, her ankle already swelling again.

His jaw clenched.

“Do you think you’re invincible or something? You just got out the hospital, Sariah!”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal…”

“Well congratulations. Now everyone’s staring and I’m having an actual meltdown in cargo pants.”

Cameras didn’t catch the fall—thank God.

But they did catch Taehyung carrying her through the backstage hallway like a princess bride, barking at staff to “move, now,” as Yoongi yelled for ice and Jessi threatened to stab someone with a mic stand if they didn’t clear the room.

She clung to his shirt the whole time.

And even when she hissed in pain, she muttered:

“You’re so dramatic.”

He looked down at her with wide, frantic eyes.

“You could’ve broken your neck.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Because I was here.”

Back in the dressing room, she was laid out on the couch as Taehyung gently wrapped her ankle with a bandage the staff doctor handed him.

“You’re not walking anywhere without me. Not now. Not ever.”

“You gonna be my personal guard now?”

He looked up.

Serious. Soft.

“If that’s what it takes.”

Chapter 99 – “Of Course Dispatch Got It”

The world didn’t see the fall. But Dispatch? Dispatch heard about it within minutes.

Because when an American R&B superstar gets bridal-carried backstage by Kim Taehyung, someone's leakin’ it.

And by the time Sariah was being wheeled out of the venue, arms crossed and pout locked in like she was an angry Disney villain being pushed to her doom by dwarves in designer hoodies—the cameras were already snapping.

Jessi was cackling.

“I told you this would happen if you pulled another stunt.”

“I did not pull a stunt, I missed one stair—”

“No. You missed an entire flight. Of. Stairs.”

Yoongi, who had ended up in charge of making sure she didn’t jump out the wheelchair, just grunted as he pulled a cap down low over his face.

“You’re lucky you didn’t somersault into the orchestra pit.”

“I have dignity, thank you.”

“You had dignity. Then you tried to descend like Beyoncé with no crutches and a busted ankle.”

The fans outside were already screaming.

Not because of BTS.

But because Sariah Blue—hip-hop’s no-nonsense, don’t-play-with-me goddess—was being wheeled out like a pissed off prom queen who’d just punched her date.

She was in all black. Her long curls were perfectly styled, her lip gloss was unbothered, and she threw up a reluctant wave with her nails glinting in the night light as fans cheered.

“We love you, Sariah!!” “You’re a queen even in a chair!!”

She threw them a half-hearted finger heart.

“I better see memes.”

The next morning?

All hell broke loose.

Dispatch dropped the photo.

It wasn’t even high quality—blurry, grainy, crooked—but there it was: Kim Taehyung holding Sariah Blue like a K-drama finale, one hand on her thigh, the other wrapped around her back, his face downturned like she was the most precious thing in the universe.

Captioned:

“Sariah Blue suffers accident backstage… comforted by BTS’s V?!”

The hashtags immediately trended:

#TaehyungAndSariah

#KDramaIRL

#ProtectSariah

#YoongiAndJessiSaidNo

Twitter (and K-Twitter specifically) was in shambles.

Some people were scandalized. Others were in love. And a solid 40% were like:

“Honestly I’d fall down stairs too if he caught me like that.”

The memes were chef’s kiss. One showed her pouting in the chair with the caption:

“When your man says he’ll carry you but Yoongi and Jessi don’t trust your ankles.”

Another was the Dispatch pic side by side with a clip of a K-drama lead catching a fainting girl—complete with swoony OST music.

Sariah posted nothing.

Not right away.

Just a black screen to her IG story with a single line in Korean:

“Don’t worry, I landed on the cute side.”

And all hell broke loose again.

Chapter 100 – “Soup is the Enemy”

Sariah’s bedroom was a mess of blankets, pillows, and crutches leaned against the wall like trophies of her stubbornness. Jessi was perched on the edge of the bed, looking like she wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously, while Tae hovered near the door pretending he wasn’t waiting for her to cave.

Sariah’s voice cracked through the room like a fire alarm:

“I hate soup! I hate broth! I hate being a soup girl! Who even invented soup? It’s just... warm sadness in a bowl.”

She flopped dramatically onto the pillows, glaring at the small ceramic bowl Jessi held out like it was a peace offering.

“Gyoza. Hibachi. Sushi. I want flavor and fire and not this... sad wet bread.”

Jessi chuckled, wiggling the spoon in front of her mouth.

“Girl, you’re on bed rest. Soup’s all you get.”

“Ugh. Fine, but if I’m gonna do this, I’m going out in style. Someone order me the fanciest gyoza in town—preferably the kind with that crazy spicy sauce.”

Tae, leaning against the wall, raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“You mean, you’re gonna act like you’re dying but still boss us around?”

“I am always bossing you around, bub.”

Jessi sighed, finally giving in and pouring a small spoonful of soup into Sariah’s mouth.

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re craving that hibachi.”

Sariah grimaced as the warm broth touched her lips but then made a face like she’d won the battle.

“That’s just practice for the big meal.”

Tae crossed the room to sit next to her, gently brushing a stray curl from her face.

“You know, if you ever get too loud, I’ll just... quiet you.”

She grinned mischievously.

“Try it.”

Meanwhile, Jessi snapped a quick pic of the moment and sent it to the group chat:

“Soup wars: Round 1. Sariah vs. The World.”

Chapter 101 – “Midnight Mischief”

The moment Jessi and Tae had their backs turned, Sariah was already plotting. Her sprained ankle and fractured ribs? Just a minor speed bump in her grand escape plan.

With the stealth of a seasoned diva, she wheeled herself to the front door of her newly bought Korean townhouse—her sanctuary, but tonight, a playground.

“I’m telling y’all,” she muttered to herself, “bed rest is for basic bitches.”

The chilly night air hit her like a refreshing slap, and she grinned, the cool breeze whipping her curls as she coasted down the quiet street toward the nearest 7-Eleven.

Inside, she was an absolute spectacle. The fluorescent lights made her natural glow pop even brighter, and the few late-night customers froze for a second, recognizing her immediately.

“Is that… Sariah Blue?”

Before she could say no, a small group of young fans appeared, eyes wide with awe and phones at the ready.

They didn’t just want a photo—they wanted to help.

One girl gingerly adjusted the blanket over Sariah’s lap; another offered to push the wheelchair when she got tired. Sariah laughed—a bright, genuine sound that echoed warmly in the tiny convenience store.

“Y’all are my kinda people,” she said, flashing her signature grin.

A flurry of selfies and videos soon flooded social media. #SariahSneaksOut was born overnight, and the fandom ate it up.

Back home, Jessi and Tae were frantic, but Sariah’s story was already legendary.

Chapter 102 – “Chicken Shop Royalty”

Sariah’s “midnight snack run” had unexpectedly detoured when a sweet older Korean auntie spotted her struggling with the wheelchair just outside a small, glowing chicken shop tucked between neon signs and the buzz of late-night Seoul.

“You look tired, baby,” the auntie said, her voice warm and motherly, “come inside, have some food. On the house.”

Before Sariah could even protest, she was ushered through the door like royalty arriving at her coronation.

Inside, the shop smelled of fried garlic, spicy sauce, and warm hospitality. The auntie plopped a big plate of crispy golden chicken in front of Sariah and tucked a bib around her neck.

“Eat. Eat. No more worries.”

Sariah laughed, the kind of laugh that made everyone in the room pause and smile.

“I’m officially a fat cat tonight,” she declared, her fingers dancing through the crispy chicken like a hungry lioness.

And then, like moths to a flame, a mass of her fans—young and old, loud and shy—poured into the shop.

Some were carrying gifts; others just came for the warmth and chaos.

Phones came out, selfies were snapped, and the shop turned into a buzzing, joyful mess.

“My chaos agents, assemble!” Sariah called out, grinning with chicken wings in both hands.

The auntie beamed, watching her new “granddaughter” glow surrounded by love and laughter.

Meanwhile, Jessi and Tae were watching the live stream, facepalming but secretly smiling.

Jessi: “I told her not to leave the house…”

Tae: “She’s impossible.”

Chapter 103 – “Chicken Shop Cameo (Sunbae Edition)”

Sariah was mid-bite, sauce dripping off her fingers, when the door chimed and a familiar presence filled the room.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the legendary Sariah Blue, dining solo at a chicken shop.”

Sariah looked up, grinning wide as Minho stepped in — the seasoned sunbae with a calm, cool confidence that made heads turn even without trying.

“Minho sunbae! Didn’t expect to see you in this part of town.”

Minho chuckled, settling into the seat next to her with a slight bow out of respect.

“I’m just making sure Tae and the boys don’t forget how to take care of their friends.”

Sariah smirked, wiping sauce off her chin.

“You’re the sunbae MVP for showing up. Tae’s probably losing it right now.”

Minho pulled out his phone and sent a quick message.

“Just told Tae to join the feast. Can’t let the maknae struggle.”

The fans in the shop buzzed louder, snapping pics of the reunion between the queen of chaos and the wise sunbae.

Meanwhile, Tae’s phone blew up with Minho’s message.

“Hyung, sunbae’s on the scene. Chicken feast incoming.”

Tae groaned, cheeks flushing but smiling like a kid caught sneaking snacks.

Chapter 104 – “Shinee’s Back, But Not Really”

Sariah grinned wide, phone held up for the perfect selfie—Minho sunbae beaming beside her, both of them caught mid-laugh like a reunion nobody expected but everyone needed.

She hit “record” on her Insta story, the camera zooming in as she dramatically teased, mouthing the classic “SHINee’s back!” intro with mock hype.

“You know we had to bring the classics back,” she joked, flicking her hair.

Minho just laughed, shaking his head, the kind of warm sunbae chuckle that meant he was entertained but totally over the theatrics.

But then the door creaked open, and Sariah’s eyes caught movement.

In walked Taehyung, cheeks flushed and hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, like he’d rather be anywhere else—but also definitely here.

Sariah’s grin twisted into a sly smirk, the teasing shifting gears.

muttering low enough for just him to hear “Don’t you have an identity to hide or something, Kim?”

Taehyung froze for a second—then laughed, because damn, only she could pull that off with zero chill.

The energy in the room shifted, the trio now the perfect chaotic blend.

Fans outside were already blowing up her story, comments flying in:

“Shinee x Sariah? Iconic collab!” “Taehyung showing up late like a drama king 👑” “This is the crossover we didn’t know we needed!”

Sariah took a bite of her chicken, satisfied.

“Game on.”

Chapter 105 – “Wheelchair Rescue, Taehyung Style”

Taehyung was already behind the wheelchair, one hand steady on the handle, eyes half amused, half exasperated as he gently wheeled Sariah toward the door.

“Seriously, you can’t just leave like that. You’re lucky Minho sunbae called me.”

Sariah huffed loudly, crossing her arms like a kid caught sneaking out.

“I was just going to Seven Eleven, not the damn chicken shop. And it’s not my fault that the fans helped me and then Auntie dragged me in.”

Taehyung’s lips twitched in a smile, resisting the urge to tease her more.

“You’ve got a fan club AND an auntie entourage now? How am I supposed to compete with that?”

She smirked, flashing that mischievous glint in her eyes.

“You’re the only one who can keep me from going full Houdini, Tae.”

He sighed, shaking his head but secretly grateful for the chaos she brought into his life.

Outside, the night air was crisp, and the city buzzed softly beneath their feet as he pushed her toward the car.

“Alright, Houdini, next time just text me first.”

Sariah grinned, already plotting her next “escape.”

Chapter 106 – “Sariah, the Chicken Shop Kidnapping Victim”

The moment Taehyung pushed open the door to her new house, he was met with silence… but charged silence.

Jessi was pacing like she’d been holding in nuclear-grade rage for hours. Jungkook was mid-sip of banana milk, eyes wide. Yoongi had his AirPods in but paused his music. Even Namjoon froze with a book in hand, halfway through a sentence.

Taehyung cleared his throat and slowly wheeled Sariah inside like she was delivering herself to the guillotine.

“Sariah… got chicken.”

The room snapped.

“WHAT?”

Jessi spun, hands on her hips, the fire of ten thousand Latina moms coursing through her. But before she could even get a full sentence out—

Sariah stood up on her crutches, turned to her entire squad like a righteous drama heroine possessed by Kim Hye-soo herself, and snapped.

“YAH!! 팬들에게 끌려갔는데, 치킨집 아주머니가 날 입양했어! 공짜 치킨이었어! 난 괴물이 아니야! 어른들께 예의를 지킨 거야! 우리에 갇힌 동물이 아니야! 세븐일레븐에 가서 라면 먹고 슬러시 마시고 싶었어!”

[“I got dragged away by fans and the chicken shop auntie adopted me! It was free chicken! I’m not a monster! I was just showing respect to elders! I’m not some animal locked in a cage! I just wanted to go to Seven Eleven to eat ramen and drink a slushie!”]

She ended it with a dramatic stomp of her crutch, chest heaving like she’d just given a war speech.

Silence. Pure silence.

Yoongi blinked first.

“...Did she just say she was adopted by a chicken shop ajumma?”

Jungkook straight-up cackled, nearly spitting out his drink.

Namjoon set the book down slowly.

Jessi clapped a hand over her face, trying not to laugh but failing miserably.

“You’ve been in Korea too long,” she muttered. “You sound like a full K-drama extra with main character energy.”

Taehyung just sighed and rubbed his face, muttering under his breath

“And y’all thought I was the dramatic one.”

Chapter 107 – “Sariah Blue vs. The World (And Her Wheelchair)”

The house was still buzzing from her k-drama monologue when the boys followed her into the living room. Someone tried to fluff a pillow behind her back. Another tried adjusting the angle of her footrest. Jessi came in with a protein shake like she was coaching recovery for a pro fighter.

And Sariah? Sariah was done.

Her cheeks puffed up like a pouting chipmunk, and she started swinging one arm around lazily, swatting at people like mosquitoes.

“왜, 왜?! 나는 감자가 아니야! 나는 할 수 있어! 다음에 나에게 괜찮냐고 묻는 사람은 내 지팡이의 분노를 느낄 거야!!”

[“Why, WHY?! I’m not a potato! I can do things! The next person who asks if I’m okay is gonna feel the WRATH of my cane!”]

Taehyung doubled over laughing behind her.

Jungkook straight-up hit the floor wheezing.

Yoongi, barely awake but sipping his iced americano like always, whispered:

“Should we start calling her 감자누나…?”

Sariah spun the chair manually, whipping her head around toward him.

“I HEARD THAT, BLACK CAT!”

Namjoon blinked at her from across the room, nodding slowly like he was watching an endangered species throw a tantrum.

Jessi, meanwhile, was howling.

“Girl, you really said ‘I’m not a potato’ with your whole chest.”

Sariah crossed her arms, chin high, dramatic and beautiful and completely unserious.

“I’m a functioning chaos being. Let me live.”

Taehyung, finally catching his breath, knelt beside her wheelchair with a smirk.

“You sure you’re not secretly from Seoul? Because you’ve got the flair and the fury.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, lips twitching into a stubborn grin.

“Don’t test me, 김태형. I’ll run you over.”

Chapter 108 – “Hot Wheels is OUT”

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Yoongi had finally passed out on the couch with a blanket tossed over his head. Jessi had dozed off mid-scroll on her phone, lips parted, a half-eaten bag of shrimp chips by her thigh. Taehyung was somewhere upstairs, probably brooding with a book or a brush or both.

And that? That was the perfect opportunity.

Inside her room, Sariah was crouched beside her wheelchair like a mad scientist, furiously screwing something underneath with a pink Hello Kitty electric screwdriver.

“Come on… come on, you little beast,” she whispered, sticking her tongue out in concentration.

The custom-modded mini motorized skateboard—one her team specifically told her not to use—was now duct-taped, zip-tied, and emotionally bound to the base of her chair.

She double-checked the Bluetooth controller on her phone.

Power: ✅ Speed mode: Fast AF ✅ Direction: WHO CARES ✅

Sariah adjusted her shades, tossed on a hoodie, and grinned devilishly at her reflection in the mirror.

“It’s time.”

With a dramatic breath, she shoved her bedroom door open, slapped the throttle—

And shot out into the hallway like the beginning of a Marvel chase scene.

“안녕, 암캐들아!! 핫휠이 나갔어!!!”

[“BYE B*TCHES!! HOT WHEELS IS OUT!!!”]

The vrrrrrrr of the wheels echoed down the hallway as she zoomed past a stunned Jungkook, who’d just emerged from the kitchen with cereal.

He dropped the bowl. Milk everywhere.

“WHAT THE—?!”

Taehyung peeked from the stairs in pure horror as she drifted—drifted—past the living room, sunglasses on, hoodie up, and wheels blazing.

Jessi jolted upright.

“OH HELL NO—SARIAH!!!”

But it was too late. The front door flung open.

All they heard was her yelling:

“IF I DON’T COME BACK, TELL AUNTIE CHICKEN I LOVE HER!”

Chapter 109 – “Hot Wheels: Live, Laugh, Drift”

🚨 [LIVE: SariahBlueOfficial 👑✨💙] Viewers: 14.2k Caption: Hot Wheels OUT.

The screen jittered for a second—then locked in focus as Sariah angled her phone with one hand while holding the joystick throttle in the other.

She had on dark sunglasses, gold hoops swinging, and a wide-ass grin like she was in Fast & Furious: Seoul Drift.

“Good morning to everybody except the people who told me to stay inside. Guess what?” She lifted the camera and panned to the street as she rolled down it at a very illegal speed.

“We mobile now, b*tch.”

She whipped past a grandma who turned in slow confusion, clutching her shopping bag as her dog yelped and leapt back. A grandpa watering his garden just… blinked. One slipper dropped off his foot.

“Sorry halmeoni! I’m just passing through, light work!”

Her viewers? In shambles.

🧍‍♀️ user246: IS THAT A WHEELCHAIR WITH NOS???? 👵 halmoni_stan95: GRANDMA GOT SMOKED 🫠 kimchi_princess: HOT WHEELS ERA IS CRAZY 💀 taeforlife7: WAIT IS THAT TAEHYUNG IN THE BACK???

And oh yes. It was.

Behind her, steadily jogging in house slippers and sweatpants, hoodie over his head and hands waving?

Kim Taehyung.

“Sariah! 야!! 그만해!!” [“Stop!!”]

He was winded. She zoomed faster.

“Mind your business, Kim GPS!” she shouted over her shoulder, turning the camera on him just to be petty. “My man’s tryna play Need Me by Rihanna and be the man that needs me—like chill.”

She took a hard left and nearly spun out, catching herself mid-swerve with a loud whoop.

“Y’all, this is why you don’t let idol men gaslight you. You end up like me. In a wheelchair with Bluetooth. Powered by vengeance and rechargeable lithium.”

Meanwhile, back inside the house, Jessi was on the couch with a drink and just stared at the screen in disbelief.

“She really out here going full Mario Kart...”

Chapter 110 – “WHEELCHAIR RENAISSANCE TOUR (Seoul Leg)”

She was still live.

She had been live for 18 straight minutes.

And in that time, Sariah Blue had become a legend.

The camera was bouncing as she zipped past shops and café patios, her pink Hello Kitty screwdriver now dangling from the armrest like a badge of honor. On the back of her wheelchair?

Two tiny flags—one American, one Korean—fluttered violently in the wind.

And taped to the seatbelt?

A handwritten sign that read:

“World Tour: Step Aside Or Be Flattened 😘🎶🛞”

Her speaker was BUMPING Beyoncé’s "Run the World (Girls)" like it was a victory lap.

Elsewhere… Korean celebs were LOSING IT.

Bang Yongguk: reposted her Live to his story with the caption:

“She scares me. I like it.”

Hwasa (in a press interview):

“That woman is my spirit animal. If she starts a girl gang, I’m in.”

Zico (on Twitter):

“She drifting like it’s Fast & Furious: Itaewon Drift.”

Minho (from SHINee): literally replied in the group chat:

“Do I challenge her to a race or let her win out of respect?”

Jessi (LIVE COMMENTING):

jessibaby_official: IF YOU DON’T TURN THAT SH*T AROUND jessibaby_official: I’M CALLING YOONGI jessibaby_official: STOP DOING DONUTS IN FRONT OF THAT SCHOOL OMGGGG

Meanwhile, Taehyung—still chasing her from a respectable distance—was on the verge of tears and arrest.

“사랑아, 그만 해줘... PLEASE.” [“My love, please stop…”]

She spun the camera to him again and yelled over the speaker:

“Baby, I’m BUSY. The streets needed me.”

She zoomed past a group of college girls on break, who SCREAMED. Two of them immediately posted:

“No bc Sariah Blue just skated past our uni in a wheelchair blasting Beyoncé and waving flags. I’m crying.” #HotWheelsUnnie #SheDidWhatTaehyungCouldn’t

By the time she slowed down, she was surrounded.

Fans. Celebs. Curious elders. One stunned traffic officer holding up a hand half-heartedly like:

“Please… Miss… this is Gangnam…”

She slowly took off her sunglasses, posed for the camera, and whispered with a wink:

“I’m a menace. And this? Is just Act I.”

Chapter 111 – “Kingdom of Clowns and Wheelchairs”

Taehyung finally caught up.

He was panting. Hands on his knees. Eyes wide.

“Sariah. Please. Enough.”

And yet… she looked calm. Peaceful, even. Draped in oversized black shades and a Chanel puffer vest like she was a mix of Ms. Frizzle and Cardi B. She glanced at him from the seat of her war rig (read: wheelchair), blinked slow, and calmly extended one gloved hand.

“Get in, loser. We’re going home.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You want me to stop? Cool. Then you gotta ride it back with me. Come on, TaeTae. No balls?”

AND THAT MAN?? THAT GROWN ASS MAN??? He folded like bad origami.

So now?

Now there they were.

Rolling down the main street of Seoul, him stunned in her lap like some sort of shellshocked rich house cat, one arm looped awkwardly around her waist for stability, and her?? GIGGLING MANIACALLY as she hit the “turbo” button on the motorized wheel.

“Sariah please—” “SHHHHH, I’m piloting the mothership.”

The flags were flapping so dramatically behind them you’d think they were returning from war.

And the cherry on top?

The aux speaker switched to “Ddu-Du Ddu-Du” by BLACKPINK and she pointed dramatically to the crowd like she was leading a revolution.

Taehyung buried his face in her shoulder.

“I should’ve just stayed home.”

Then the squad pulled up.

Hobi, Jungkook, Yoongi, RM, Jessi… all froze like they were watching a slow-mo accident. Every single one of them staring at the sight of the nation's fashion king folded into the lap of his chaotic American menace of a girlfriend—flanked by fluttering flags and a speaker duct-taped to the side playing K-pop war anthems.

Yoongi, blinking: “Is that… is that the Chanel vest I left at your place??”

Jessi: “Sariah. Explain. NOW.”

Sariah (adjusting her grip on the wheel):

“Don’t worry about it bestie, we homebound.” [she honks a bicycle horn taped to the handlebar] “TO INFINITY, AND OPPAR!”

Jungkook was on the ground. Crying.

RM had taken his glasses off.

Hobi looked genuinely concerned for all parties involved.

And Jessi just walked away muttering, “Lord, take this one off my plate.”

As the chair coasted to a stop in front of their shared dorm, Sariah patted Taehyung’s thigh and grinned at the others.

“You’re welcome for the free show. Donations accepted in the form of dumplings and bubble tea.”

#bts x black oc #bts fanfic #kim taehyung x oc #taehyung x oc #romance #x black oc #mature fic

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