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themoonlightfae · 18 days ago

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Lying on the Hood Of Your Car

Pairings: Fem!Reader x non-idol!Wooyoung

Summary: Unable to sleep, you let your roommate Wooyoung talk you into reliving some of your late night college escapades-- but it doesn't quite go the way you had expected.

Genre: Friends/Roommates to Lovers

WC: 7,325

Rating: Explicit

Originally Published: 250217 on ao3

Tags: Under the cut

Tags: friends to Lovers, fluff and smut, banter, kissing, making out, first kiss, love confessions, desperate sex, first time together, vaginal fingering, oral sex, squirting and vaginal ejaculation, vaginal sex, sexual overstimulation, dirty talk, sex toy use, Wooyoung is a very polite lover, new relationship, inside jokes, laughter during sex, joking during sex, sharing a bed, sharing a shower

Lying on the hood of your car We thought we could fly To the planets and stars It was stunning Lying on the hood of your car A scaffold of lights A world that was ours The engine running Lying on the hood of your car

-- Lying on the Hood Of Your Car ~ Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness

You heaved a heavy sigh as you flipped from app to app on your phone. It had been hours since you'd gone to bed, but you could not seem to wind down. You frowned at the time— just past 2:30am. You’d even gotten in bed early, and your roommate Wooyoung had come to bed not long after. He was, and had been for that matter, snoozing soundly since he had settled down.

You were intensely jealous, as you were still wide awake and feeling restless as hell, which was unfortunately your norm nowadays. Work and life stress had been getting to you, and getting old quickly.

You let your head loll to the side, watching Woo as he slept. You could only see him from the nose up under the comforter, and he had one arm contorted over his head as he lay with his face half smashed into the pillow. His long hair cascaded down over his fair features, and you resisted the urge to play with it.

I don’t know how he sleeps like that and then wakes up like it’s no big deal.

You sighed again and went back to your phone, but you clicked the screen off again after a few seconds.

Lots of people thought it was weird, that you had a male roommate— even weirder, when folks found out you shared a bed.

But it wasn’t like that. Wooyoung was your best friend, your partner in crime. You had met him in college when he’d been an exchange student freshman year, and he had opted to stay around, even after you graduated. Naturally, both of you being broke new grads, you decided to live together to save money. He was working in a local, well-known theatre, whereas you had gone the healthcare route and were now a home health nurse. You had started your adventure with Woo in a one bedroom house, and the two of you were now so comfortable together that you’d opted to keep the same sleeping arrangements even after you were able to upsize.

Wooyoung was the best friend you’d ever had, and some days you still couldn’t believe the universe had given him to you. Six years after graduation, you were joined at the hip more than ever before, and the weird, socially-unacceptable idiosyncrasies of your friendship— or whatever it was— didn’t much bother you.

At least, not as much as it bothered your parents, or literally anyone else. If you'd had a dollar for every time anyone asked when you'd be marrying him, you'd easily have a good chunk of change.

You couldn’t help yourself, and grabbed your phone again, but hadn’t even gotten it unlocked when a sly little voice next to you piped up.

“It's really hard to sleep with your phone in your face, I’ve heard,” Wooyoung said with a giggle. “Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

“Oh, you hush,” you said, grabbing an unused pillow to throw at him, laughing yourself at the high pitched squawk he made when it hit him square in the face. “And no, I don’t work again until Tuesday. Like it says on the calendar on the fridge that you never read.” You stuck your tongue out at him.

“Well, I hardly think that throwing a pillow at me for stating the obvious is fair, either way,” he pouted, tossing it away and scooting closer to you, resting his head on your shoulder and throwing a leg over your legs so you were effectively trapped. He tangled an arm with the one you had lying by your side and nuzzled into your shoulder.

“So mean. To me. Your bestest and cutest and funniest and sweetest friend in the whole wide world.”

“You forgot most humble.”

“Of course, duh.”

“Well… all’s fair in love and pillow fights. Or whatever,” you huffed, regretting using the L word.

“Well in that case…” Wooyoung snickered, changing positions before you could blink twice, grabbing a pillow and whopping you in the belly with it. You shrieked, a little too loudly, and were thankful for a second you lived in a house with no shared walls. You were up at once, ready to meet his next strike with a one-two pillow punch, knocking him over onto his back. You decided to play dirty and ditched the pillows, instead going for Wooyoung’s sides. You continued to tickle him till he was wheezing, rolled over in a ball, and trying desperately to escape you.

“Okay, okay, mercy, MERCY!” He cried out, nearly topping off the bed as you let go of him.

You were quick to grab and haul him back in, but it didn’t seem like he was expecting as much, and your rescue resulted in you on your back, with Wooyoung lying half over you, his face inches from yours.

“Great, first you attack me while I’m trying to sleep, then you try to squish me?” You rolled your eyes. "Typical."

“Yeah. You and your Instagram feed were looking real cozy there doing all that sleeping,” Wooyoung cackled. He rolled away and let you go, and you tried not to think about how it had felt to have his warm weight pressing you into the mattress.

Truth be told, you thought about Wooyoung being with you physically a lot more than you should.

It was so cliché you could barely stand it— being in love with your roommate. But it had happened ages ago, and you had let it, at first thinking it was just a harmless crush. You knew you certainly weren’t the first person to have a crush on Wooyoung, who had had practically everyone swooning over him in college. He was funny, energetic, and charming, just to name a few.

But Wooyoung had never dated anyone in college. Not for lack of wanting to, either, he just claimed that he hadn’t found the right person yet.

Meanwhile, you still found yourself hoping on a regular basis that the “right person” would wind up being you, because in all honesty, the unrequited love was beginning to wear on you the tiniest bit.

“I’m hungry now,” Wooyoung grumbled, sitting cross legged next to you on the bed and raking a hand through his hair. He had been putting off cutting it for a while, and you hoped he would keep it long— it suited him so well. You reached over to flip on the lamp on your bedside table, laughing as Woo hissed like a cat at the sudden light.

"Hey! Was that necessary?"

“Well, if you hadn’t judged me for my doom scrolling and then started a pillow fight, you could still be asleep,” you reminded him, and he scoffed in return.

“True I guess, but I’m still hungry,” he whined, sticking out his bottom lip at you dramatically. "I'm blaming you by the way."

“So go make yourself something to eat,” you laughed. "I just went shopping yesterday."

“Nah, I have a better idea,” he said, shaking his head. He tugged you to a sitting position, and you regarded him suspiciously.

“What could be better than eating a midnight snack and then going back to sleep?”

“Adventures,” Wooyoung said simply, almost in a reverent whisper, eyes shining in the lamp light.

“Okay Bilbo Baggins, slow down there, it’s pushing 3 am,” you laughed.

“No, but see, that’s just it,” Wooyoung pressed. “We used to go out and do all kinds of fun shit in the middle of the night in college. We haven’t done that in forever.”

“Yes, because we are old now.”

“Too old to go get breakfast at The Depot in the middle of the night? Please.”

The Depot was a staple in your city, a 24-hour diner adjacent to the university that was often packed, even in the wee hours.

“It’s 3 am.”

“Come on, humor me,” Wooyoung begged, clasping his hands in front of him and shifting to kneel on the bed. “Please please please please—”

“Oh my god, okay,” you giggled. “Freaking weirdo.”

“Uh huh, and what do we call people who are friends with freaking weirdos?” Wooyoung waggled his eyebrows at you.

“The weirdo’s friends. Obviously.”

“Whatever. Weirdo lover.”

“Shut up.”

You playfully pushed him away and got up, rifling through your drawers for something to wear. You decided on fleece lined leggings and thermals under an oversized sweatshirt, taking them to the bathroom to change. When you returned, you completed the look with one of Woo’s beanies that was sitting on your dresser.

“Wearing my beanie?” Wooyoung gasped, and then shrugged. “Fine. I’ll wear your hoodie.”

“Oh, the one you stole four years ago and won’t give back?” You asked. "That hoodie?"

“Distinctly do not recall that event,” Woo giggled.

“Sure. Are you driving, or am I? It’s fucking cold out,” you sighed, glancing at the weather on your watch.

“I’ll drive,” Wooyoung told you. “Just… hang on a second. Stay here.”

You shot him a dubious look, but stayed sitting on the edge of the bed until he came back to get you. You were more than curious, having heard tinkering in the kitchen as well as the front door opening and closing twice.

“Okay, we can go now,” Wooyoung said brightly, bouncing into the room and offering you an arm. “Let’s get this party started.”

You were glad it was Wooyoung’s car, as he’d recently gotten one with seat warmers. He navigated to The Depot, which was not near as crowded as normal for a Thursday night at this time. The two of you got a table right away, and Wooyoung grabbed a menu immediately with an excited squeaky noise that had no business being as endearing as it was.

“So… split breakfast?”

“Are you saying you want to split the bill, or that you want breakfast, or that we should do our usual?” You asked him.

“Usual. And I’m paying.” He lowered the menu long enough to make a face at you before going back to perusing.

Your usual manner of attack at this diner was to order two or three entrees to share. This had originated as a necessity once when the two of you had been drunk and indecisive after a party, and had grown to be a time-honored tradition.

“Chocolate chip pancakes sound like a must,” Woo murmured. “No whip of course,” he added, knowing you often found the addition too sweet. “Oh, and biscuits and gravy! They have such good gravy, I dream about it once in a while.”

“You do not.”

“Don’t judge me for my gravy dreams,” came the curt reply, and you snorted.

“I thought I heard you two,” a voice called out from behind you, and you spun to see Emma, who almost always waited on you and Wooyoung when you came in for late night meals. “Up to no good, I’m sure,” she continued.

“Aww, Emma,” you giggled. “Wooyoung resembles that remark tonight.”

“Am I the reason we are out of bed and at—” He started indignantly, then stopped just as quickly. “Oh. Nevermind. You’re right. I’m a troublemaker. I am the reason we're here. This is the only time I will ever admit it so you better get it on film.”

“So, chocolate chip pancakes,” she counted off. “Biscuits and gravy with extra gravy on the side. What else? Home fries?”

“Um.” Wooyoung said. He nudged your foot with his own, and you caught yourself before you jumped at the contact.

“Yes, home fries," Wooyoung affirmed. "What do you want though?” He glanced up at you.

“How about… a ham and cheese omelette,” you pondered for a second. “And the breakfast meat sampler.”

“Perfect, going in now. Sticking with water tonight?”

“Yeah, I am,” you nodded. Wooyoung echoed you, and Emma grinned, stepping away for a moment to grab a pitcher and some glasses.

“So, still not even dating or anything, hmm?” She asked, catching Wooyoung in mid-drink. You almost felt bad for laughing as he sputtered and shook his head.

“Emma, you know the answer to that,” you told her firmly.

“Uh huh, okay,” she said coyly, handing Wooyoung some extra napkins and sidling away. You helped him clean up a bit, trying to hold back more laughter.

“God, she’s been asking us when we're getting married since she got ordained like. Summer of fucking… what, senior year?” He mumbled. “Bet she thinks she’s so funny.”

“Right? Heaven forbid two people of the opposite sex be living together and not married or dating or anything. Scandalous.”

“Did you see her shirt?” Wooyoung changed the subject quickly. 'Community wine aunt.'

“I love Emma’s shirts,” you giggled. “Remember when she made the one that said 'ask me about our specials,' and wore it almost every day for a month?”

“Oh my god,” Wooyoung cackled. “Ed hated that one.”

“I cannot fathom how much he regrets buying her that Cricut,” you laughed.

Ed was the owner of the diner, the head cook, and Emma’s husband. And he had never, in the 25 years that The Depot had been open, offered specials. He claimed it was because it was too much to keep up with. Either way, you still remembered the good-natured argument he and Emma had had in the middle of the restaurant, at 3am one Wednesday night, about that particular shirt. She had taken it off, thrown it at his head, and walked away in her tank top to cheers from everyone in the place.

As far as you knew, Emma and Ed were still very happily married, and over the years, they had taken a liking to you and Wooyoung— especially considering you had remained regular patrons despite having graduated years ago. You all saw each other a lot, considering they kept weird hours too.

You wanted what they had, someday. You sighed as Emma came back, bearing a tray full of plates. She seemed to notice you pondering.

“Aww, what’s on your mind, pumpkin?”

“Nothing, just tired,” you shrugged. You pointed a finger at Wooyoung, who had his mouth open and was about to speak, and he promptly shut his trap. “Do not even, sir.”

“Okay, well, you both know where me and Ed stand on you two and whatever… yeah,” Emma muttered as she put the food down in the center of the table and handed each of you an empty plate. She topped off your waters, and walked away, mumbling something under her breath which sounded like “made for each other.”

Wooyoung, oblivious now that there was food present, was already filling his plate, and the two of you dug in, falling quiet for a bit while you stuffed your faces.

You nearly choked as you heard someone yell behind you.

“I ordered FRIED eggs! FRIED, GODDAMMIT!”

“Ooh, egg drama,” Wooyoung whispered. “Talk about scandalous.”

You turned to see what appeared to be a very drunk college student, standing up next to her chair, trying to have a face-off with Emma.

“This is not gonna go well for that girl,” you laughed.

“Miss, you did not, and you can eat what you ordered, or you can leave,” Emma told the girl sternly.

“But these aren’t FRIED!”

“You didn’t order them fried!”

You overheard one of her friends mutter “you ordered scrambled, dumbass,” and snorted.

Two seconds later, Ed came tearing out of the kitchen, brandishing a large spatula.

“Out,” he barked. “Didn’t you read the sign? Quit causing a scene and scat. Dumb drunk kids. Come back when you’re sober.”

The girl and her friends left in a hurry, and Ed chased them all the way out the door. He came back in, glancing around at everyone seated as if inviting them to question their own orders. He went back to the kitchen without another word, and you turned back to Wooyoung, who was giggling silently, tiny wheezes escaping the corners of his lips every few breaths.

“Wow,” he finally said.

“Oh, Ed,” you laughed. “I think he needs to think about retirement.”

“You know that’s never gonna happen.”

“Oh yeah, I know.”

“What sign was he talking about?” Wooyoung asked.

“Uh, the one outside that says ‘no whiny brats,’” you told him. “Have you never noticed it before?”

“In my defense, their porch is covered in signs,” Wooyoung shrugged. “They also have one that says ‘no farting on the porch.’”

“Right, because that’s the one you would notice.”

“Whatever, you love me,” Wooyoung shot back. “Do you want the rest of the pancakes?”

“Nah, you can have them. I’m gonna finish the omelette though.”

“Be my guest. Flip a coin for the potatoes?”

“You can have those too.”

“Aww,” Wooyoung said cutely. “You really do love me.”

You thought you might scream if he didn’t stop saying it, because it was truer than anything else you’d ever known.

Between the two of you, you polished off the rest of the food, and Wooyoung left enough money for the meal and a generous tip before waving to Emma as you headed out.

His words echoed in your head, tumbling around with the entire weirdness that was this late night excursion.

Whatever, you love me. Hah. I sure do, you goob. Wish I could tell you though.

Woo opened the car door for you before getting into the driver’s seat himself. But instead of turning back towards your neighborhood, Wooyoung navigated to the highway.

“Uh. What do you think you’re doing?” You asked cautiously.

“Adventuring. Go with it.”

You were half asleep when Wooyoung stopped the car. He nudged you gently.

“Hey, dork. We’re here.”

“Huh?”

You glanced out the window, gaping at the sight. You recognized where you were— the overlook a few miles outside town. It was crazy what such a short distance did to cut down on the light pollution— the overlook was magical in itself, giving its visitors a wide view of the valley and the town. And of course, the stargazing opportunities were many. You came up here by yourself frequently, just to think.

The stars were brilliant tonight, not a cloud in the sky, and just a sliver of moon hanging low over the sleepy town below. You glanced at your watch and saw it was pushing 5 am.

Wooyoung was already out of the car and rifling in the backseat. You got out and stretched, shivering as a cold breeze blew by. You watched as Woo constructed a pallet on the hood of his car, and clambered up, beckoning you to join him. Carefully, he bundled you up, and settled in next to you, curling up on his side and pulling you in close, his head next to yours on the pillow as the two of you gazed up at the stars together.

“This is a good adventure,” you mumbled. “Bit chilly though.”

Wooyoung produced another blanket seemingly out of nowhere and spread it over you, then gathered you closer, pulling your head against his chest.

“Better?”

It was better, but you supposed that was dependent on one’s definition of better— because now you could scarcely breathe— all you could hear was his heartbeat, and all you could smell was his cologne, and in that second you thought you might just go completely insane.

“Hey,” Wooyoung shook you gently. “Are you okay? Is it too cold out? I just… I just thought this would be nice,” he trailed off. You nodded and snuggled in even closer, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“I’m good,” you mumbled, your voice muffled against his clothing. “This has been a fun night.”

“I agree. Are you comfy?”

“Yeah.”

You and Woo lapsed into silence for a while, breathing in the cold, early-morning air as you lay there in each other’s arms.

You wondered what he was thinking, as he idly stroked your arm, before running his hand down, slipping his thumb under the wristband of your sweatshirt to rub it over your hand.

Regardless, you simply lay there, drinking in the moment. You had told yourself a long time ago that you weren’t going to let the impossibility of you and Wooyoung stop you from enjoying these times with him.

As the first traces of daylight crept up the horizon, Wooyoung shifted slightly, and you felt his hand move, slipping over yours as he intertwined your fingers.

Before you could speak up about the fact that Wooyoung was holding your hand , and you both had talked about this , he hugged you tightly as he breathed out a contented sigh.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my life,” he whispered. You wriggled out of his grip just enough to look up at him, and were startled to see that his face was very close to yours.

Much closer than it had been earlier.

“Um. Wooyoung?” You squeaked. “You okay?”

He leaned in slowly and with obvious caution, brushing his nose against yours, and you took a deep breath that you couldn’t seem to let out. You didn't move a muscle, afraid if you did you'd scare him off.

“Please tell me I can kiss you,” he said, even quieter now, and you could feel the barest wisp of contact as he spoke so closely to your own lips. “Please…”

You decided to answer his question with action, pressing your lips to his in a deep and tender kiss, eliciting a gasp from him that you tried desperately to put out of your mind before it wandered elsewhere.

Wooyoung whined low, his breathing already heavy as you continued to give him almost painfully slow, soft kisses. His arms snaked around you, holding you tightly to his body, and he bit at your lip experimentally, licking after to soothe. He stopped for just a second to look you in the eye, and you let out a ragged sigh. You shifted slightly, noticing just how wet you had gotten already.

Well, that’s only slightly embarrassing. Two minutes of kissing him and it's like motherfucking Niagara Falls.

It had been a while since you’d been with anyone. Like Woo, you hadn’t really dated much during or since college, for the same reasons as him.

Then again, you had been holding on to the small hope that someday, you and Wooyoung would wind up together.

Looks like I may get my wish. But… Why is he looking at me like that?!

“Wooyoung…” You started, but he put a fingertip over your lips. He had not moved his gaze from yours, and his warm brown eyes were serious but soft, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered at that very moment.

He kissed you again, and this time it was desperate, with a need pouring out of Wooyoung that you could feel at the very center of your being. He moved again, slotting his body on top of yours, and you let him, too wrapped up in the kiss to even process the rest. You reached up to fist your hands in Woo’s hair, tugging lightly, and felt your heart drop into your stomach when he growled in return. He stopped suddenly, pushing himself up on his elbows to look down at you.

“Let’s go home,” he said quietly.

“What do you have up your sleeve now?” You gulped, and he giggled and gave you a single soft kiss.

“An idea that requires no sleeves,” he whispered against your lips. “Or any other clothes, for that matter… if you want.”

“Mmm. Let’s go.”

You had to say, you were honestly impressed with the amount of self-control Wooyoung exhibited while driving home. He still drove carefully, albeit a bit over the speed limit. The second you had agreed to his proposition, he had flung himself off the hood of the car, and had quickly put away all of the pillows and blankets, urging you to get in, hurry up, let’s get home.

It was a struggle to get in the door, the two of you with lips locked as he fumbled for the keys, everything in the car already long forgotten. You managed to tap the button to close the garage as Wooyoung all but dragged you into the house. He yelped as the hoodie pocket got caught on the door handle, and you heard the fabric ripping. Wooyoung stopped short, slamming the door as he stared down at the damage. Then he looked up at you, a fiendish grin on his face.

“You owe me a new hoodie.”

“Bitch, that was MY hoodie!” You shrieked, wild laughter threatening to overtake you as Wooyoung stepped back to you. In no time, he had one hand on the back of your neck and an arm around your waist, kissing you again and clearly trying to guide you towards the bedroom.

The two of you managed to make it without much more damage, though Wooyoung did knock over a lamp in the living room, and you nearly fell trying to get your shoes off. The second he got you close enough to the bed, he pushed you over onto your back on the mattress, his expression now smug and satisfied.

“What’s that look for?” You asked.

“Because I finally get to do this,” he whispered. “Fucking finally. Emphasis on fucking,” he added with a wink, and you groaned loudly, reaching for one of his arms and pulling him down with you.

"Fucking, huh?"

"If you want to," he told you. "No pressure. But if you want to..."

"Gonna show me what you can do, hmm?" You asked him, watching his face redden, but his expression remained determined.

"I promise, you won't regret it," he said with another wink and a suggestive eyebrow waggle.

He rolled onto his side to face you, pure joy radiating from him. He leaned back in to kiss you, but you put a hand up. Dutifully, he stopped what he was doing, returning to rest beside you.

“We should talk,” you said slowly. “I mean… yeah. Before anything else happens. We…”

He sighed.

“Okay.”

You couldn’t help yourself then, sputtering the first words that popped into your head.

“First of all, what do you mean, finally?”

“I mean…” He shrugged. “I mean finally . Jagiya, I’ve been in love with you since you read our freshman biology TA to filth for grading your test with the wrong key. You are feisty and headstrong and beautiful and so smart and caring and I… I just…” Wooyoung was babbling, and you could see tears forming in his eyes as he looked at you adoringly. “Why do you think I stayed? I could have gone back to Korea. I had a job waiting for me, even. But I stayed because I couldn’t bear to think of ever being without you, and I wasn’t about to ask you to uproot everything for me. And I know it’s kinda not fair, that I’m telling you all that now. But I know you, jagi. And I know that there’s no way I could ever ask you to leave your family behind like that. You need them, and they need you,” he said breathlessly. “But… I need you too,” he finished quietly. “But… All that was just a lot that I dumped on you. So... Considering that new knowledge, if you want, I’ll… I’ll…”

“Don’t you fucking dare even think that, Jung Wooyoung,” you warned, reaching out to pull him closer to you. “You’re not going anywhere, because I love you too.”

“You do?” He asked incredulously.

“I swear to god,” you exclaimed, rolling onto your back with a sigh. “You are really so clueless for someone with such good attention to detail, did you know that?”

“I… have been told that, actually,” Wooyoung started, tapping a finger on his chin. “But—”

“No. No buts. Stop talking. Actually, come here and kiss me, that’ll make you stop talking.”

“Say no more,” he replied quickly, scooting over to you and snuggling up. He pulled the beanie off your head and tossed it off the side of the bed, running a hand through your hair to smooth it.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful…” He murmured.

“I said, less talking,” you scolded him, grabbing his hoodie and pulling him to you for a kiss. He melted into it instantly, and before long, you had turned to face him, and time had become a myth. All that mattered was this moment, and you were going to savor it for as long as possible.

His free hand was moving now, at first with gentle caresses to your face and hair. This didn’t last long, and he moved lower, running his fingertips over your neck, giggling when you gasped and squirmed.

Slowly, methodically, he moved his hand lower, giving teasing touches over your clothes, and you could tell he was watching you closely, clearly waiting for some sign that you might want to stop.

“Wooyoung,” you said flatly. “Just touch me. Did we not come home for a specific reason?”

“I want it to be special,” he pouted.

“Every day with you is special, you dweeb,” you told him. “But if you don’t make good on that promise of fucking me, I might lose what’s left of my sanity.”

“So you really have nothing to lose, is what you’re saying,” Wooyoung giggled. "Got it. Knew it."

“Shush.”

He gave you a sly smile and opened his mouth to speak again, but you clamped a hand over it firmly. A split second later, you were pulling it away, Wooyoung's spit dripping from your palm. You rolled your eyes and wiped it on his now ruined hoodie, and he gasped with fake indignation.

“Have you no respect for the dead, miss?”

“You’re weird,” you told him.

“Where’s your vibrator?” Wooyoung shot back in return, catching you off guard as he changed the subject.

“Why?”

“Because I want to use it on you,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Maybe we should get naked first,” you suggested.

“Better hang up the sign,” he laughed.

“Oh my god, do not bring that up right now!” You squealed. "Not the sign!"

Not long after you and Wooyoung had moved in together, you had accidentally caught each other masturbating— more than once, for that matter. A sock on the door handle worked for a while, mostly, but eventually Wooyoung thought it would be hysterical to make a sign to hang on the door instead— hand painted, with ‘GO AWAY, I’M MASTURBATING’ in big block letters. You hadn’t seen it in years, having shoved it in the back of a closet somewhere when your mother was visiting and it had inadvertently been left on the door.

“You’re right,” Woo nodded, interrupting your reminiscing. “I guess we need a new one. It can say: 'Go away, we’re fucking.'”

“We don’t have any other roommates,” you reminded him. "Why do we need to advertise?"

“Oh. Right. Okay, well are you gonna tell me where the vibe is, or do I have to hunt for it?”

“It’s in the bottom left drawer—” You began, and Wooyoung was off the bed in a heartbeat, returning with the wand vibe and perching it on the bedside table. He held out a hand to you, beckoning you to stand up, and he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

You froze for just a second as your hips pressed into his and you realized how hard he was, but he was quick to distract you as he cupped your face and kissed you gently.

“Jagiya, can I undress you?” He asked, barely a whisper. You nodded.

Part of you wished that you could bottle these memories for later, as Wooyoung removed your clothes in such a sensuous and breathtaking way that you thought you might scream. He was slow, methodical, as he left kisses on each new exposed bit of skin, warm hands stripping away the layers of sweats and thermals until you stood naked in front of him, and he was marveling at you, mouth falling open as he took you the sight of you in fully for the first time.

Not one to want to feel out of place, your hands were on the zipper of his hoodie in less than a second. Your movements were hurried, almost frenzied in contrast, and Woo giggled at your desperation.

“Rest in peace, hoodie,” he mumbled as you tossed it into the pile with your own clothes, and you glared at him. You couldn’t hold it though, and you let a smile break through as you paused to kiss him.

“Consider it karma for your thievery.”

At long last, you had every last stitch of clothing off him, and now it was your turn to ogle. Wooyoung had always been fit— years of dance classes and theatre work, in addition to his religious workout schedule. You almost couldn’t bring yourself to glance at his cock— it was thick, and clearly longing to be touched, leaking pre-cum down his thigh as he watched you quietly.

“Come here,” he whispered.

He gathered you into a soft embrace, and you felt pure adrenaline shoot down your spine at the feeling of his warm, soft skin against yours, your bodies pressed together firmly, his cock pressing into your leg as he lifted your chin to kiss you.

“Mmm,” he sighed happily into the kiss, hugging you tighter as he guided you back towards the bed. You climbed in first, and he followed, settling into the middle of the mattress and curling up with you while his hands continued to explore every inch of your skin. You whined loudly as his hand crept towards your center, and you closed your eyes as you felt his hand push your legs apart.

You were still not prepared by the time he touched you, softly trailing his fingers through your soaked folds and muttering curse words under his breath. You kept your eyes shut as his hand probed slightly higher, and as he brushed your swollen clit, you hissed in surprise, arching your back and grabbing his arm.

“Too much?” He asked.

“Just sensitive,” you tried to get out. “Like, extremely sensitive. Been a while.”

“Good, I think I can work with that,” he snickered.

“You’re evil, Jung Wooyoung.”

“Ah-hah, but you love me though,” he said in singsong, with a quick peck on your cheek.

As his lips left your skin, he suddenly plunged a finger into your aching cunt, and you cried out in surprise. He added a second quickly, shushing and soothing you, giving you gentle kisses as he began to finger-fuck you at such an excruciatingly slow pace that you considered strangling him with the ripped hoodie as penance.

“Faster,” you whined. “Oh, please, Wooyoung, faster…”

You were fully laid out on your back now, and Wooyoung was lying on his side next to you. One hand propped up his head, long hair falling in his eyes as he watched you writhing, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face as he continued his ministrations.

“But we already had been taking our time,” he cooed. “So what if I want to take my time with you now?”

“Can’t we do that later?” You begged, as he teased at adding a third finger. “Woo, come on, plea— OH FUCK!”

His next thrust included that third finger, and you were already seeing stars, your release building low in your belly and growing much faster than it had any business doing. Wooyoung picked up the pace just a bit, whispering to you softly as he continued to watch your face.

“So good for me, jagiya… mmm… this lovely, tight little cunt… and I get to have it all to myself now,” he murmured. “I can’t wait to feel you squeezing around my cock… clenching tight while you take all of my cum. Will you do that for me, hmm? Let me fill you up?”

You had not been expecting the dirty talk, even knowing Wooyoung as you did, and it only served to spur you on further. You scrabbled for purchase on the sheets as the coil in your center wound tighter, threatening to break at any second— and when it finally did, colors flashing in your vision that you swore you’d never seen before, Wooyoung continued on through it, prolonging your pleasure until you were overstimulated and coming again. The second orgasm was somehow stronger than the first, and your entire body shuddered as you rode out the aftershocks. Only then did Woo relent, and you rolled to face him, slumping into his chest.

“Ornery,” you whined. “So ornery… fuck… you…” You were gasping for breath, chest heaving as you tried to clear your head.

Meanwhile, Wooyoung was sucking his fingers clean in such a lewd way that you thought your heart was going to stop from the sight. In a flash, he was between your legs, pushing you back onto your back and spreading them wide, opening you up to him fully.

“Woo,” you whimpered. “Please.”

“Huh?” He sat up, appearing concerned now.”

“Need you,” you whined.

“Ah. Well, what’s that thing you always tell me?” He settled back between your legs, kissing a trail up your thigh. “Oh yeah, I remember.” He licked a firm stripe up your center, curling his tongue around your clit and then giving it a small flick, and you shrieked in surprise.

“Patience is a virtue,” Wooyoung said with a smug tone, as he buried his face in your core, nimble tongue lapping at your folds, flicking at your clit. You cursed loudly, and he giggled, nose nudging your clit as he pushed further in, fucking you on his tongue as you grasped for his hair.

Pulling it only seemed to encourage him, so you decided to go with it, one hand planted firmly on his head, pushing his face deeper into your soaked cunt. You felt a tickle as he brought one hand up to push two fingers inside you, curling them as he moved to circle your clit with his tongue.

“Thought… vibrator…” Was all you could get out in your fucked-out state, and he laughed.

“I like this better,” he told you, voice muffled against your cunt. “Now… isn’t it time you came for me again?”

You weren’t sure if you were extra suggestible because of the morning’s events, or because it was finally Wooyoung between your legs, but you came again, astonishingly hard, soaking his face in the process.

“Hmm,” he sighed happily as he began to clean up the mess with his tongue. “Fuck. I’m not gonna lie, I was hoping I could make you squirt.”

“What about that is so hot?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged. “Just is. Trust me.”

Wooyoung stopped once you were nearing overstimulation for a second time, and crawled back up the bed to lie down next to you. He leaned in to kiss you, and you tasted yourself on his lips and tongue, drank him in like he was a fine wine and this was your last meal. He kissed you so tenderly, one arm protectively encircling you and holding you close, and for just a moment you wondered if all of this was an elaborate dream.

“Woo?” You whispered.

“Yeah, baby?” He asked, kissing your forehead softly.

“Is this real?”

You yelped as he pinched your ass firmly, pushing him away as you cackled. He did not move, but you could see his shoulders trembling as he tried to resist laughing.

“Does it feel real?” He giggled, and you scooted back over to him, swatting him in the arm.

“You’re a menace,” you told him. You saw the vibrator still on the bedside table, and looked back to Wooyoung, raising an eyebrow. “Were you still gonna use that?”

“Oh, maybe,” he shrugged. “Not right now though,” he added. "I'm supposed to be fucking you, apparently. Made a promise or whatever."

"I swear to god, Wooyoung."

His lips were on yours again now, and he was back on top of you in no time at all, cock nudging at your entrance. You reached down, helping him find the right angle, then lay back, almost melting into the bed as he pushed inside you— inch by glorious inch, stretching you full and then some. As he bottomed out, he hunched over you, teeth grazing your shoulder, kissing your neck with a renewed fervor as he began to thrust.

He moved slowly at first, allowing you plenty of time to grow used to him, before increasing the pace bit by bit, burying his face in your shoulder now and seemingly desperate to be as close to you as he could while he fucked you clear into insanity.

He changed angles suddenly, and you whined as the head of his cock hit you just right.

“Woo…”

“Hm.”

“Right… there…” You whispered. “Don’t…”

“Not gonna stop,” he raised his head up to look at you, a dopey, fucked-out smile on his face. “Not gonna… oh god…”

His strokes were growing messier, and you were bucking your hips into his as he kept hitting you at the exact speed and spot you needed. His whines grew louder, and you could feel his cock twitching inside you.

He kissed you suddenly, plunging his tongue into your mouth, hot and desperate and full of overwhelming passion, as you felt his cock pulsing, emptying deep inside you. He slumped against you, and you sighed internally, having been close again, but the feeling faded fast as he stopped.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pulling out quickly as he realized what had happened. Before you knew it, he had the vibrator on your clit, three fingers inside you and was thrusting fast and hard. You were over the edge in less than a minute, and to your immense relief, he did not tease you this time. He set the toy back down, crawling back once more to rest next to you and pulling you close.

“You didn’t have to—” You began, but he cut you off.

“Yes I did. And I wanted to. So there,” he said sleepily, sticking out his tongue at you. "I knew you were close."

“Woo,” you mumbled after a few moments of silence, both of you still working to calm your breathing.

“Hmm.”

“I… That… It was... Wow."

“Yeah,” he agreed, giggling at your inability to compose your thought through your post-orgasm haze.

A few minutes later, you were feeling much more confident about the use of your legs, and sat up carefully, dragging Wooyoung with you.

“No,” he whined. “Sleep time.”

“No,” you said. “Shower. And you have to go pee.”

“Don’t make fun of me for that again, that was freshman year,” he grumbled. "I learned my lesson."

“I’ll make fun of you later about something else then,” you promised. “How’s that?”

“Perfect,” he said, still clearly a little dopey. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

It took some real effort in the end, but you finally coaxed Wooyoung into a hot shower. The experience was somehow more intimate than the one you’d just shared in bed, as the two of you washed each other’s hair and scrubbed each other’s backs. Neither of you could stop smiling, and every time you made eye contact, you both burst into giggles.

“God, we’re gonna be insufferable,” Woo laughed as you both settled in on the couch for a movie and a nap. “Who should we tell first?”

“Let’s just… exist first,” you told him, moving to lay with your head on his chest. He kissed your forehead in return, pulling the blankets up further around you.

“Mmm. I like this existence. We should keep it up for a while.”

“Long while,” you agreed.

“Maybe forever, if you wanted,” Woo whispered.

You heard him, though you were too far gone to respond, the long night and exhilarating morning catching up to you all at once, You drifted to sleep, safe in Wooyoung’s arms, dreams of your future playing in your head.

He was right.

Finally.

#ateez fanfic #kpop fanfic #themoonlightfae #kpop x y/n #ateez x reader #kpop x reader #ateez smut #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung x you #wooyoung x y/n

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almadeenatraders · 1 month ago

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frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe · 4 months ago

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robin's egg blue

@steddiebingo fill - toys

pairing: steddie | rated: G | wc: 935 | on AO3: robin's egg blue

i wanted to make this prompt nsfw, but then an actual pipe burst at my local museum back in january and this little thing was born :o)

“Apologies everyone, this section of the alphabet tour is closed today while we repair the burst pipe,” someone is saying as Eddie approaches, “We encourage you to view our other exhibits, or take a ride on our newly refurbished carousel!”

The crowd starts to disperse, leaving a bespectacled, be-sweatervested hottie of an employee standing on what looks like a literal soap box saying his “Thank you!”s and “We appreciate it!”s to the parting crowd.

The last of the patrons depart, and the man lays eyes on Eddie and his toolbox, “Oh good, you’re here. Eddie, right?” Eddie nods, and the man hops off his little stage and plucks it up under one arm, “This way please.”

“Not much damaged Mr…?” Eddie hedges, following the man further into the museum.

“Steve, just Steve. Assistant Museum Curator.” He holds his hand out behind him, walking sideways to shake Eddie’s, “And no, thankfully our Doll exhibit was spared.”

Eddie winces to himself. “That’s… good.”

Steve holds an employee-only door open for him, “Yes, I know: “the most nightmare-inducing section of the museum” as one reviewer put it,” he follows Eddie into the concrete passage, setting his soap box just inside the door, “But some of these dolls are hundreds of years old! They’re more than just toys.”

Eddie merely smiles at Hot Steve’s enthusiasm, nodding along as he continues. “We even have early 1900s paper dolls! Can you believe that?? Paper! From more than a century ago!”

Okay, that was kind of crazy to think about; he opens his mouth to say something, but Steve continues on, “Sorry, sorry, tour guide brain..I’m sure you already know about this stuff, you’re local, right?”

“Sure am!” Eddie smiles, following Steve through the door marked ‘Utility’, “But I wouldn’t say no to a private tour with a handsome curator like yourself.”

Steve turns back to him in surprise, and Eddie wants to die on the spot, flirting with the head honcho like that while on a job.

To Eddie’s amazement, Steve seems flattered; his cheeks tinge pink under the rim of his glasses and Eddie wants to Whoop in triumph.. until:

“S–So this is you; I think I shut everything down correctly, but wanted you to check first before you and your Uncle got to work?”

Damn.

“Yeah, uhm,” Eddie tears his eyes away to inspect the valves and pipework. Steve had actually managed to spin the right valve in what was sure to have been chaos, “You shut off everything in the Northwest section of level 1, Good job, Steve.”

He looks back at Steve and is delighted to see him even pinker. “Thank you, I–” He clears his throat and gestures back toward the door, “Shall we?”

Wayne arrives right on schedule and the two get their scaffolding brought in and get down to work.

The winter's freezing temperatures caused the pipe to burst originally, but ten more feet of pipe had to be replaced in the end, due to the fissures running back from the actual hole that got punched through.

So, over the next few days, he, Wayne, and their newest employee Lucas got the pipe isolated from the rest of the system (giving the staff their bathroom and breakroom water back), pulled down drywall, pulled out the old pipe (and boy does he mean old, this sections going to need a full overhaul soon), and got the new length of pipe welded into place.

The room they were working in was small, hell of a fit for the length of pipe they needed to bring in, but they got it done. Wayne took care of sealing up the seams of the elbow they had to put in, Lucas took care of patching up the drywall, and Eddie finished up with a couple coats of color-matched robin’s egg blue.

“Wow,”

Eddie looked down from his spot on the scaffolding to where Steve was standing in the doorway. Finally, something other than creepy Victorian dolls to look at. “Hey Mr. Museum Man, how’s it look?”

Steve wanders into the small room, heading to the far end and looking up at the now-invisible seam of new and old paint as Eddie clambers down from his perch.

“It’s like it was never there! You guys are incredible.” he says, tuning to wander back toward Eddie.

“Aw shucks,” Eddie jokes, waving him off.

“There’s gotta be something more I can do for you.”

Eddie’s face begins to heat up despite himself. “No, no, we’ve already been squared up by the museum, there’s nothing more you need to–”

Steve smirks, “How about a date?”

Eddie’s stomach flips, but he makes himself play it cool. “I dunno Stevie, Lucas has a girl already, and I don’t think you’re Wayne’s type…”

“What about your type then?” Steve asks, still smirking, still stepping closer.

Jesus H. Christ why is it so hot in here?? He wipes the back of his hand over his brow.

“Uhm, well.. I think you is–ARE. You are. My type, that is.” so much for playing it cool.

Steve stops when he’s toe to toe with him. Shiny brown leather Hush Puppies to cracked, paint-speckled Bates’.

With one hand, Steve reaches up and swipes a thumb under Eddie’s bangs, reaching down to wipe it off on the chest of Eddie’s similarly paint-speckled coveralls.

Eddie looks down at it, then at the back of his hand. Damn robin’s egg blue.

“Well good,” he says, pulling Eddie’s attention back up. Hazel eyes smoulder into his. “Because I happen to be into guys who are good with their hands.”

divider from @steddiecameraroll-graphics!

#steddie #steddiebingo2025 #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington x eddie munson #museum au #toys #noelle writes

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snowyduck · 4 months ago

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Inspo from an artwork comic I found in X, @akaiyashinoki

The underground construction site was a labyrinth of steel beams, half-finished tunnels, and flickering work lights casting eerie shadows. The air was thick with dust and the lingering chill of liquid nitrogen, clinging to every surface like frostbite creeping into metal.

Through it all, Doey rampaged, his monstrous new form thundering against the ground. His three-mouthed head snarled, the voices of Kevin, Matthew, and Jack overlapping in a discordant, rage-fueled symphony.

"You let them die!" Kevin's voice accused.

"I could’ve stopped this..." Matthew’s voice wavered with guilt.

"It’s my fault! It’s my fault!" Jack's voice, trembling with raw, pure sorrow.

The Player, standing on an unsteady platform, merely watched. Their expression was unreadable, their posture loose, relaxed, as if this were nothing more than a simple game.

"What's wrong, Doey?", the Player spoke.

Doey’s monstrous body stiffened, his three mouths twitching, voices overlapping with uncertainty. The Player still wasn’t afraid.

The Player took a single step back, hands loosely at their sides. Their posture was relaxed—completely at ease, as if this weren’t a life-or-death chase, but something far more simple.

A game.

"I'll play tag with you," the Player said, voice even, calm. "Until you're too tired to move."

Doey’s breath hitched.

"Then I'll come hug you."

For a moment, the underground facility was silent. The only sound was the faint dripping of liquid nitrogen melting from the steel beams.

Then—

Doey lunged.

The Player dodged. A hand from their grabpack sent them effortlessly dodging to the side, barely missing a swipe of clay-like claws. Their body moved like this was routine—like they knew the rules of this game better than Doey himself.

They leaped to another platform, swaying as the scaffolding creaked. Doey scrambled after them, his massive frame crushing machinery under his weight.

"Stop acting like this is a game!" Kevin’s voice roared from one of the three mouths.

But the Player just tilted their head, offering the closest thing they had to a smirk. They tapped their temple as if to say, Think about it.

Doey didn't. He couldn't. He was too far gone.

Another attack. Another dodge. Liquid nitrogen burst from a broken pipe, freezing sections of Doey’s monstrous form. But still, the Player didn’t strike back.

And then—

Doey staggered. His breath was coming out in ragged, white puffs. His once-fluid movements grew sluggish, exhaustion settling deep into his form. His monstrous frame trembled, weakened from the cold and the overwhelming guilt still eating him alive.

The Player stopped running.

They stood still, watching, waiting.

Doey panted, his three mouths clicking shut as the rage inside him dulled into something else—something smaller. He shrank, his monstrous form dissolving into clay until only his usual shape remained.

Silence.

The Player stood there, body swaying slightly—before their legs buckled entirely.

Doey barely had time to react as they collapsed.

And then, as exhaustion finally took hold, he whispered, almost pleadingly—

"...You said you'd hug me."

The dust settled. The underground site was eerily quiet, save for the distant hiss of leaking pipes and the gentle dripping of thawing ice. Doey stood frozen, staring down at the Player, their unconscious form completely still.

The hug never came.

Doey clenched his fists, staring at his hands, then back at the Player. His clay trembled, uncertainty creeping in where fury once burned.

He had wanted someone to blame.

But now, as he kneeled beside the only person left, he realized… he didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

#doey x reader #doey the doughman #poppy playtime x reader

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gayspacepiratesss · 1 month ago

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Hiiii friends I made a thing!!! 💕 An illustrated mini-fic, to be precise.

The art part isn't quite finished but I think the last three illustrations might take me longer and I wanted to share what I have so far. There are six color plates now and eventually I hope I'll have nine. I'll do a separate art post when they're all finished for folks who aren't as interested in the story!

I wrote this because I was thinking about trauma, and Neve's love for Docktown, and how two people who take too much responsibility for things might try and fail to help each other. About how breaking out of regret prisons isn't something most of us get to do just once, but over and over again: new chapters in the same old story. Plot twists that get a little better each time, if we're lucky.

I think Neve and Rook are lucky, but you be the judge of that. 💕

***

Red-eye

In which Neve gives new meaning to the phrase "Cry it out" and Rook fights gravity with exactly the amount of success you might expect.

Content note: Some mild hurt/comfort, references to blood, angst, and many feelingsy illustrations.

-~-

The veins are starting to fade, but her eyes are still red. Staring herself down in the mirror, Neve Gallus can't honestly tell if it's the Blight or sheer exhaustion that makes it impossible to recognize her own face.

The days since Elgar'nan's fall have been hard for a happy ending: the work of digging friends from the rubble, patching injuries and broken bridges, burying or burning the dead.

Neve's gaze flickers past her reflection towards the slight, sleeping figure on the sofa behind her.

Rook has been there for all of it. Minrathous, Treviso, Arlathan. First to volunteer, last to leave at night. She's never been afraid of heavy lifting.

You showed up. You always do.

...but where am I?

In Dock Town, the ocean always made her feel like she could breathe. Here, the blue light of the aquarium is drowning her again. Cold shadows run restless across her face, almost dancing with the black traces etched into her skin.

She slips out the door alone. Again.

-~-

"Again?"

Rook sags against the wooden railing opposite Hal's fish stall, her shoulders tight even as her face falls.

The older man squints sympathetically. His hands scale the day's catch with expert automatic movements, but his eyes stay with her. "Earlier this morning," he confirms. "Same time, same story."

Every day for the past month. Early, late, in between. As soon as there was a moment they might talk, Neve disappeared. If Eann "Rook" Aldwir had ever been the praying kind, now—not the fall of Minrathous or the rise of the Evanuris—would have been the moment she was on her knees.

I would burn worlds for you, but I couldn't pull you back when it mattered.

What have I saved if I didn't save Neve Gallus?

She runs a hand through her hair, putting on a rosy face to match, and forces a grin she doesn't quite feel. "Ah, well. It's been hard for everyone, but..."

"... mmhm." Hal nods. "Time is what the city needs, maybe. Time, and they'll remember..." his voice fades. Suddenly he is very busy with the mackerel.

... that she loves them. That she always loved them. That she never—she didn't—

"It was Elgar'nan and Ghilan'ain—" Rook can't quite hide her frustration.

"I know." Hal chops a fishhead slightly too aggressively. "They'll know."

But does she know?

From the street, a shout as ropes go up to raise new scaffolding—there's work to do on some of the dockside apartments, newly in danger of tumbling into the sea.

Eann buys a fresh skewer and sinks her teeth in. "If oo fee er--" she ventures, mouth full, eyes already on the next task.

"I'll send her your way," Hal finishes.

But he won't. They both know.

-~-

They both know. Everyone knows. Neve Gallus, protector of Docktown—until she destroyed it.

She takes a long drag from her pipe, staring across the city from her perch above the Lamplighter—one of the only buildings to go unscathed by the massive tentacles of Blight that she, personally, had directed. The elegant cruelty of Elgar'nan's choice wasn't lost on her—if anybody knew how to target Minrathous' weak points. If anybody knew the city's secrets. Set her against the place she loved best and watch it fall.

In the moment, it had been a pleasure.

How do you come back from that?

When Treviso had been ravaged by the Blight, her heart broke for Lucanis—but her relief for her own people had blunted the pain. She remembers the moment Rook showed up on the field, one step behind Neve and Tarquin, one step ahead of the dragon. She remembers her own disbelief: "You came."

Eann had never looked smaller than she did against that burning-black sky, her skin—so pale it was almost blue in a certain light—flushed and uneven, jaw set against her fear. And Neve had never loved her more—a thought she had shoved down immediately, fiercely, completely, as she skewered a nearby Venatori with ice.

They won that day. Parts of it, anyway.

And when Minrathous did fall, it was Neve's fault. Not Rook's.

-~-

"Not Rook's!" Elek Tavor has brought his Threads. He shoos Eann away from the complex dance of ladders and platforms they're erecting to shore up the dockfront. "That's your job, nughead! I need her here!"

Gang members and locals set shoulders together against the weight of newly-cut stone and crumbling Blight, clearing the one from the ruined apartments and storefronts to make room for the other. They look like a training montage or an inspirational poster—if training smelled like clotted blood, and inspiration felt like vertigo.

He winks at her from over a pulley, tossing her a safety harness and a length of rope. "You're too good for us gutter rats."

She straps in, eyeing the higher floors. The corruption still needs clearing before they can fully assess the damage. It's not especially stable, but she'd rather risk her skin than someone else's. "Better a rat with wings, huh?"

"Better you than me."

She doesn't argue. Instead, she climbs -- reaching hand over hand for a better view. The city shrinks and shifts as she pulls herself above it. The Cobbled Swan blends into the paper seller stalls and merchant alleys, already in business again with whatever scraps they each could scavenge. The sea's slate mood gives way to a smudge of sky and stone, reflecting up the cliffs across the channel.

I know you're there.

Tucked somewhere among those caves and crawlspaces is a detective with a shattered heart, blowing smoke rings and tearing herself to shreds. Rook has watched her disappear, slowly but surely, with every day of "recovery." To rebuild something is to see what was broken, to go over the damage in fine detail. To catalogue every blow. But for Neve, it is cataloging her own sins, her own failures, in a neat series of boxes to be checked and confirmed with evidence. For Rook, it has been watching that soft face flinch and flatten with each victory, each moment of hope, as though it were a nail in her heart's coffin.

But Neve still comes to the city for solace. She can't help herself. And so Eann haunts Minrathous, signing up for tasks that don't really need her, checking in on the people she knows Neve loves. Looking for answers in The Case of the Blighted Dream. The Broken Detective. Docktown's Ghost.

She has tried to be patient. So. Patient. But sometimes the most ungenerous part of her thinks, I broke out of my prison. To find you. To have this.

Now I'm losing you to yours.

Distracted by the weight of her thoughts, Rook barely notices when the stone she reaches for crumbles in her hand—until it pulls the harness anchor with it, the whole wall of the second story giving way. There is a sharp jerk, and she is falling—

Falling?

Falling.

But even as her heart freezes in her throat, it is still pulling her across the water. Even as she braces for the impact, her eyes are still half-scanning the cliffside for a tell-tale flash of teal, a smudge of smoke.

-~-

Smoke.

Neve squints suddenly, her pipe drooping between slack fingers. Smoke? By the docks?

No. Dust.

Something is falling.

But the channel is not wide, and she realizes with growing horror that she can hear the sound not just of stone, blight, beams crumbling, but also voices. Shrieking, wavering. "Look out!" "Back up!" "Clear it OUT—"

And then: "Rook!"

Someone is falling.

Rook.

A blinding, burning fear bites into her chest. The pipe clatters to the ground. If she was drowning before, she is choking now, clawing her way to the surface of a dream she has been walking in for weeks. Trading pains of the past for a present that sears her lungs and surges down her spine.

Mages cannot fly, but all that is left of Neve in that alcove as she bolts through passageways and across rooftops is a pipe's worth of tobacco and the shadow of a thought, echoing like a stone dropped in a dry well.

Wait for me. Wait.

-~-

“Wait.” Eann coughs wetly, throat clogging with dust and something unpleasantly, unexpectedly—oh. Blood. Well. She drags herself up on one elbow, waving Elek and the others back slightly, hissing as the movement sends a shock of pain through her body. “Wait, dammit! I’m not—”

“You’re not what?”

Time turns to sludge as familiar brown eyes meet hers, topped by brows knitted together in fury and fear. “Not hurt? Not climbing walls alone?”

Neve kneels beside the shaking elf, hands already moving, telling Eann’s blood to stay inside her body, her bones to know themselves under the weight of stone for seconds rather than minutes. It’s no small feat, and she is immediately sweating. They both are. “Not the Maker's own damned idiot?”

In spite of herself, Rook laughs. Weakly, painfully. “No,” she wheezes. “I am that.”

Neve’s eyes flash and then flood, tears of rage meeting her perspiration as she gingerly eases one hand under Eann’s head, using the other to clear what stone she can. “What were you thinking?”

It hurts to think. It hurts to breathe. But to Rook’s surprise, it hurts more to look up into eyes that are actually seeing her for the first time since the fight for Minrathous. A face that is furious but not masked. She coughs again, her own eyes burning, unsure if her chest is seizing from the weight of stone or just the love of Neve Gallus. “I—”

You look for lost things. Well, I look for you.

“They need you,” she finds herself choking furiously. “I was thinking they need you, and you’re not here, and I—am—so until you come back from your fucking pity party—ow—”

Neve is already on her knees. She can’t fall further. But the red spilling across the stones is more than time can stop, and she knows she needs to do something—quickly.

Eyes on me, Rook. Stay with me.

“Me?” Her rage is half for show, until it isn’t. And her heart is beating half a step too fast, and half too slow. “You think they need me? Look at me! Look at this.”

If it wasn’t for Neve, the stone would be as sturdy as it ever was in Minrathous. Hal’s fish would come out of the water in nets, not dredged from the surface with glassy eyes. She ripped through the Cobbled Swan, she crushed the lean-tos and shacks of the alleyways to little more than crumbs. She is the reason her tiny, tidy apartment stands in ruins and the cats go hungry. Docktown would be better off if it had never known Neve Gallus to begin with.

Rook screams. It is partly words. “I need you!”

And Neve is ripping her best coat into ribbons because she can’t slow time and send people for bandages, for medics—and there is.

No.

Time.

But she feels her face go numb, and her hands are shaking, and her burning red eyes fly up to meet that fierce, clear gaze. She wants to answer, but she has no answer.

Stay with me.

“What was the point—of all that—if—” Rook’s face is flushed, but Neve thinks flushed is better than pale, better than empty, better than gone. She uses the tiniest push of frost magic to calm the angry red of bones and flesh forced out of place. To stop the swelling before it starts. Almost mechanically, she wraps strips of her dragon coat around Rook’s arm and chest, shattering rocks with one hand as her other shields that stupidly precious rose-crowned skull from further damage.

“—if it didn't bring you back?” Eann rasps.

Neve is shaking so hard now that she can’t bind the fabric properly. She’s not sure it matters. “Bring me back for what?! So that I could—I would—” What can she do, anyway? She’s no healer. If Emmrich were here—or Harding—but they aren’t. And I am going to lose you, and I am going to deserve it. “So I could watch you die?”

Sharp, ragged sobs. “So you could be here—with us—” It’s not easy to cry and suffocate all at once, but Eann is making it work. “Not alone—with everything—”

The black traces of Blight on Neve’s skin mingle with sweat and stone, forming a filigree mask across her face. She feels her grip on the air, on the time around her start to slide.

Not yet. “Rook—”

Eann reaches up with her one free hand. Presses Neve’s forehead to her own, Blight and all. Her body is looser now, heavier—she, too, is struggling to keep control. Sound leaks through the barrier around them. Is someone… shouting?

Her eyes are closed. Her energy directed only towards the point where her skin touches Neve’s.

And Neve Gallus, despite her best efforts, is out of time. She winds her fingers through that rosy hair, and lets a deep, heavy sound tear through her throat. Not knowing, not caring what it is.

“Stay. With me,” she whispers. Please.

I’m here.

Around them, into sound and color and light, the city explodes.

-~-

The city explodes. Scraps of sound and light fracture through Rook’s mind, almost artful—a pastiche of pain and motion with occasional splatters of blessed black unconsciousness. Emmrich is there, then Maevaris. The Lighthouse might feature at some point. Definitely there is blood. So much blood. Then black again. And then—

Ow.

Teal-tipped fingers are laced around her hand. The bedspread beneath them is clean. The hands are not.

“There you are.” Neve has not slept in a long time. Her voice catches. “Oh. I—”

I almost missed you. Missed this.

Where was I?

Rook reaches to cup her fingers around the detective’s cheek. Instinctively, Neve presses closer, lifting her shoulder to cradle the gesture.

“You showed up.” Eann finds that smiling hurts more than she expected. She doesn’t care. “You always do.”

Neve lets out a half-laugh, half-sob. “I could have made better time.”

The light plays across her face, still silt-stained and shadowed. Eann rubs some of the dirt away with her thumb, wincing at the not-yet-mended motion of various body parts, ignoring them in favor of something far more pressing. Then she stops. “Your eyes. Neve…”

A flash of something like fear. “Oh, they must be awful—”

“No.” Eann pulls the detective closer. She kisses the eyelids, the cheekbones, the saltworn freckles. The dusted brows. Beneath the dirt, there is only the warm brown of these features she knows so well. Beneath the exhaustion, there are only shades of caramel and acorn and leather in those bright, faltering eyes.

Holding the other woman's rueful, aching, anxious face between her palms, she inspects it with great seriousness. Her own blue gaze holds steady beneath a vaguely crinkled brow.

“Neve, the Blight—it’s… gone.”

And this time Neve doesn’t need a mirror to look for her own face. To recognize herself. Something more like a laugh than like a sob curls through her throat and hangs in the air between them, weightless. “Is that so? Maybe you knocked it out of me.”

“Knocked it out of you!” Rook’s wheeze is its own commentary. “Remind me not to pick a fight with a pile of rocks anytime soon.”

“Maybe just pick fights with me, for a while.”

“Mm.” Rook still hasn’t let Neve go. Their noses bump together. “I don’t only want to fight with you…”

“Later.” Neve pushes back, smirking gently. A promise, not a refusal. “You did very nearly lose that last one. But I’ll be here.”

“What happened—” Eann is serious now, her hair falling earnestly into her eyes. “Neve. It happened to everyone. And I know—it was awful. But we can’t—I can’t—”

Not without you.

Neve pushes the hair out of Rook’s face. “I’ll be here.”

This time, when she shuts the door, it isn’t on her way out.

#datv #dragon age the veilguard #neve gallus #my art #dragon age #datv rook #dragon age fanart #neve x rook #neverook #datv fanfic #bonus points if you caught the Lana Beniko quote #wip

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divinegrey · 7 months ago

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ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴡɴ ʙʟᴜᴇ / ᴊɪɴx x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

sorry for the wait everybody!! been writing other things in the meantime, arcane hasn't been my sole focus. also i have homework and exams. but here's something to appease all of you!! anon, i hope i did this prompt justice!

prompt: I'd like to request a Jinx x Fem! Reader. I like the idea of the reader being a follower of Jinx, as I think the dynamic could be fun. I think it could be cool to explore a follower of Jinx getting to know her and realizing that she's more than just a symbol. She's a multifaceted individual.

words: 1585

warnings: none

It started when she caught you tagging the side of a building. With her face, no less.

With all the shit going down in Zaun in the wake of Silco’s death and every gang leftover fighting for scraps of power, it was only time before Jinx caught up to the fact that while yes, her face is plastered everywhere on wanted posters, there are about a dozen more spray-painted graffiti tags of her over them. Which was the goal of what you were doing when she dropped down from a building and walked to your side.

All she did was look at the statuesque version of her face, washed in shades of blue, and say, “My nose doesn’t look like that.”

And she was right.

Of course, with time, you got better at it. The wanted posters did a mean disservice, honestly. The only thing they got correct were the pink eyes, pink eyes that followed you when you went to your shitty box of an apartment and flopped onto a mattress flattened by years of use. You’d go to sleep, wake up, grab your paint duffel, and head back out again. The nice thing about Zaun is that there’s always an empty spot just waiting to be tagged.

Somehow, Jinx always finds you.

“You know people see you as a leader, right?” You say, shaking a can of neon pink, the ball rattling around inside the canister. You glance over your shoulder to where Jinx sits on some pipes connected to the wall, her braids dangling and the gold bullet casings wrapped around reflecting the faint light that falls through the fissures. With a gesture to your own head of hair, dyed an insane hodge-podge of bright colors, blue included, you continue, “Silco’s gone. Whole world down here has turned upside down. But for the first time in a while, we’ve got hope. Cuz of you. Cuz of what you did to those fuckin’ Pilties.”

“For all the good it did,” Jinx remarks, a dryness to her tone you’ve come to know and love.

“I’m serious. C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t know the reason why I keep painting you? Why a dozen other taggers I know keep painting you? Why the color blue is nearly sold out in every damn shop?” You kneel down, arcing a curve of pink paint along the grey brick wall, moving quick and precise. Overthinking it makes it worse. “I’m not wearing spray-painted clothes in your colors for nothin, Jinx.”

She turns, peering at you. In the shadows, her eyes seem to reflect some more, glowing like a cat’s would. “Because y’all have some weird, deluded sense that I’m a leader, or somethin’.”

“You are. To me. To us.” You point at the other tags in the alleyway, some of them copies of the same mark you’ve seen a dozen times around town. Jinx’s name, sigils of BOOM! and explosives doodled about. You twist and take a seat on the scaffolding, your legs dangling off the side of it. “I didn’t know you when I first started drawing you. I heard what you did, and I thought damn, there’s someone out there willing to actually do something. In a single day, you did more than Silco ever did in years. Sure, we might be going head long into a war, but dying free is better than living under someone else’s boot.”

Jinx hums. She leaps off the pipes, crossing the gap between you and her with ease, landing on the wooden scaffolding. She straightens up, gazing at the half-finished tag you’re working on. With a hum, she turns to you, and puts something in your hand. Before you have the time to look down and figure out what it is, Jinx says, “Nozzle control. Quality on some of your cans are shit, no offense. Slap that thing on it and you won’t have an issue after that.”

“Oh, thanks—”

“Don’t mention it!” Jinx steps off the scaffolding, landing on the ground below with a THUD. “And for the record, I ain’t the kinda person to follow.”

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that to convince me!” You call down, grinning from ear to ear. Her brows furrow together, then a small huff, a hint of a smile on her own face. She walks away, off to do… whatever it is that she does when she’s not hanging out with you.

It isn’t for some time that you see her again. You’d say you’re worried, but you pass through the crowds hearing whispers of Jinx sightings. Every day, it seems another head of blue hair appears, the quiet signs of revolution brewing in the heart of Zaun as the enforcers grow more and more strict, searching anyone and everyone for some hint or clue to find the one that destroyed the Council Chamber in Piltover. You’ll never say a word.

You walk into your apartment. Work was… work, boring and mind-numbing as it always is. You wonder if you can handle another day of it, but another day will bring another chance of seeing her out there, so you decide not to fly off the handle just yet. You shrug off the soot-stained work clothes, and where you reach for your paint-splattered jacket, it isn’t there.

Instead, a note.

Never had anyone believe in me quite like you. The Hound’s statue, midnight. Come and get it.

With the pink lettering and the doodles of monkeys and bombs scribbled across the page, it doesn’t need to be said just who left this note. You snatch it off the wall, utterly beaming; Gently, you fold it into fourths, tucking it into your shirt. Thank god for the late shift— less waiting!

Any of the weariness you might’ve felt before is gone as you race through the streets, taking any and every shortcut you know. The night is quiet, what with the enforced curfew put up by the Pilties to discourage wandering, not that they’ve done a good job of it. Zaun is Zaun, and the cogs down here will always keep turning, whether Piltover likes it or not.

When you arrive at the open plaza where the statue erected to Vander, the Hound of the Underground, is, your mouth drops in shock to find the entire plaza covered, every square inch of it, in neon paint. Sigils upon sigils that you have seen time and time again, glowing in the dark. It reaches all the way to the statue, pink highlights in Vander’s hair and blue accents along his metal jacket.

Sitting on the shoulder of the statue, paint can in one hand and your jacket in the other, is Jinx.

“Shoulda known you’d be a little early. Good thing, I work fast,” Jinx remarks. She crooks a finger at you to come closer, and you do, taking care to step over the paint lines on the stone. You’re a little in awe of the work she’s done— how has nobody taken notice? Come to think of it, you heard there was a scuffle a few blocks away. The logistics don’t seem to matter anymore the closer you get to her.

You arrive at the base of the statue. “How’d you even know where I live?”

“Sweets, there are a lot of things I know about you. And a lotta things you know about me. Things that might drive other people away, but not you,” Jinx says, something like an angel as she looks down upon you from the statue. In the flash of a second and the trace of neon light left in the sky, she’s standing in front of you, your back pressed against the statue. The beam of moonlight that breaks through shines on her, her shimmer-pink eyes locked onto your frame. “You keep sticking to the inside my brain, can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Could say the same for you,” you reply, a little breathless. “Why’d you do all this? Get my jacket and bring me here?”

“Cuz you showed me somethin’ important. That people, for whatever crazy reason they got in their head, believe in me,” Jinx says. She holds out your jacket to you, and you take it, slipping your arms through the sleeves and fixing the collar so it stands upright. Her eyes go from bottom to top, taking her sweet time. “I wanna show em what I can do. Give those people with my blue in their hair a reason to keep going. To keep fighting.”

“You have me. All the way, Jinx,” you say, putting a hand over the front of your jacket, where a pink heart has been painted. “So what do you wanna do? Other than all this?”

“Right now?” Jinx cocks a grin. “I wanna kiss you.”

What? You blink, wondering if you heard that right, but her taking a step closer to you only confirms that yes, you did hear it right. You swallow the nerves, finding your cheeks hurting from how hard you’re smiling. “And then what?”

“And then, we show Zaun all the fun we have to offer, and we tell Piltover to shove their Hextech where the sun don’t shine,” Jinx finishes, her hands grabbing the lapels of your jacket and pulling you in. Your lips touch hers, something you never thought would happen, not in your wildest dreams.

But here you are, arms wrapped around Jinx as she kisses you in the streets of Zaun, the cry of revolution soon to come.

~~~~~

A/N: thank you for reading!! comments are always appreciated <3

#jinx x reader #arcane jinx x reader #arcane jinx #jinx #arcane netflix #arcane #arcane imagines #arcane jinx imagines #jinx imagines

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bananasplit133 · 5 days ago

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Dial T for Tenna (PART 5)

'Ant' Tenna/Reader

PART 1 --PART 6 -- AO3

Summary: After a calmer broadcast, Tenna is pulled into a surprise meeting with the higher-ups. Tension rises, but the reader helps him stay grounded. Despite everything, they choose to stay by his side through the rest of the day.

----

The next day carried the weight of something unspoken—like the echo after a broadcast that had ended too abruptly. The studio didn't feel loud, exactly, but it wasn’t quiet either. There was a tension in the air that no amount of lighting gels or laugh tracks could dispel. The incident from yesterday—the contestant, the knife, the panic—had slipped into every crack between cables and clipboards. No one said anything outright, of course. They were professionals. But there was a new tightness in the way stagehands moved, how producers huddled behind headsets a little longer than necessary. Every time someone glanced toward the main hallway or the editing bay, it was like they were bracing for a surge of static that never came.

And then, Tenna arrived.

He didn’t enter with a bang. No signature catchphrase. No arms thrown wide, demanding attention like a spotlight come to life. Just the soft tap of his shoes on tile, the hum of his frame as he walked through the lobby like someone who had simply never left. His screen was calm—still glowing white, not flickering or glitching, no sharp color shifts or sound distortions. Just… steady. Even his antennae, usually twitching with some unreadable broadcast tension, were unusually still, rising in slow, measured angles instead of jittering through thoughts he couldn’t say out loud. And his mouth—tight-lipped, flat—didn’t try to form a smirk or a grimace. No theatrics. No false charm. Just a thin line of quiet resolve.

You watched him from the break room doorway as he passed by, barely registering the crew around him. He moved like a weathered professional might walk through a set after a bomb scare—no panic, no collapse, just checking the walls to see what was still standing. When he saw you, he didn’t stop, but his head turned slightly in your direction. A twitch of his antennae. A subtle parting of his lips. Not quite a smile—more like an acknowledgment. The broadcast version of, “You okay?” without ever asking it out loud.

He didn’t ask how you were. And you didn’t ask him either.

That was the strange thing about yesterday’s chaos—it hadn’t broken something between you. If anything, it clarified it. You weren’t just background anymore. Not just the network’s last-ditch “liaison” plastered into place to keep him from melting down on air. He’d looked at you yesterday like you weren’t part of the noise. Like you were the one piece of signal he could tune into when everything else was screaming.

Tenna moved through the building like a presence now, not just a performance. People didn’t flinch when he walked by—not because the fear was gone, but because he wasn’t wearing the same razor-edged energy anymore. He wasn’t performing for them. Not today. He walked into the control room before anyone else could, leaned over the shoulder of a technician still finalizing transitions for the day’s recording, and quietly pointed at a glitch in the lower-third overlay. His antennae dipped as he murmured something under his breath—some note about timing, or color, or spacing. The tech nodded, fixed it, and Tenna stepped back without fanfare.

No booming critique. No tantrum. No static pulse of fury.

Just... work.

Later, in the side hall near the loading bay, you found him again. He was leaned up against a metal case full of cables, coat slightly wrinkled, one antenna bent where it had snagged on a scaffolding pipe earlier. You caught him mid-thought, staring off into some corner of the ceiling like there was an old episode of himself rerunning up there that only he could see. You approached slowly—no clipboard this time, no notes, no rehearsed lines. Just you. Just him.

“You alright?” you asked softly, the air between you still thick with yesterday’s memory.

His mouth pulled into a lopsided shape—something close to a grimace, but lacking any real bite. “You think if I say yes, the sponsors’ll start sending fruit baskets again?”

You gave a dry laugh, stepping beside him. “Depends. You want apples or apologies?”

Tenna snorted, a sharp burst of static through his chest that fizzled just as quickly. “I’ll pass on both. Apples rot, and apologies come with paperwork.” He tilted his head slightly, antennae flicking to one side like a shrug he hadn’t fully committed to. “Not like any of them meant for her to go off like that. They just wanted a wildcard. Something unstable. Something marketable.”

You didn’t correct him. He wasn’t wrong.

“She didn’t belong on that stage,” you said. “You knew it before anyone.”

“I didn’t know,” he muttered, voice low and mechanical, “I felt it. The timing was off. The pacing. The rhythm of the segment just... cracked.” His mouth pressed into a deeper frown. “Used to be, I could fix anything. Tanked jokes, busted lights, even dead crowds. All it took was volume. Flash. I’d pump the feed so full of noise they wouldn’t even remember the glitch. But yesterday...”

He didn’t finish.

You didn’t push.

The silence that followed was long and stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. It just sat with you both, like something earned. Tenna’s antennae drooped slightly—not with exhaustion, exactly, but like someone powering down just enough to feel the air around them. You watched his screen quietly, waiting for the static that usually crawled at the edges to return. It didn’t.

Eventually, he turned his head toward you, mouth parting like he had to chew on the thought before letting it out. “You remember what she said? That she didn’t sign up for this?” His shoulders flexed slightly. “Neither did I.”

You looked at him then—really looked. Not as a star, not as the network’s unbreakable showman, not as the suit who screamed catchphrases into the void because it was safer than silence. Just Tenna. Broadcast burnout in a humanoid frame. Not crying for help. Not begging for pity. Just… there.

“I know,” you said softly. “But you stayed anyway.”

He stared forward, then nodded once—mouth twitching downward in what might’ve been the beginning of a real, weary smile. His antennae perked slightly, not all the way up, just enough to register the motion. A signal that said I heard you.

The crew started buzzing again down the hall. Lights warming up. Producers barking over comms. Another episode to prep. Another thirty minutes of structured chaos and camera-ready reactions to build. The world was waking up again. But for now—for this one moment—it was just the two of you tucked between shadows and silence.

“You coming to stage?” he asked finally.

“I’ll be there.”

“...Don’t let them throw another knife girl at me.” he muttered, antennae dipping in the closest thing to a comedic wince.

You gave him a crooked grin. “No promises.”

And with that, he straightened his coat, cracked his knuckles, and rolled his shoulders like he was rebooting a long-lost file from deep in his system. His mouth curled—not quite into a grin, but something that suggested he still knew how to wear one if the moment called for it.

“Alright then,” he murmured, voice steady but still tinged with something tender. “Let’s give them a show.”

Then he turned and walked back toward the stage, his antennae bouncing slightly with each step—lighter now. Less like a man trying to outrun collapse, and more like someone beginning to trust the silence wouldn’t swallow him whole.

—

The show went off without a hitch.

No fog machines breaking down mid-round. No stagehands tripping over wires. No rogue contestants with twitching hands and knives tucked into jacket linings. Tenna was sharp, electric in all the right ways, never overloading. His timing was crisp, his jokes hit their beats, and the audience—blessedly—stayed on their side of the stage. The buzz in the control room leaned toward cautious optimism, like everyone had been holding their breath for forty-five minutes and now weren’t quite sure how to let it out.

You watched him carefully from the wings the entire time. He didn’t know you were tracking his every move—not directly—but you could feel it in how your eyes wouldn’t leave his screen. You weren’t watching the host. You were watching the tilt of his mouth when a segment didn’t land quite right, the brief flex of his shoulders when the audience clapped too late, the flicker across his antennae whenever someone called a cue half a beat early. He didn’t falter. Not once. But the little signs were there, if you knew what to look for. And you did.

Then came the wrap. The sign-off. The "Thanks for tuning in!" delivered with just enough static to sound spontaneous, but clean enough for broadcast. The music swelled. The lights faded.

And Tenna… exhaled.

You caught the way his shoulders dipped—not in defeat, but in release. His mouth slackened slightly, no longer pinched with performance. The glint of white on his screen dimmed to a gentler glow. Not tired, not smug. Just done. It was the kind of ending that usually bought you at least fifteen minutes of peace before someone barged in yelling about numbers.

But then came the voice.

"Mr. Tenna, please report to Conference Room 1-A. Immediately."

It blared in from the overhead speaker with all the warmth of a dial tone. Your stomach twisted. The tone of that announcement was never good. Not neutral. Not casual. Immediate was code for bad. And calling him in right after the show? That was blood in the water.

Tenna didn’t speak. His antennae twitched once, sharply. His mouth pressed into a tight, unreadable shape. Still, he didn’t argue. He just stepped offstage with the same quiet grace he’d worn all day, like someone walking into a spotlight they didn’t ask for.

You moved before he could say anything.

They’re calling him in alone? After that week? After what happened? That’s not just a red flag, that’s a broadcast emergency test pattern. You caught up to him halfway down the hallway, shoes clicking against tile, clipboard forgotten somewhere on a prop cart behind you. He didn’t look at you, but when you fell in beside him, his hand brushed yours in a tiny motion. Not a grip. Not an ask. Just… a reminder that you were there.

“I’m coming with you,” you said softly, more a statement than an offer.

He didn’t argue. Just gave a tiny, affirming twitch of his antennae. His mouth was set straight again, expression unreadable—but you knew better. That was his defensive mode. Screen bright, posture tight, antennae alert. Like a live wire trying not to short.

Conference Room 1-A. Of course it was that one.

That room still held the ghost of every shouted memo and every impersonal “We love you, but…” ever aimed his way. You’d been in there with him during that first meeting. The one with the paper rattling, the light flickering, the static roaring behind his words like a barely leashed storm. You knew exactly how quickly this place could dig its claws into his frame and twist.

He reached for the door handle like it might shock him.

Announcing you that a meeting is about to take place, your thoughts quipped bitterly. Hmm. You should go with him. The higher-ups calling a meeting out of nowhere might bring trouble. And you were right. The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.

The lights in the conference room were always too bright. The walls sterile white, like a blank screen trying to blind you. The suits were already seated in their tidy little rows around the glass table, tablets and styluses at the ready like they were prepping to dissect someone instead of talk. Kairos was already standing, arms crossed tightly, her nametag catching the light in that frustrating, self-righteous way. She didn’t smile. She didn’t welcome him.

She jumped straight into it.

“Tenna. Sit down.”

His mouth curled slightly—not into a smile. It was the kind of twist his lips made when something was being forced out of him. Restraint. Disgust. Tired showbiz tolerance. His antennae twitched again, more sharply this time, but he obeyed. You sat beside him, hand near his on the table but not touching.

Kairos didn’t waste a second.

“Do you want to tell us,” she said, voice dangerously calm, “how that girl—a completely unverified, unscheduled individual—ended up on your stage with a weapon?”

Tenna’s screen didn’t flash. Not yet. His mouth stayed in that tight line. But his antennae tilted back, defensive.

“I didn’t bring her on,” he said, voice flat.

“She was introduced as a contestant on your segment.”

“I wasn’t given a choice,” he snapped back, and the sharpness of it made his antennae flick forward again. “They slotted her in last minute. I didn’t even get a name until I was already live.”

The other suits muttered, tapped their screens like they were scrolling for excuses. Kairos leaned forward slightly.

“You lost control,” she said. “You were supposed to maintain the broadcast. Instead, we had an emergency feed cut halfway through a round. Sponsors are calling. PR is—”

“I handled it,” Tenna said. A bite in his voice now. “No one got hurt.”

“But it was close,” she snapped, louder now. “And if the footage leaks? We’ve got optics to consider. Damage control. Headlines. People saw your screen glitch, Tenna. You think no one noticed that panic loop in the audio?”

His hand twitched on the table. You noticed it. The same way you noticed his screen beginning to brighten, not with light, but tension. The static wasn’t visible yet, but you could feel it. Building.

Too bright. Too fast. Too many voices talking at him instead of to him.

You looked at him. His mouth was tense. Antennae stiff. The glow behind the glass of his screen was becoming just a little too sharp.

You had to step in.

“I was there,” you said, calmly, clearly. The suits turned. Kairos didn’t, but you knew she was listening. “Mr Tenna did everything he could with a chaotic situation he didn’t create. He got everyone out. He kept it from going to black. That was him. Not you. Him.”

Tenna blinked—figuratively—and you felt the tiniest release of tension at your side. His antennae lowered a notch. His hand flexed once on the table and stayed flat. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t explode either.

You could work with that.

Kairos didn’t flinch at your words. She didn’t scold you for speaking. But the flick of her pen against the table—measured, slow, deliberate—spoke louder than her voice ever could. Her expression remained professionally neutral, but her posture screamed frustration barely caged behind a clipboard and a polished blouse. Across the table, the other suits whispered behind their tablets, muttering about liability and news cycles, ignoring the actual person seated inches from them like he was just another broadcast machine that needed tuning.

And Tenna?

He was slipping.

You could feel it—see it—in every detail they ignored. His screen, still a dull white, had begun to hum. Not loud, not chaotic, but enough to rattle the air near him. The kind of quiet pre-static that came before one of his episodes. His antennae were twitching again, sharper now, not in rhythm with his usual controlled theatrics. One of them ticked down and then jerked upright again, like it couldn’t decide whether to brace for impact or send out a distress signal.

But it was his hands that gave it away.

He dropped them to his knees under the table, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants like they were the only thing keeping him tethered. The grip was tight—too tight. The kind of white-knuckle pressure you knew from watching people try to anchor themselves to reality before something inside them cracked. His mouth tightened, clenched at one corner like he was physically holding something back. Words. Static. Rage. Fear. You couldn’t tell which. Maybe all of it.

The suits kept talking.

Kairos was still reciting PR nightmares like it was a weather report.

And Tenna was unraveling in real time right next to you.

Don’t wait. Your brain barked it before you could overthink it. Don’t let him drop here. Not in this room. Not in front of them. You shifted slightly in your seat, slow enough not to draw attention. The hem of the tablecloth grazed the top of your hand as you reached beneath it—careful, cautious—and found his arm where it rested against his thigh.

His forearm was tense, cables and synthetic tendons pulled taut beneath his coat sleeve. You slid your hand over it gently—steady, warm, grounding. No sudden movement. No demand. Just there. You pressed your palm down just enough for him to feel it.

And then, soft—just for him—you whispered: “Hey… you’re here. With me. Not them.”

There was a beat.

Then another.

Tenna’s mouth twitched—not open, not closed. Just… shifted. Like he was processing the words before his mind could reboot fast enough to shut them out. His antennae flicked, then slowly lowered—not limp, but calmer. Less signal lost. More signal stabilized.

His hand didn’t release the grip on his pant leg.

But it stopped tightening.

The hum in his screen softened—not gone, but muted now, like the volume had been turned down. You didn’t let go of his arm. Not yet. Not until he leaned into your touch just slightly—barely noticeable to anyone not watching for it.

But you were.

And then Kairos spoke again, this time louder, with that tired finality of someone wrapping up an unpleasant job.

“We’ll be monitoring the next few episodes closely. If there’s even a hint of instability on-air��emotional or otherwise—there will be consequences.”

She straightened her clipboard with a snap.

“The meeting is adjourned.”

The sound of chairs scraping against the floor rang too loud in the silence that followed. Styluses tapped off, tablets clicked shut. The suits moved in their usual rehearsed rhythm—brisk, indifferent, unaffected. A few tossed tired glances Tenna’s way, but no one lingered. No one said anything to him. Not even Kairos, who simply pivoted on one heel and strode toward the door with the grace of someone who had never once questioned her authority. Just another day at the network.

But Tenna didn’t move.

He stayed seated, hands still resting on his knees. His mouth had drawn into a thin, brittle line. One antenna sagged halfway down, like the energy had drained right out of it. His screen glowed with a dull white pulse—not dangerous, not angry… just empty. Faint interference ghosted along the edge of it, like the image wouldn’t quite finish rendering. He hadn’t looked at you since you touched his arm, but he hadn’t pulled away either.

You let the quiet stretch.

Let the suits walk out first. Let the echo of their footsteps fade behind the conference room doors.

Only then did you slide your chair a little closer, hand still resting on his sleeve. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. His mouth twitched once—like he was trying to form a sentence and the wires just wouldn’t cooperate. His jaw flexed. His antennae slowly started to rise again, unsure, shaky.

“I didn’t lose it,” he muttered finally, voice rough. The sound of static barely touched the words, but you could hear the strain behind them. “I didn’t break. Not really.”

“No,” you said gently. “You didn’t.”

“I wanted to,” he added, quieter now. “I wanted to yell. Scream. Fry the table and walk out and tell Kairos she can stuff her clipboard through a CRT.” He inhaled, and his shoulders lifted sharply with it. “But I didn’t. I sat here. I let them talk to me like I’m not even—like I’m just some busted set piece they can wheel out and dress up and scream at when the ratings dip.”

You hesitated, then leaned in a little closer. “You’re more than that.”

He turned his head just slightly. Not enough to face you fully. But enough to let you know he was hearing it.

“You held it together,” you said. “That’s not nothing.”

Tenna finally let out a long breath—half-static, half-exhaustion. He peeled one hand off his leg slowly, the fabric of his pants creased where his fingers had clutched so hard you were surprised the stitching hadn’t snapped. He stared at his hand for a second, like he didn’t quite recognize it, then rubbed at the side of his screen where the edge flickered faintly, like a headache trying to bloom behind his face.

“I hate this room,” he muttered.

You glanced around. The cold lighting. The clinical table. The emptiness that always buzzed around the walls even when it was full of people.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Me too.”

He finally looked at you—his screen flickering to a faint, washed-out tone. No color. Just the suggestion of something trying to stabilize. His mouth softened—not quite a smile, but no longer pulled so tight. His antennae drooped toward you a little, a quiet motion of… trust, maybe. Or just relief.

You stood first, motioning subtly toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

He nodded, slow and deliberate. Didn’t say anything else as he rose, but when he moved to follow you out, his shoulder brushed against yours and didn’t pull away.

You didn’t need to fill the silence between the two of you.

Because this time, he wasn’t filling it either.

He was just walking beside you. Still lit. Still broadcasting.

Still here.

The hallway felt quieter after the conference room.

Not sterile like before—just… soft. Like the building was exhaling after holding its breath too long. No more shouting. No more accusations. Just the hum of distant machinery and the low shuffle of crew breaking down the last of the day’s sets. Your footsteps echoed beside Tenna’s as you made your way toward his dressing room, neither of you rushing, neither of you speaking. You kept a comfortable pace, close enough that your sleeve brushed his every few strides. He didn’t comment on it.

He didn’t pull away, either.

When you reached the door, he unlocked it with the familiar hiss of an old magnetic reader and pushed it open without fanfare. Inside, the space was as you remembered it—overly lit, lived-in, faintly cluttered with cue cards, old wardrobe notes, and a half-drunk cup of black coffee that had gone cold on the shelf. Tenna stepped inside like muscle memory, tossing his coat onto the side couch and immediately heading toward the small desk in the corner.

“Of course,” he muttered, antennae twitching in resignation, “they left me a pile of incident reports to review.”

You blinked. “Already?”

Tenna made a sharp static noise in the back of his throat—a noise you’d come to recognize as the mechanical equivalent of a bitter laugh. “Oh, they waste no time when they think I’ve embarrassed them.” He plucked a small stack of digital printouts from the desk and dropped into the swivel chair like he was collapsing into it. “Look at this. Eight pages. Eight. On how I may have agitated a potentially unstable contestant by existing too loudly on live television.”

He spun the chair halfheartedly, antennae drooping forward in exasperation. His mouth twisted—not angry, not sad. Just exhausted.

You stepped inside and leaned against the wall near the coat rack. “Need help?”

Tenna looked at you, screen flickering faintly.

Then, he shook his head. “Nah.” His voice lowered into something dry, familiar. “I’ve got this. Paper cuts and PR lies. I’m used to it.”

You nodded slowly. You could tell he meant it. He’d shifted back into function mode—not performing, exactly, but retreating into the safe rhythm of things he could control. You watched him reach for a stylus and begin scanning the first document with quick, deliberate flicks of his hand.

After a moment, he spoke again—quieter now. “You don’t have to stick around. Really. It’s boring from here on out.” He didn’t look at you when he said it. His screen glowed soft white again, blank. “You should take the rest of the day off. I know they didn’t assign you to babysit paperwork.”

There it was. The graceful exit. The dismissal that wasn’t unkind, just routine. Something he could say without having to admit anything.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for the doorknob. Didn’t make an excuse.

Instead, you smiled—quietly—and stepped toward the little armchair near the far wall, dragging it just close enough that you could see the top of the report stack but not read any of it. You sat down, folding your hands in your lap. “I don’t mind boring.”

Tenna paused, stylus hovering mid-mark.

His antennae twitched once.

Then again.

His mouth didn’t smile. But it didn’t argue either.

He let out a soft, static-laced sigh, so faint it could’ve been mistaken for the white noise of the room’s old AC vent. “You’re strange,” he said, not unkindly. “Sticking around for the boring parts.”

“Maybe,” you said, watching the way his antennae finally settled, relaxed, no longer sharp with stress. “Or maybe I just know when someone shouldn’t be alone.”

He didn’t reply.

But he didn’t ask you to leave again.

For the next hour, the only sounds in the dressing room were the quiet hum of electronics, the occasional scribble of Tenna’s stylus on paper, and the soft shift of your breathing as you leaned back in the chair. He worked. You watched. You didn’t fill the silence with conversation. You didn’t reach for your phone. You didn’t feel the need to. He didn’t need a speech. Just a presence.

Eventually, he glanced your way—not a full turn, just the tilt of his head, a subtle shift in the direction of his screen. “Still not leaving?”

You met the glow of his screen with a calm look. “Nope.”

Tenna was quiet a long moment.

Then: “Good.”

And with that, he returned to his paperwork, the tension slowly unwinding from his frame with every page he signed, every breath he took.

You stayed until the lights dimmed and the office was quiet enough to hear the soft flick of his antennae with every subtle movement.

Not because you had to.

Because he let you.

Because he wanted you there.

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