#Window Design Project Help

[burntoutdaydreamer]

Things That May Be Causing Your Writer's Block- and How to Beat Them

I don't like the term 'Writer's Block' - not because it isn't real, but because the term is so vague that it's useless. Hundreds of issues all get lumped together under this one umbrella, making writer's block seem like this all-powerful boogeyman that's impossible to beat. Worse yet, it leaves people giving and receiving advice that is completely ineffective because people often don't realize they're talking about entirely different issues.

In my experience, the key to beating writer's block is figuring out what the block even is, so I put together a list of Actual Reasons why you may be struggling to write:

(note that any case of writer's block is usually a mix of two or more)

Perfectionism (most common)

What it looks like:

You write one sentence and spend the next hour googling "synonyms for ___"

Write. Erase. Write. Rewrite. Erase.

Should I even start writing this scene when I haven't figured out this one specific detail yet?

I hate everything I write

Cringing while writing

My first draft must be perfect, or else I'm a terrible writer

Things that can help:

Give yourself permission to suck

Keep in mind that nothing you write is going to be perfect, especially your first draft

Think of writing your first/early drafts not as writing, but sketching out a loose foundation to build upon later

People write multiple drafts for a reason: write now, edit later

Stop googling synonyms and save that for editing

Write with a pen to reduce temptation to erase

Embrace leaving blank spaces in your writing when you can't think of the right word, name, or detail

It's okay if your writing sucks. We all suck at some point. Embrace the growth mindset, and focus on getting words on a page

Lack of inspiration (easiest to fix)

What it looks like:

Head empty, no ideas

What do I even write about???

I don't have a plot, I just have an image

Want to write but no story to write

Things that can help:

Google writing prompts

If writing prompts aren't your thing, instead try thinking about what kind of tropes/genres/story elements you would like to try out

Instead of thinking about the story you would like to write, think about the story you would like to read, and write that

It's okay if you don't have a fully fleshed out story idea. Even if it's just an image or a line of dialogue, it's okay to write that. A story may or may not come out of it, but at least you got the creative juices flowing

Stop writing. Step away from your desk and let yourself naturally get inspired. Go for a walk, read a book, travel, play video games, research history, etc. Don't force ideas, but do open up your mind to them

If you're like me, world-building may come more naturally than plotting. Design the world first and let the story come later

Boredom/Understimulation (lost the flow)

What it looks like:

I know I should be writing but uugggghhhh I just can'tttttt

Writing words feels like pulling teeth

I started writing, but then I got bored/distracted

I enjoy the idea of writing, but the actual process makes me want to throw my laptop out the window

Things that can help:

Introduce stimulation: snacks, beverages, gum, music such as lo-fi, blankets, decorate your writing space, get a clickity-clackity keyboard, etc.

Add variety: write in a new location, try a new idea/different story for a day or so, switch up how you write (pen and paper vs. computer) or try voice recording or speech-to-text

Gamify writing: create an arbitrary challenge, such as trying to see how many words you can write in a set time and try to beat your high score

Find a writing buddy or join a writer's group

Give yourself a reward for every writing milestone, even if it's just writing a paragraph

Ask yourself whether this project you're working on is something you really want to be doing, and be honest with your answer

Intimidation/Procrastination (often related to perfectionism, but not always)

What it looks like:

I was feeling really motivated to write, but then I opened my laptop

I don't even know where to start

I love writing, but I can never seem to get started

I'll write tomorrow. I mean next week. Next month? Next month, I swear (doesn't write next month)

Can't find the time or energy

Unreasonable expectations (I should be able to write 10,000 words a day, right????)

Feeling discouraged and wondering why I'm even trying

Things that can help:

Follow the 2 min rule (or the 1 paragraph rule, which works better for me): whenever you sit down to write, tell yourself that you are only going to write for 2 minutes. If you feel like continuing once the 2 mins are up, go for it! Otherwise, stop. Force yourself to start but DO NOT force yourself to continue unless you feel like it. The more often you do this, the easier it will be to get started

Make getting started as easy as possible (i.e. minimize barriers: if getting up to get a notebook is stopping you from getting started, then write in the notes app of your phone)

Commit to a routine that will work for you. Baby steps are important here. Go with something that feels reasonable: every day, every other day, once a week, twice a week, and use cues to help you remember to start. If you chose a set time to write, just make sure that it's a time that feels natural to you- i.e. don't force yourself to writing at 9am every morning if you're not a morning person

Find a friend or a writing buddy you can trust and talk it out or share a piece of work you're proud of. Sometimes we just get a bit bogged down by criticism- either internal or external- and need a few words of encouragement

The Problem's Not You, It's Your Story (or Outline (or Process))

What it looks like:

I have no problems writing other scenes, it's just this scene

I started writing, but now I have no idea where I'm going

I don't think I'm doing this right

What's an outline?

Drowning in documents

This. Doesn't. Make. Sense. How do I get from this plot point to this one?!?!?! (this ColeyDoesThings quote lives in my head rent free cause BOY have I been there)

Things That Can Help:

Go back to the drawing board. Really try to get at the root of why a scene or story isn't working

A part of growing as a writer is learning when to kill your darlings. Sometimes you're trying to force an idea or scene that just doesn't work and you need to let it go

If you don't have an outline, write one

If you have an outline and it isn't working, rewrite it, or look up different ways to structure it

You may be trying to write as a pantser when you're really a plotter or vice versa. Experiment with different writing processes and see what feels most natural

Study story structures, starting with the three act structure. Even if you don't use them, you should know them

Check out Ellen Brock on YouTube. She's a professional novel editor who has a lot of advice on writing strategies for different types of writers

Also check out Savage Books on YouTube (another professional story editor) for advice on story structure and dialogue. Seriously, I cannot recommend this guy enough

Executive Dysfunction, Usually From ADHD/Autism

What it looks like:

Everything in boredom/understimulation

Everything in intimidation/procrastination

You have been diagnosed with and/or have symptoms of ADHD/Autism

Things that can help:

If you haven't already, seek a diagnosis or professional treatment

Hire an ADHD coach or other specialist that can help you work with your brain (I use Shimmer; feel free to DM me for a referral)

Seek out neurodiverse communities for advice and support

Try body doubling! There's lot's of free online body doubling websites out there for you to try. If social anxiety is a barrier, start out with writing streams such as katecavanaughwrites on Twitch

Be aware of any sensory barriers that may be getting in the way of you writing (such as an uncomfortable desk chair, harsh lighting, bad sounds)

And Lastly, Burnout, Depression, or Other Mental Illness

What it looks like:

You have symptoms of burnout or depression

Struggling with all things, not just writing

It's more than a lack of inspiration- the spark is just dead

Things that can help:

Forget writing for now. Focus on healing first.

Seek professional help

If you feel like it, use writing as a way to explore your feelings. It can take the form of journaling, poetry, an abstract reflection of your thoughts, narrative essays, or exploring what you're feeling through your fictional characters. The last two helped me rediscover my love of writing after I thought years of depression had killed it for good. Just don't force yourself to do so, and stop if it takes you to a darker place instead of feeling cathartic

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Interiors

As a followup to the very popular post on architecture, I decided to add onto it by exploring the interior of each movement and the different design techniques and tastes of each era. This post at be helpful for historical fiction, fantasy or just a long read when you're bored.

Interior Design Terms

Reeding and fluting: Fluting is a technique that consists a continuous pattern of concave grooves in a flat surface across a surface. Reeding is it's opposite.

Embossing: stamping, carving or moulding a symbol to make it stand out on a surface.

Paneling: Panels of carved wood or fabric a fixed to a wall in a continuous pattern.

Gilding: the use of gold to highlight features.

Glazed Tile: Ceramic or porcelain tiles coated with liquid coloured glass or enamel.

Column: A column is a pillar of stone or wood built to support a ceiling. We will see more of columns later on.

Bay Window: The Bay Window is a window projecting outward from a building.

Frescos: A design element of painting images upon wet plaster.

Mosaic: Mosaics are a design element that involves using pieces of coloured glass and fitted them together upon the floor or wall to form images.

Mouldings: ornate strips of carved wood along the top of a wall.

Wainscoting: paneling along the lower portion of a wall.

Chinoiserie: A European take on East Asian art. Usually seen in wallpaper.

Clerestory: A series of eye-level windows.

Sconces: A light fixture supported on a wall.

Niche: A sunken area within a wall.

Monochromatic: Focusing on a single colour within a scheme.

Ceiling rose: A moulding fashioned on the ceiling in the shape of a rose usually supporting a light fixture.

Baluster: the vertical bars of a railing.

Façade: front portion of a building

Lintel: Top of a door or window.

Portico: a covered structure over a door supported by columns

Eaves: the part of the roof overhanging from the building

Skirting: border around lower length of a wall

Ancient Greece

Houses were made of either sun-dried clay bricks or stone which were painted when they dried. Ground floors were decorated with coloured stones and tiles called Mosaics. Upper level floors were made from wood. Homes were furnished with tapestries and furniture, and in grand homes statues and grand altars would be found. Furniture was very skillfully crafted in Ancient Greece, much attention was paid to the carving and decoration of such things. Of course, Ancient Greece is ancient so I won't be going through all the movements but I will talk a little about columns.

Doric: Doric is the oldest of the orders and some argue it is the simplest. The columns of this style are set close together, without bases and carved with concave curves called flutes. The capitals (the top of the column) are plain often built with a curve at the base called an echinus and are topped by a square at the apex called an abacus. The entablature is marked by frieze of vertical channels/triglyphs. In between the channels would be detail of carved marble. The Parthenon in Athens is your best example of Doric architecture.

Ionic: The Ionic style was used for smaller buildings and the interiors. The columns had twin volutes, scroll-like designs on its capital. Between these scrolls, there was a carved curve known as an egg and in this style the entablature is much narrower and the frieze is thick with carvings. The example of Ionic Architecture is the Temple to Athena Nike at the Athens Acropolis.

Corinthian: The Corinthian style has some similarities with the Ionic order, the bases, entablature and columns almost the same but the capital is more ornate its base, column, and entablature, but its capital is far more ornate, commonly carved with depictions of acanthus leaves. The style was more slender than the others on this list, used less for bearing weight but more for decoration. Corinthian style can be found along the top levels of the Colosseum in Rome.

Tuscan: The Tuscan order shares much with the Doric order, but the columns are un-fluted and smooth. The entablature is far simpler, formed without triglyphs or guttae. The columns are capped with round capitals.

Composite: This style is mixed. It features the volutes of the Ionic order and the capitals of the Corinthian order. The volutes are larger in these columns and often more ornate. The column's capital is rather plain. for the capital, with no consistent differences to that above or below the capital.

Ancient Rome

Rome is well known for its outward architectural styles. However the Romans did know how to add that rizz to the interior. Ceilings were either vaulted or made from exploded beams that could be painted. The Romans were big into design. Moasics were a common interior sight, the use of little pieces of coloured glass or stone to create a larger image. Frescoes were used to add colour to the home, depicting mythical figures and beasts and also different textures such as stonework or brick. The Romans loved their furniture. Dining tables were low and the Romans ate on couches. Weaving was a popular pastime so there would be tapestries and wall hangings in the house. Rich households could even afford to import fine rugs from across the Empire. Glass was also a feature in Roman interior but windows were usually not paned as large panes were hard to make. Doors were usually treated with panels that were carved or in lain with bronze.

Ancient Egypt

Egypt was one of the first great civilisations, known for its immense and grand structures. Wealthy Egyptians had grand homes. The walls were painted or plastered usually with bright colours and hues. The Egyptians are cool because they mapped out their buildings in such a way to adhere to astrological movements meaning on special days if the calendar the temple or monuments were in the right place always. The columns of Egyptian where thicker, more bulbous and often had capitals shaped like bundles of papyrus reeds. Woven mats and tapestries were popular decor. Motifs from the river such as palms, papyrus and reeds were popular symbols used.

Ancient Africa

African Architecture is a very mixed bag and more structurally different and impressive than Hollywood would have you believe. Far beyond the common depictions of primitive buildings, the African nations were among the giants of their time in architecture, no style quite the same as the last but just as breathtaking.

Rwandan Architecture: The Rwandans commonly built of hardened clay with thatched roofs of dried grass or reeds. Mats of woven reeds carpeted the floors of royal abodes. These residences folded about a large public area known as a karubanda and were often so large that they became almost like a maze, connecting different chambers/huts of all kinds of uses be they residential or for other purposes.

Ashanti Architecture: The Ashanti style can be found in present day Ghana. The style incorporates walls of plaster formed of mud and designed with bright paint and buildings with a courtyard at the heart, not unlike another examples on this post. The Ashanti also formed their buildings of the favourite method of wattle and daub.

Nubian Architecture: Nubia, in modern day Ethiopia, was home to the Nubians who were one of the world's most impressive architects at the beginning of the architecture world and probably would be more talked about if it weren't for the Egyptians building monuments only up the road. The Nubians were famous for building the speos, tall tower-like spires carved of stone. The Nubians used a variety of materials and skills to build, for example wattle and daub and mudbrick. The Kingdom of Kush, the people who took over the Nubian Empire was a fan of Egyptian works even if they didn't like them very much. The Kushites began building pyramid-like structures such at the sight of Gebel Barkal

Japanese Interiors

Japenese interior design rests upon 7 principles. Kanso (簡素)- Simplicity, Fukinsei (不均整)- Asymmetry, Shizen (自然)- Natural, Shibumi (渋味) – Simple beauty, Yugen (幽玄)- subtle grace, Datsuzoku (脱俗) – freedom from habitual behaviour, Seijaku (静寂)- tranquillity.

Common features of Japanese Interior Design:

Shoji walls: these are the screens you think of when you think of the traditional Japanese homes. They are made of wooden frames, rice paper and used to partition

Tatami: Tatami mats are used within Japanese households to blanket the floors. They were made of rice straw and rush straw, laid down to cushion the floor.

Genkan: The Genkan was a sunken space between the front door and the rest of the house. This area is meant to separate the home from the outside and is where shoes are discarded before entering.

Japanese furniture: often lowest, close to the ground. These include tables and chairs but often tanked are replaced by zabuton, large cushions. Furniture is usually carved of wood in a minimalist design.

Nature: As both the Shinto and Buddhist beliefs are great influences upon architecture, there is a strong presence of nature with the architecture. Wood is used for this reason and natural light is prevalent with in the home. The orientation is meant to reflect the best view of the world.

Islamic World Interior

The Islamic world has one of the most beautiful and impressive interior design styles across the world. Colour and detail are absolute staples in the movement. Windows are usually not paned with glass but covered in ornate lattices known as jali. The jali give ventilation, light and privacy to the home. Islamic Interiors are ornate and colourful, using coloured ceramic tiles. The upper parts of walls and ceilings are usually flat decorated with arabesques (foliate ornamentation), while the lower wall areas were usually tiled. Features such as honeycombed ceilings, horseshoe arches, stalactite-fringed arches and stalactite vaults (Muqarnas) are prevalent among many famous Islamic buildings such as the Alhambra and the Blue Mosque.

Byzantine (330/395–1453 A. D)

The Byzantine Empire or Eastern Roman Empire was where eat met west, leading to a melting pot of different interior designs based on early Christian styles and Persian influences. Mosaics are probably what you think of when you think of the Byzantine Empire. Ivory was also a popular feature in the Interiors, with carved ivory or the use of it in inlay. The use of gold as a decorative feature usually by way of repoussé (decorating metals by hammering in the design from the backside of the metal). Fabrics from Persia, heavily embroidered and intricately woven along with silks from afar a field as China, would also be used to upholster furniture or be used as wall hangings. The Byzantines favoured natural light, usually from the use of copolas.

Indian Interiors

India is of course, the font of all intricate designs. India's history is sectioned into many eras but we will focus on a few to give you an idea of prevalent techniques and tastes.

The Gupta Empire (320 – 650 CE): The Gupta era was a time of stone carving. As impressive as the outside of these buildings are, the Interiors are just as amazing. Gupta era buildings featured many details such as ogee (circular or horseshoe arch), gavaksha/chandrashala (the motif centred these arches), ashlar masonry (built of squared stone blocks) with ceilings of plain, flat slabs of stone.

Delhi Sultanate (1206–1526): Another period of beautifully carved stone. The Delhi sultanate had influence from the Islamic world, with heavy uses of mosaics, brackets, intricate mouldings, columns and and hypostyle halls.

Mughal Empire (1526–1857): Stonework was also important on the Mughal Empire. Intricately carved stonework was seen in the pillars, low relief panels depicting nature images and jalis (marble screens). Stonework was also decorated in a stye known as pietra dura/parchin kari with inscriptions and geometric designs using colored stones to create images. Tilework was also popular during this period. Moasic tiles were cut and fitted together to create larger patters while cuerda seca tiles were coloured tiles outlined with black.

Chinese Interiors

Common features of Chinese Interiors

Use of Colours: Colour in Chinese Interior is usually vibrant and bold. Red and Black are are traditional colours, meant to bring luck, happiness, power, knowledge and stability to the household.

Latticework: Lattices are a staple in Chinese interiors most often seen on shutters, screens, doors of cabinets snf even traditional beds.

Lacquer: Multiple coats of lacquer are applied to furniture or cabinets (now walls) and then carved. The skill is called Diaoqi (雕漆).

Decorative Screens: Screens are used to partition off part of a room. They are usually of carved wood, pained with very intricate murals.

Shrines: Spaces were reserved on the home to honour ancestors, usually consisting of an altar where offerings could be made.

Of course, Chinese Interiors are not all the same through the different eras. While some details and techniques were interchangeable through different dynasties, usually a dynasty had a notable style or deviation. These aren't all the dynasties of course but a few interesting examples.

Song Dynasty (960–1279): The Song Dynasty is known for its stonework. Sculpture was an important part of Song Dynasty interior. It was in this period than brick and stone work became the most used material. The Song Dynasty was also known for its very intricate attention to detail, paintings, and used tiles.

Ming Dynasty(1368–1644): Ceilings were adorned with cloisons usually featuring yellow reed work. The floors would be of flagstones usually of deep tones, mostly black. The Ming Dynasty favoured richly coloured silk hangings, tapestries and furnishings. Furniture was usually carved of darker woods, arrayed in a certain way to bring peace to the dwelling.

Han Dynasty (206 BC-220 AD): Interior walls were plastered and painted to show important figures and scenes. Lacquer, though it was discovered earlier, came into greater prominence with better skill in this era.

Tang Dynasty (618–907) : The colour palette is restrained, reserved. But the Tang dynasty is not without it's beauty. Earthenware reached it's peak in this era, many homes would display fine examples as well. The Tang dynasty is famous for its upturned eaves, the ceilings supported by timber columns mounted with metal or stone bases. Glazed tiles were popular in this era, either a fixed to the roof or decorating a screen wall.

Romanesque (6th -11th century/12th)

Romanesque Architecture is a span between the end of Roman Empire to the Gothic style. Taking inspiration from the Roman and Byzantine Empires, the Romanesque period incorporates many of the styles. The most common details are carved floral and foliage symbols with the stonework of the Romanesque buildings. Cable mouldings or twisted rope-like carvings would have framed doorways. As per the name, Romansque Interiors relied heavily on its love and admiration for Rome. The Romanesque style uses geometric shapes as statements using curves, circles snf arches. The colours would be clean and warm, focusing on minimal ornamentation.

Gothic Architecture (12th Century - 16th Century)

The Gothic style is what you think of when you think of old European cathedrals and probably one of the beautiful of the styles on this list and one of most recognisable. The Gothic style is a dramatic, opposing sight and one of the easiest to describe. Decoration in this era became more ornate, stonework began to sport carving and modelling in a way it did not before. The ceilings moved away from barreled vaults to quadripartite and sexpartite vaulting. Columns slimmed as other supportive structures were invented. Intricate stained glass windows began their popularity here. In Gothic structures, everything is very symmetrical and even.

Mediaeval (500 AD to 1500)

Interiors of mediaeval homes are not quite as drab as Hollywood likes to make out. Building materials may be hidden by plaster in rich homes, sometimes even painted. Floors were either dirt strewn with rushes or flagstones in larger homes. Stonework was popular, especially around fireplaces. Grand homes would be decorated with intricate woodwork, carved heraldic beasts and wall hangings of fine fabrics.

Renaissance (late 1300s-1600s)

The Renaissance was a period of great artistry and splendor. The revival of old styles injected symmetry and colour into the homes. Frescoes were back. Painted mouldings adorned the ceilings and walls. Furniture became more ornate, fixed with luxurious upholstery and fine carvings. Caryatids (pillars in the shape of women), grotesques, Roman and Greek images were used to spruce up the place. Floors began to become more intricate, with coloured stone and marble. Modelled stucco, sgraffiti arabesques (made by cutting lines through a layer of plaster or stucco to reveal an underlayer), and fine wall painting were used in brilliant combinations in the early part of the 16th century.

Tudor Interior (1485-1603)

The Tudor period is a starkly unique style within England and very recognisable. Windows were fixed with lattice work, usually casement. Stained glass was also in in this period, usually depicting figures and heraldic beasts. Rooms would be panelled with wood or plastered. Walls would be adorned with tapestries or embroidered hangings. Windows and furniture would be furnished with fine fabrics such as brocade. Floors would typically be of wood, sometimes strewn with rush matting mixed with fresh herbs and flowers to freshen the room.

Baroque (1600 to 1750)

The Baroque period was a time for splendor and for splashing the cash. The interior of a baroque room was usually intricate, usually of a light palette, featuring a very high ceiling heavy with detail. Furniture would choke the room, ornately carved and stitched with very high quality fabrics. The rooms would be full of art not limited to just paintings but also sculptures of marble or bronze, large intricate mirrors, moldings along the walls which may be heavily gilded, chandeliers and detailed paneling.

Victorian (1837-1901)

We think of the interiors of Victorian homes as dowdy and dark but that isn't true. The Victorians favoured tapestries, intricate rugs, decorated wallpaper, exquisitely furniture, and surprisingly, bright colour. Dyes were more widely available to people of all stations and the Victorians did not want for colour. Patterns and details were usually nature inspired, usually floral or vines. Walls could also be painted to mimic a building material such as wood or marble and most likely painted in rich tones. The Victorians were suckers for furniture, preferring them grandly carved with fine fabric usually embroidered or buttoned. And they did not believe in minimalism. If you could fit another piece of furniture in a room, it was going in there. Floors were almost eclusively wood laid with the previously mentioned rugs. But the Victorians did enjoy tiled floors but restricted them to entrances. The Victorians were quite in touch with their green thumbs so expect a lot of flowers and greenery inside. with various elaborately decorated patterned rugs. And remember, the Victorians loved to display as much wealth as they could. Every shelf, cabinet, case and ledge would be chocked full of ornaments and antiques.

Edwardian/The Gilded Age/Belle Epoque (1880s-1914)

This period (I've lumped them together for simplicity) began to move away from the deep tones and ornate patterns of the Victorian period. Colour became more neutral. Nature still had a place in design. Stained glass began to become popular, especially on lampshades and light fixtures. Embossing started to gain popularity and tile work began to expand from the entrance halls to other parts of the house. Furniture began to move away from dark wood, some families favouring breathable woods like wicker. The rooms would be less cluttered.

Art Deco (1920s-1930s)

The 1920s was a time of buzz and change. Gone were the refined tastes of the pre-war era and now the wow factor was in. Walls were smoother, buildings were sharper and more jagged, doorways and windows were decorated with reeding and fluting. Pastels were in, as was the heavy use of black and white, along with gold. Mirrors and glass were in, injecting light into rooms. Gold, silver, steel and chrome were used in furnishings and decor. Geometric shapes were a favourite design choice. Again, high quality and bold fabrics were used such as animal skins or colourful velvet. It was all a rejection of the Art Noveau movement, away from nature focusing on the man made.

Modernism (1930 - 1965)

Modernism came after the Art Deco movement. Fuss and feathers were out the door and now, practicality was in. Materials used are shown as they are, wood is not painted, metal is not coated. Bright colours were acceptable but neutral palettes were favoured. Interiors were open and favoured large windows. Furniture was practical, for use rather than the ornamentation, featuring plain details of any and geometric shapes. Away from Art Deco, everything is straight, linear and streamlined.

[rfyu]

you catch sight of him again at the bus terminal - that cute boy from your tutorial last year who you’d almost been foolish enough to think you had a chance with. that was until you’d realised takashi mitsuya was just that nice to everyone - the soft smiles that crinkled up the corners of his pretty eyes, the quiet concern, the witty conversation.

devastating. 

humiliating, even.

the whole day so far has felt like it’s been leading up to something, and you guess this is it. it’s nearing the turning of the seasons, so the sky is heavy and the air thick with the promise of an oncoming storm. the cold metal of the bench brands ice against the back of your legs as you’re pushed into it by the masses of people waiting for their buses - late, as usual - your view entirely blocked by heads and backs and tote bags. so it almost feels like fate - the way the wind picks up, the crowd momentarily shifts, and your eyes land on him. 

your first thought is, damn, he looks exactly the same. all things considering, it’s not the most intelligent thought given it’s only been seven or so months since your breakup - nota bene, the submission of the group project - but he does have a tendency to reduce your neurological function to near-zero levels. and it’s not like you haven’t seen him in the months between; you’ve faithfully watched his stories with a carefully calculated timing that conveys the utmost nonchalance. and though you now know far too much about the food he likes, his design wips, his friends, cats, and motorcycle (a suzuki gsx400fs currently in for repair), you’ve never worked up the courage to text him, to the dismay of your friends who’ve faithfully put in hours of unpaid labour brainstorming the perfect opening lines with you.

but there’s something different about finally seeing him in person again. cameras really don’t do him justice - they don’t capture the way he holds himself with easy confidence, the elegant messiness of his silver-lilac hair in the wind, the calm set of his pale grey-violet eyes. the way he’s always so well put together, in clothes and action and speech. the silhouette of his sharply cut coat, the light glinting off his earring, the way the clouds seem to part and sunlight forms a crown on his head as a choir of angels descend.

bad. this is really bad, because you’re still down bad, and he’s beautiful in the way the moon is - addictive, dominating your sky, impossible to take your eyes off…

at least, that’s until he senses your gaze on him and glances in your direction. you look away so fast you hear something in your neck crack, feigning a casualness you don’t feel at all. 

this is fine.

you’re panicking; heat’s rushing to your face despite the biting cold. you can’t help it - you peek back at him, just for a second, and lord up above but he’s still looking at you. and then he gives you his perfect smile, the soft one with the crinkled eyes and the little tilt of his head, and you have never been more grateful to see your bus pull up in your entire life as the crowd surges forward and cuts off the tenuous connection your extended eye contact had formed between you.

there’s still a few empty rows near the back of the bus that you make a beeline for, slipping into the seat closest to the window and pulling your bag onto your lap. there’s music playing, just barely loud enough to hear over the rumbling of the engine.

if you like piña coladas / and gettin’ caught in the rain …

you’re lucky you got to sit down; at the rate people are pouring through the doors, there’s going to be a lot of people left standing, and is that takashi mitsuya? getting onto your bus, gaze searching for empty seats, gaze finding you? 

it’s disgraceful how unabashedly you suddenly wish that he’ll take the empty spot next to you as he weaves his way in your direction, your entire body tingling with anticipation - but as he moves towards you and then decidedly past you, you mournfully conclude that’s too much to hope for. at the end of the day, you really don’t know each other that well. he probably doesn’t even remember your name.

the thought makes you a lot sadder than it should.

why’s he on this bus? where does he even live? you’ve never thought about it (lie, you have, you’re just not good enough at stalking to find out - though you assumed it was the student accommodations), but surely he doesn’t take this route. surely he doesn’t need to go to the same station as you. surely there’s not another part of your lives that overlap.

it’s only once the bus starts moving and you rest your head on the rattling window pane that you realise he’s sitting right behind you. after some adjusting - with your chin in your hand and your gaze on the gathering darkness outside - you can clearly make out his reflection in the cool glass if you turn your head the slightest bit. 

how does he manage to look so beautiful in a bus window? and at an ordinarily unflattering angle, too? how insane are you for putting this much effort into catching another glimpse of him? (you’ve probably broken the scale of measurement.) but there’s just something about him that makes you weak - that makes your heart flutter and your knees wobble - that makes you stoop down to levels you have never gone to before. 

takashi fricking mitsuya will be the death of you. 

the bus jerks to a stop, banging your forehead against the window hard enough to leave a bruise and unequivocally bringing an end to your humiliating, down-bad behaviours.

that's it. you’re going to suck it up. you’re going to lock in. you’re not going to pine after a boy who you spent two entire tutorials working with, who doesn’t even remember your—

“sorry, do you mind if i sit here?”

you turn, and the bus accelerates in tandem with your heartbeat. 

i’m the love that you’ve looked for / write to me and escape…

“it’s just my other seat’s directly under the air con,” takashi-fricking-mitsuya says pleasantly, “and it’s already cold enough in here.”

your mouth moves automatically before your brain does, giving you a few extra seconds to catch up. “oh, yeah, of course, no worries.”

perfect delivery. chill, friendly. you should turn off your brain more often.

what the hell.

he drops into the seat beside you with far more elegance than any single person should possess. “yn, right? i remember you from last year.”

“yup, yeah, i - remember you as well.”

as if you could forget him. the seats are small; you can feel the warmth of his body, mere inches away from yours. he’s not crazy tall but his legs look insanely long, even folded up - at least next to yours. you need to say something more.

“um, that was a pretty good unit.”

good. great work. you formed a passable sentence. 

he does his smile again, eyes crinkling. “yeah, definitely. you can really feel the difference when the chief coordinator actually wants to be there - there’s so much more thought that goes into its organisation.”

you find yourself smiling back, an automatic reaction whenever you’re around him. “though the first assignment really shouldn’t have been a hurdle.”

“i didn’t mind that so much as the fact it was a quarter of the grade.”

“that’s the thing with humanities units,” you shrug. “you get fewer assignments, but they have much higher weightings. it’s a lot more spread out in science.”

“i’d much rather make one good video essay than have to memorise - i dunno, layers of the stomach - and have to submit five different things every week.”

“shall we agree to disagree, then?” 

“you probably enjoyed memorising the layers of the stomach,” he accuses.

you laugh. “there’s only four, so it’s really not that bad.”

“what’s your major, anyway?” he asks, tilting his head at you; a lock of hair falls into his eyes. “was last year’s unit your elective?”

you’re doing physiology; he’s doing fashion designing. the conversation continues from there - straying from uni, to interests, to a story about one of his childhood friends involving a near-stolen bike and a case of mistaken identity that’s got you cracking up till you can’t breathe. and to your surprise, it’s all so easy. you’d forgotten how well you get along with him. you almost feel stupid for not reaching out earlier, but as usual, you’d gotten too caught up in your head about it all. takashi-fricking-mitsuya, you realise now, would be a great friend.

there’s so much traffic that it’s another forty-five minutes before the bus finally pulls into the station. you grimace as the doors open, sending a biting blast of cold air and sprinkling rain into your face.

“can we just stay here?”

“you want to loop all the way down to the sea?”

it’s enough motivation for you to grudgingly struggle to your feet and swing your bag over your shoulder, body complaining after having been cramped up for so long. you follow takashi across the platform to the steps leading down to a tunnel that cuts across underneath the railway. he’s walking way too fast; it’s his long ass legs, you’re sure of it. it’s raining lightly outside, but the wind rakes the water across your face like shards of ice no matter which way you bow your head.

“you good?”

he’s slowed down to let you catch up - no, he’s walked back to you - despite the buffeting of the wind and the murderous droplets of water. oh, takashi. even though you’re supposedly now ‘chill’ and ‘just friends’, your stomach still does a little pirouette.

“i’m good,” you grumble. “just this weather.”

he hums in agreement, walking decidedly slower beside you as you pick your way through the crowd and down the slippery steps to the tunnel. you both breathe a simultaneous sigh of relief as you get out of the rain, brushing off the droplets from your clothes. there’s no opportunity for conversation in the crowded space but you stick close together anyway. you’re half expecting him to turn onto another corridor that leads up towards the train, but he doesn’t.

guess we’re both taking a bus again.

most people have cleared off to the trains by the time you struggle the short distance to the end of the tunnel. you take in the set of stairs soaked in rain, the biting air, and the puddles on the winding pathway up towards the road. 

“well, this is great,” you say. your shoes are going to get soaked.

and then it starts bucketing.

out of nowhere, the skies open up, and rain comes tumbling down like the sky’s reuniting with the earth as a long-lost lover. it’s deafening, and so thick you can barely see through it.

takashi elegantly strings together a set of curse words you’ve never heard in that particular order before. “why did you jinx it?”

“i did not!”

“you don’t happen to have an umbrella, do you?”

you roll your eyes. “no, i’ve just been subjecting myself to this for fun.”

“i dunno - some people enjoy that.”

“you seem to think very lowly of me.”

(“i don’t,” he says quietly.)

you eye the curtain of water plummeting from the heavens. it eyes you back. there’s nothing to it.

“well, i guess we’re just gonna have to go for it,” you say, inhaling sharply.

“huh? no, wait—”

you sprint out from under cover, and the rain hits you like a bucket of ice, instantly sticking your shirt to your skin and chilling you to the bone in a way that snatches the breath from your lungs. you tuck your chin to your chest and power up the stairs, limbs trembling. oh my god, i hate this. i’m gonna get sick. i’m literally going to die.

“wait, wait, wait—” takashi calls from behind you, yelling over the rain, and of all things he’s laughing as he catches up to you - and then suddenly the rain stops.

you look up and halt abruptly, your heart missing several beats. takashi’s shrugged his jacket off and is holding it above your heads; water streams off his hair, down his face and the contours of his body, where his white shirt has obligingly turned transparent and clings to the muscles of his torso. 

“i got you,” he says, voice low next to your ear.

his presence, his proximity, his body heat. you’re going insane. you’re going feral, blood rushing through your head and joining the thundering of the rain. thebonly ‘chill’ thing about this is the weather because it feels like the entirety of your body is alight, drowning in fire, and you have never felt so un-chill about something in your life. every nerve ending, every cell, every atom. you’re poised to implode.

“let’s run,” he offers, and you do.

you don’t know what sets you off - maybe it’s the image of how you must look, him holding the coat above your heads, you with your face scrunched up, heads bowed against the rain as you sprint up the slope - but once you start laughing, neither of you can stop, even when you reach the shelter of the bus stop. you collapse into the side of the stop, struggling to catch your breath. 

“it’s really not that funny,” he gasps.

“it kinda is,” you return - but your laughter dissolves fairly rapidly into coughs as the wind suddenly picks up with a passion. you shiver, arms uselessly wrapping around yourself in an attempt to save your dignity (wet, clinging shirt) and possibly your life (freezing to death).

takashi’s positioned between you and the wind - not by design, you’re sure - but it’s not helping much either way. you shudder again and hunch forward, a stray gust blowing rain into your face. as you blink the water from your eyes, you feel a heavy weight drape over your shoulders.

“takashi, i’m fine—”

“you’re obviously not, so just - don’t,” he says amusedly as he pulls his coat tighter around you, and you try not to think about his hands on you, or the way his scent and warmth envelops you.

he’s focused on adjusting the collar around your neck with careful precision, so you have ample time to study the droplets clinging to his eyelashes, the locks of wet hair falling into his eyes, his flushed cheekbones, the slope of his nose and jut of his chin, his lips—

“when’s the next bus?” you blurt, tearing your gaze away. get it together.

he glances up over your shoulder, leaning forward a bit. “um. twelve minutes.”

“what?” you say, hoping you misheard over the rain. 

“twelve minutes.”

oh, good lord.

“i’m going to die,” you say, horrified. “i can’t survive another twelve minutes in this.”

“doesn’t look like we have a choice,” he says grimly.

there’s a moment of quiet dismay. 

“well!” he says, with an attempt at cheeriness. “since we’re captive here, i might as well bounce off a couple of ideas for that project with you, if you don’t mind.” 

“i’d love that,” you say miserably. 

luckily for you, it’s genuinely interesting. takashi’s not the type to stay silent about things that matter to him - something you were quick to realise after working with him last year - and that extends to what he creates. his current project’s focused on sharp cuts, statement pieces, and blaring, accusing colours - red, green, black, white. 

“political fashion,” he tells you. “clothes that really say something.”

unfortunately for takashi, his professors aren’t too pleased with what he does have to say, and he’s ruffled more than a few feathers in his department. characteristically, it only spurs him on to do more. say more. go bigger. he's sweet, but he doesn't take things lying down either. 

“to be honest, i don't even know if they'll let me submit this one,” he says frankly. “but i'm gonna make a fuss either way.”

it certainly helps that he’s a genius with fabrics and cuts and shape language, and after some convincing, he shows you a few of his finished pieces on his phone as you huddle together, unsuccessfully shielding the screen from the rain. 

“you’re going to go big,” you tell him. “you've already won a few competitions, right? it's only a matter of time before people take notice.”

“i hope so,” he says. “i'm definitely going to do my best.”

you don't doubt him for a second. 

the white noise of rain fills the brief silence between you as another load of people trickle in to join you underneath the meagre protection of the shelter. takashi opens his mouth, closes it; considers you for a moment, head tilted, and then the words rush out.

“y'know, i really think you should model for me sometime.”

“oh, of course,” you say sarcastically, laughing it off, until he holds your gaze for a moment and you realise he’s being serious. dead serious. you've never backtracked so fast in your life. “oh, no, i don't think i'll look good in—”

the words spill out of his mouth, one after the other. “that's literally my job. and you'd probably look good in a trash bag so there's nothing to worry about. i have to work on my fashion photography anyway. might as well be with someone pretty.”

your heart stutters, stops, restarts. you must’ve misheard him over the rain - not one, but two compliments.

“what was - huh?”

his ears are flushed, probably from the cold. “i said, might as well be with someone who works pretty good with me.”

“oh. yeah. i’ll consider it.”

you really shouldn’t be getting your hopes up this easily. pretty? really? (though he undeniably did say you'd look good in a trash bag. surely he was just being polite.)

the rain’s lessened a bit over the course of your conversation, but it decides to pick up again with a vengeance, as if it's got something to prove. you've never been out in weather like this. there's no build up; it's coming down so hard and fast that the road in front of you, completely devoid of the bus that should be here soon, starts looking more like a river. the wind buffets the rain along the surface of the asphalt in wild patterns. 

“this is insane,” takashi yells through the downpour.

you pull a face at him in agreement due to lack of faith in your vocal projection skills, feeling goosebumps settle over your skin despite the weight of takashi's jacket over your shoulders. perhaps you should put your arms through it, but that feels a little pretentious, like you’re taking ownership of it. that’s girlfriend behaviour - something, horrifyingly, you’re not.

the train's arrived and a steady stream of people are adding to the crowd already under the shelter, shaking out their umbrellas uselessly amidst muttered curses. you're not usually fazed this easily - but what with the lurking anxiety of the many minutes left for the bus to arrive, the horrific weather, and the crowd inexplicably crushing you, you're slowly losing it. takashi mouths an apology as someone shoulders past and shoves him backwards, his side knocking into your chest, your back hitting the cold glass of the shelter.

his body. solid against yours. for a moment you're sure you've never felt so warm in your life. but the brief giddiness that courses through you is wholly overshadowed by the tight space you've been cornered into, by no fault of takashi's. the frigid air freezes your airways as you struggle to heave in another breath. it's suffocating. agonising. you need oxygen. 

and then takashi's arm lifts up to rest on the glass above your head, forcibly creating a small bubble of space around you, his body acting as a wall against the rush of people. he's got a small tattoo on his hand. a rose and stem. your eyes follow the neatly inked lines before they disappear out of your line of vision.

you exhale. 

“you okay?” 

when you look up at him you realise your faces are mere inches apart.

you can feel his breath fanning on your face, the warmth radiating from his body, count each droplet of rain on his eyelashes. he seems to realise it at the same moment you do, eyes darting up to yours, but for some reason neither of you move.

step away, you think, but he doesn’t. and you don't. like a strange magnetism is holding you in place, gluing his eyes to yours like he can’t look away either. every nerve ending in your body is firing, locking your knees; you're trembling. that stupid song's rotating just one verse around and around in your head—

and gettin' caught in the rain

you're sure he can hear your heartbeat even over the rain with the way it's thundering in your ears. his body frames yours against the shelter, trails of water dripping from his hair to trace his face, from the rise of his brow to the curve of his cheek to his lips, slightly parted as his breath comes out in uneven puffs—

don't goddamn look at his lips, idiot, but your brain's caught up a moment too late. your face burns as you wrench your gaze back up to his eyes. surely he didn't notice, right? but the look on his face steals the air from your lungs all over again. his pupils are dilated; eyes wide, uncertain as they hold yours, flickering, wanting, but even so it feels inevitable when his gaze unmistakably drops to your lips. oh, god help me. it's taking every ounce of self control to not surge forward and close the gap between you and jump his bones, but it feels like you're barrelling towards that anyway. his face and neck are flushed, eyes hooded. the space between you has shrunk even further; your lips part, his head tilts, your lashes flutter, and the bus pulls up at the stop in a shower of puddles.

“oh,” you say stupidly. “the bus.”

“yeah. the bus.” 

it’s a small comfort that he seems even more dazed than you. he’s just - standing there. in the middle of a late summer storm. staring at you like you’re the only thing in the world. and it’s flattering and your heart is still galloping in your chest and once you get home you’re going to half-believe you hallucinated this entire thing (because there is no fricking way you nearly kissed takashi fricking mitsuya in the rain - what is this, a romcom?) but you really do need to actually get home in the first place.

“i should—”

“the bus,” he says again, and comes to his senses enough to move backwards a little - to drop his arm from above your head and twist his torso away, giving you as much space as he can. “you should get on the bus.”

“i will. i am.” you’re focused on maintaining basic dignity as your arm presses firmly against the warmth of his chest in your attempt to squeeze past him. you’re getting on the bus, and then you’re crashing out. 

you blame the delay on your takashi-induced brain freeze, but it’s only once you’re free of the crowd and one step away from boarding the bus that you realise what’s wrong - he’s not behind you.

you twist around, coat swinging on your shoulders. “you coming?”

“oh, no, i’m taking the train to a friend’s house,” he calls back. you open your mouth to protest but he’s already adding, “the next one’s in two minutes; i’ll be okay.”

he’s taking the train. he’s taking the train? so he was waiting with you this whole time just for you? he chose to be outside in this ghastly weather when he could’ve been halfway home by now?

“any reason why yer floodin’ my bus?” the bus driver barks irritably, and you register the unfortunate fact that you’ve been standing stock still in the doorway like a fool as the rain washes rivlets of mud down the steps around your sodden shoes.

takashi looks a bit too amused as you blunder out an apology and stumble onto the bus, head entirely muddled. there’s barely standing space left, let alone any seats, so you’re resigned to being suffocated between a crush of drenched and irritated people. and it’s only after the bus pulls out of the station - after takashi gives you a smile goodbye before ducking back out into the rain again - after you twist your head to watch his figure receding into the distance until he’s inevitably blocked from your view - that you realise his coat still hangs from your shoulders.

[instagram: (4) messages from mitsuya_tkshi]

takashi :) (19:14) home yet? (19:14) warm? (19:14) dry? (19:14) alive?

you (19:22) what level of double texting is this

takashi :)  (19:22) using simple arithmetic id say prob lvl 2

you you reacted :thumbs-down: to ‘using simple arithmeti…’  (19:23) i got home 10 mins ago, hby?

takashi :)  (19:23) still in train 😟

you  (19:23) free u omg  (19:24) also i just realised i still have ur coat im so sorry i didnt give it back 😭 completely slipped my mind (19:24) i was a bit all over the place

takashi :)  (19:24) dw, me too (19:26) i’ll be on campus tmrw we can get lunch too ☺️

you  (19:30) sounds good!

takashi :) (19:32) !!!!!

you  (19:32) !!!!!!!!!!!!!

takashi :) (19:32) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!@#$z5ty

you (19:32) ???

takashi :) (19:33) ?? who knows. (19:34) see u tmrw then :))  (19:34) and u can get back to me about the modelling too if you’ve thought abt it 

you  (19:35) oh nah there’s not much to think about, i’d love to

takashi :)  (19:35) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

you  (19:35) stop. (19:35) (!!!!!!!!!!!!) 

you stare at the screen for a few moments longer until it becomes clear that the conversation’s over, at least for now. you need a hot shower, and you really need to lock in on a lab report, but there’s only one thing on your mind right now. you put down your phone, bury your face in your hands, and - finally - crash out.

takashi fricking mitsuya might certainly be nice to everyone, but something tells you that a near-kiss in the rain is probably a bit more than just friendly - and not only that, but rather than ignoring you for the rest of the semester, he actually wants to see you tomorrow?

maybe you’re not insane. maybe you weren’t hallucinating. maybe you weren’t reading into things.

maybe you do have a chance.

i've got to meet you by tomorrow noon / and cut through all this red tape / [...] you're the lady i've looked for / come with me and escape

in my head they're very chill at lunch very nonchalant the whole jazz, but things get a lil, y'know, when he offers to show you what you'll be modelling for him...

based entirely on very real occurrences in my life

general taglist open - leave a comment or ask !! @revyuu @fushiguruuzzzz

© rfyu. all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, repost, or feed my work into ai.

[veryintricaterituals]

When I was in school I went to a friend's house to work on a project on a Friday afternoon. At about 6 or 6:30 when the sun was about to set her mom called us over to the livingroom. She lit two candles with my friend and then they proceeded to put the lit candles inside of a little cupboard so no one could see them. Me, a young jewish teenager asked her, my catholic friend, why they did that and she shrugged, said it was a family tradition to bring peace and prosperity, that the women of the family did it every friday evening and then hid the candles. They were very catholic, so I bit my tongue and we went back to her room to study.

This is just one of many, many, crypto jewish traditions that still exist in my hometown of Medellín, Colombia and I want to share a little bit about them with you.

Medellín is the capital city of a region called Antioquia and it is currently the second biggest city in my country. Now the weird thing about my region and my city more specifically is that it is in the middle of fucking nowhere, like we are in a valley in the middle of the andean mountains and it would take over two weeks by river, horse and river, and dunkey and mule to even get here before the invention of cars or trains.

Now Medellín was founded over 400 years ago, and families had been coming to the region for way before then, so that means that for centuries getting to my city from the sea or from the other big cities in the country was incredibly hard. This was by design, because Medellín itself was founded by about 28 families and we know for a fact that alteast half of them were crypto jews hidding from the Spanish Inquisition, and both before and the foundation more and more jewish families arrived to the region.

This is a known fact, the DNA of the people from the region has a lot of sepharadic jewish mixed in there. Early Colombian literature dating up to the 1845 would call the people of my region the Neogranadine Jews or the Colombian Jews. But because they were crypto jews the religion and most of the traditions were lost during the 400 years that have passed, now over 90% of the population is catholic and don't really know about their origins.

But some things stuck. And I want to tell you about them.

On the 7th night of December there is this pre-christmas festival called "El día de las velitas" or the little candle night that started and was unique to Antioquia. It's supposed to commemorate the candles that people had in the streets and the windows on the night Jesus was born and that helped Mary and Joseph to find their way. Do you know how this unique festival is celebrated in my city? People take to the streets to light candles, small colorful candles that they put in wooden planks or directly on the streets, it's the night that people decorate and turn on the christmas lights and it is so important and popular that we have an actual day off on the 8th of december.

Let me show you a few pictures

I don't think I need to explain this one. Even most goyim will know about Hannukah. But it is the weirdest thing when the dates coincide and we are all lighting candles together.

My dad was in the Jewish community board and we needed to rent a place to put our jewish daycare. They found this beautiful old house that had belonged to a family in colonial times but needed a little TLC. We had them remove some wooden floors because they were too old and rotting and found a huge Magen David made out stones in the center of the floor. The house also happened to have two separate kitchens and a mikveh or immersion bath in one of the rooms. These a very traditional things that colonial houses have in my region.

My grandmother converted to Judaism so I have a side from my family that is 100% from here and didn't arrive during the 20th century. I had the pleasure to meet both of my great grandparents from that side though they died when I was young. My grandma tells me that my greatgrandmother used to have one of these immersion baths in her house when she was growing up. Women were supposed to bathe in them after their periods had ended, my catholic great grandmother respected the mikveh traddition more than I ever have.

(I wish I had photos from that specific house but this happened over ten years ago, I'll show you some immersion baths from a different colonial houses that are also in my city)

Now how about we talk about traditional clothes. I'm sure most of you have heard of Ponchos, which are traditional in the Andean region, well the one from Antioquia is a little different and it's always supposed to be worn with a hat. Let's see if you can spot what I mean.

A few years ago Spain decided to grant citizenship to the descendants of the Jewish people that they had exiled in 1492. To get it you had to prove through family trees that your family had been Jewish. My city got the most ammount of passports out of everyone in the world, more than Israel. I could have applied from both my family that came from Egypt in the 20th century (we still have the keys to our house in Spain) or through my catholic side, as both of my grandmother's last names applied. I didn't but I could have.

I don't really know why I decided to finally write this post. I have so many more stories. I just think it's both incredibly sad that so much Jewish culture and people were lost but also it's a little heartwarming to see what survived even centuries down the line.

[stellar-haikyuu]

word of the day ☆ kageyama tobio x reader

synopsis: due to a conflict in schedule, yachi asks first-year reader to cover for her english tutoring session with a certain volleyball prodigy. details: fluff | mutual friends to lovers | first meeting | ~2.2k words | gn! reader | requested by @wordsofelie as part of my karasuno writing event

From your seat by the window, you catch snippets of Yachi’s anxious voice from the hallway.

“You’re only available this afternoon? Oh dear. Um, okay, I think I can go, but I need to double-check first!”

Leaning forward on your desk, you spot Yachi speaking with a student you don’t recognize. Judging by the neatly labeled folders the student hands her, they’re probably from the first-year project design committee. 

You feel a small wave of pride. You convinced Yachi to sign up after seeing her beautiful volleyball posters.

Moments later, Yachi skitters into the classroom, her steps quick and slightly frantic as she collapses into the seat in front of you. She turns around, clasping her hands together nervously.

“Um…can I ask you for a favor?”

You raise an eyebrow, taken aback by her unusual boldness. “A favor? What happened? I could hear you worrying from all the way here.”

Yachi winces, the tips of her ears turning pink. “Uh, you see…the design committee wants to hold a meeting this afternoon after school. I’ll be excused from club activities, but that’s not the issue.” She sighs, brushing her bangs aside.

“What is it, then?”

“I promised to tutor Kageyama-kun in English,” she explains, voice softening with guilt. “He’s got a test this Friday, and I agreed to help him study for an hour today before practice starts.”

Kageyama? Oh, right. 

You vaguely remember him—one of the two volleyball players who occasionally show up in your classroom to study with Yachi during lunch breaks.

“I see,” you say slowly. “So, you want me to cover for you?”

“If it’s not too much trouble?” Yachi’s hands clasp together as she leans forward slightly. “And…if you have questions about volleyball, this might be a good chance to ask?”

Her hopeful tone makes you pause. You suppose it wouldn’t hurt.

“But if not, I don’t want to bother you!” She shakes her head vigorously. “I can just double my other session with him later this week-”

“Alright. I’ll do it,” you say with a small shrug.

“I- wait, really?!” Her eyes widen in surprise.

“Yup. What time and place?”

Bracing yourself, you knock gently on what you hope is the correct clubroom door. 

“Uh, hello? Is this the volleyball club?”

A voice from the other side calls out, “Yeah, come in!”

Taking a deep breath, you slide the door open, stepping into a room filled with what can only be described as chaos. A group of boys—clearly the team—turns to stare at you in unison, their expressions ranging from curious to outright surprised.

“Um, hello!” You clear your throat, suddenly aware of the weight of their attention. “Is Kageyama-san here?”

Technically, you’ve seen him before, but you’d rather not embarrass yourself by scanning every face in the room.

“That’s me,” a deep voice responds.

You follow the sound to a dark-haired boy seated a few feet away. When you meet his gaze, you’re taken aback by the sheer intensity of his stare.

His eyes look like blueberries…why haven’t I noticed that before?

You chuckle softly at the absurd thought before regaining your composure. 

“Hi! Yachi couldn’t make it today because of a meeting, so she asked me to fill in for her.”

“Oh. Okay,” he says simply, blinking in confusion.

“Wait a second!” A boy with bright orange hair practically bounces up from his seat. “You’re Yachi-san’s classmate, right? You sit behind her during lunch sometimes!”

“That’s me,” you reply with a small smile. 

You introduce yourself to the team formally before settling on the ground beside Kageyama.

“So, your vocabulary test is this Friday, right?”

“Yes,” he replies curtly, handing you a stack of papers and worksheets.

As you skim through the materials, the reason for his struggles becomes glaringly obvious. You suppress a small sigh.

“Hmmm. Okay, let’s start by marking the words you’re completely unfamiliar with. Could you underline them with a pencil?”

Kageyama nods and sets to work, though it doesn’t take long for him to underline more than half the list.

The orange-haired boy—Hinata, you later learn—leans over to peek at the paper. He immediately snorts. “Man, you really suck at this, Kageyama.”

Kageyama whirls to face him, glaring. “As if you’re doing any better!”

“Hinata, could you shut up and work on your proverbs? I don’t have all day.”

“Tsukishima!”

Well, isn’t this interesting…

“This is so hard.” Kageyama huffs in frustration. “I won’t even need this stuff in the future.”

“Yeah, but you need it to go to the next training camp,” Hinata chimes in.

“Also, don’t be rude, King,” Tsukishima adds. “They weren't even supposed to tutor you at all.”

At that, Kageyama immediately straightens and bows his head toward you. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“It’s fine, I get it.” You wave your hand dismissively. “I’m not too fond of science because I don’t see how chemistry will help me be a better sports journalist.”

Kageyama stops writing before shooting his head up. “Sports journalist?”

The rest of the members scattered around the room pause too, almost like you’ve dropped the most shocking revelation of the century.

“You like sports?” Kageyama questions.

“Yep! I don’t have a particular favorite at the moment.” You tap your chin thoughtfully. “I’m still trying to explore everything, but-”

“What about volleyball?” Kageyama’s full attention is on you now. He’s leaning forward and the pencil that was once in his hand is now rolling on the floor.

You hear an amused huff from somewhere in the room.

“Uh, volleyball?” You fumble for a response, caught off guard by the sudden shift in focus. “Well, it’s the sport I enjoyed playing the most in physical education.”

“What did you like about it?” He presses, moving a little closer.

“Uh-” 

Yachi wasn’t kidding when she said volleyball was his life. 

“Relax, Kageyama. They're not going anywhere, give them some space,” a gray-haired senior advises him.

“Oh, sorry,” Kageyama mumbles, leaning back a bit.

“It’s fine.” You smile, finding his passion quite endearing. 

“I guess I like that I don’t have to handle the ball for a long time. Plus, your entire team just stays on one side of the court. When it comes to basketball or soccer, I look like a fool because I can’t dribble the ball well. It always gets away from me, and the other teams snatch it before I know what’s going on.”

You pause mid-ramble, momentarily embarrassed, but Kageyama doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looks even more engaged.

“Also, I find volleyball unpredictable and thrilling. The rallies always keep me on the edge of my seat. I’m sure you understand what I mean?”

“Yes. I do.” Something in his eyes shifts. “Thrilling…”

“Yeah-”

“Thrilling. Causing a feeling of great excitement or happiness,” Kageyama recites from memory.

The atmosphere in the room lightens instantly. Everyone attempts to hold back a laugh, including you. A few of his team members fail to do so, but he pays them no mind.

“That’s right, Kageyama-san. Volleyball is thrilling,” you nod at him with a shaky smile.

“Yes!” He cheers to himself silently, pumping his fists in genuine excitement.

Cute.

An idea suddenly pops into your head.

“Speaking of volleyball, do you have plans to play professionally?”

“Of course!” He answers with absolute confidence. “I don’t plan on doing anything else.”

“Ah, I see. And you plan on playing on international teams one day?”

“Definitely,” he responds without missing a beat.

“Great. You know what I think, Kageyama-san?”

“What?” He looks at you expectantly.

“Maybe learning some basic English could help you play better with foreign teammates.”

Kageyama tilts his head. “English can…help?”

“You don’t need to be a fluent speaker, but teamwork improves when you can understand each other more, right?”

“That’s…” He stops to think about it carefully. You wait, hoping that it motivates him to study a bit more.

“But, wouldn’t there be translators and everything?” Hinata pipes up.

“That’s true, but they won’t always be there,” you respond in a steady tone. “I believe it’s always better to be prepared. It helps to have a common language at times.”

“A common language…” Hinata repeats.

“Well, for instance, I plan on being a sports journalist here,” you continue, “but there’s a chance I’ll need to interview foreign players. It could help to know a bit of what they’re saying so that it doesn’t get very awkward. But, that’s just my perspective.”

Kageyama looks up, and to your surprise, he speaks before anyone else can.

“You’re right.”

The room goes silent. For a moment, you’re sure you didn’t hear him correctly.

“You’re right,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “How good should I be?” 

“I—huh?” You blink again, confused by the sudden shift.

“How good should I be?” he asks, clearly serious, his intense gaze fixed on you.

“Oh, I heard you the first time,�� you clarify, still trying to make sense of the situation. “I just don’t understand what you mean.”

“What should my goal be? How many words should I start memorizing?”

“Your goal?” You blink at him. “Your goal now for high school is to pass your English classes.”

Kageyama pouts. “I know, but you said it was important for volleyball. I need to be good enough at it then.”

You scramble your brain for a possible answer. “So…we’re talking about many years from now?”

He nods, patiently waiting for your verdict. 

“Okay, fine,” you sigh. “If I get the chance to interview you in the future, we’ll do it in basic English. How does that sound?”

“I’ll do it,” he replies immediately, eyes lighting up. 

Did he even process what I said?

“Please continue to teach me.” Kageyama bows before you, causing everyone to startle.

“Look at that! The King’s actually asking?”

“Shut up!” Kageyama grumbles at his teammate before turning back to you.

You’re flustered by his unexpected gesture, but can’t help the tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Alright. Now come on, we’ve got thirty more minutes before you guys start practice.”

Yachi calls you later that evening in total disbelief. “Kageyama-kun just told me you guys went through his entire vocabulary list today.”

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t believe it at first!” Yachi exclaims, her tone rising in excitement. “Sometimes we barely get through half the list after an hour.”

You think back to his progress before you found a way to motivate him. “Well, it seemed that way at first-”

“Then he says that learning English is important for his future after all! He even wants to dedicate extra time to study for it. He never would have done that before!”

“Ah-”

“And here’s the thing,” she continues, “he asked if you could tutor him again on other days! What exactly did you do?”

“Well, I-”

“Or is it something that I didn’t do? Did he say anything about me being a bad teacher or-”

“Yachi-san!” You cut her off before she spirals any further. “Don’t worry, he didn’t say anything about you. I think this is all because I may have challenged him to do a basic English interview with me in the future.”

Yachi blows a fuse. “You challenged- wait, what? In the future? What do you-”

“Wait, is that a bad thing?”

“No! I mean, it’s good, I suppose?” Yachi’s voice softens as she carefully chooses her words. “Um, it actually explains something he asked me for help with earlier.”

“What is it?”

“You told him to write down one word every day and use it in a meaningful sentence, right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, you see, his sentence, um…”

“What’s wrong?”

“He asked me how to write, ‘Meeting Yachi-san’s friend was thrilling.’”

You freeze for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in.

“Wait- what?”

“He said meeting you was thrilling.”

“Oh...”

The silence on the line stretches, your mind racing. Something electric runs through your veins, and you can almost feel your heart thumping faster.

“What about you?” Yachi asks, her voice hesitant but curious.

“Me?”

“Was meeting Kageyama-kun thrilling too?” 

You think back to that afternoon and it’s easy to respond with certainty.

“Yes.”

A week later, Kageyama walks into your classroom during lunch. He shows you a test paper with what he says is the highest score he’s ever gotten on an English test. 

You can hear Hinata grumbling to Yachi about how unfair it is that Kageyama got extra help, but all you can focus on is Kageyama’s smile. It’s the most genuine, beautiful one you’ve ever seen.

I want to see it more.

I want to be around him more.

I want to achieve our goals together.

“Dream.”

Kageyama’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

“What?”

He points to the bottom of his test paper, where he was asked to write a sentence in English using any of the provided vocabulary words. You attempt to read his messy handwriting, but he reads it out for you anyway.

“Their dream is to be a sports journalist.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. 

He wrote about me?

Hinata squawks, reaching for the test paper and reviewing it with Yachi.

“Oh my gosh, he actually got all the grammar right,” she gasps in awe. “Good job, Kageyama-kun!”

He thanks her briefly before fixing his gaze on you once more.

“Dream. That was the word of the day.”

masterlist

[fungateshortcakes]

Crochet me a mistletoe

Got this idea because, well, it's christmas and I recently started crocheting! I am nowwhere near as good as I described the skills of the reader. I can't even crochet a simple scarf. But practice makes perfect, and a girl can dream right? (Reader is gender neutral)

Pairing: Logan Howlett x reader

Summary: Its christmas at the mansion and you've crocheted everyone a special gift. What will Logan think about the present you made especially for him?

Wordcount: 4.9k

Warnings/tags: english is not my first language, none, fluff, slowburn-ish, friends to lovers, reader can crochet, painfully sappy, missunderstandings?, itty bitty bits of angst, happy ending

The x-men mansion in december felt like stepping into a festive snow globe. Frosted windows framed the place, a hord of students racing through the halls as they were excited to spent the christmas holidays at home with their families, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of christmas jingles that seemed to follow you wherever you went.

The large tree in the main living room was a masterpiece, each ornament carefully placed by a team effort of students and teachers. Even Logan had been forced politely asked to string the lights, grumbling about it the whole time while he was secretly ensuring that every lightbulb was perfectly in its place. Despite your reassurance that it was fine and that he could come down from the ladder already, he shook his head, a deep frown on his face as he munched on his bottom lip as he rearranged the lights for the 1000th time.

You sighed with a smile, deciding to let him do his thing. Yet you found yourself sneaking glances at him, something you had been doing more often than you cared to admit over the last few months.

He was rugged, rough around the edges and seemingly utterly out of place among the cheery holiday decorations, but there was something about seeing him standing by the firelight, a string of glittery garlands for the tree slung over his shoulder, that made your heart flutter.

But Logan was just your friend. A good one. And you weren’t about to mess that up by acting on a silly crush that wasn't anything more than that. So, instead of drooling at the way his muscles strained and dipped under the wife beater he wore even in this freezing weather while he helped decorating the place, you threw yourself into your newest hobby: crocheting.

For weeks, you had been holed up in your room, learning and practicing how to crochet everything from scarves, mittens and hats to cute plushies and useful items such as cup coasters or little bags.

It had started as a way to pass the time, especially when there was no mission you were sent to. And now that you were deep into the christmas holidays, you didn't even have a class to teach. That's when you realised you had nothing to do and it was time to find a new hobby.

But once you got the hang of it and felt like it wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be, the idea of creating handmade gifts for your friends at the mansion had blossomed and you were eager to make a perfect present for everyone.

The work was slow but rewarding. You had already finished a soft scarf for Ororo in her favorite lavender colour that complimented her snow white hair and a set of soft, fingerless gloves for Hank in a deep navy blue. Each project felt like a little piece of yourself, stitched into every loop and knot.

But Logans gift had been different from the start.

It had taken you three tries to find the right yarn until you finally settled on a charcoal gray that would suit his style and features without standing out too much.

You decided on a sweater, something warm and practical that he could wear during the long, cold nights he spent patrolling the grounds. And, because you couldn’t help yourself, you added a small, personal touch. A tiny design embroidered over the heart, a pair of crossed claws encircled by a wreath of holly. You might as well, right? This project would take you a long ass time anyway, so a little embroidery wouldn’t hurt.

Crocheting actual clothing pieces like sweaters and jackets was a painstacking process, taking up lots and lots of yarn and taking forever. Only people you loved were worth that effort. You hoped Logan would know that once he held the finished products in hand.

Now with christmas eve approaching fast, the sweater was nearly finished. But you had other projects that you worked on simultaniously. If the task of crocheting another long chain for a scarf became too dreading and boring, you switched it up by continuing to work on a plushie.

“Darlin’, you’re gonna get yourself snowed in if you keep sittin’ there.”

Logans voice startled you, making you lose the stitch you were in. You looked up from your crocheting to find him leaning against the doorframe of the common room. The fireplace crackled warm beside you and outside the tall open window, there were snowflakes swirling in a gentle flurry. You sat cozy on the windowsill in your warmest clothes, enjoying the crisp breeze against your face and watching how the snow painted the garden of the mansion in a dazzling bright white, all while absentmindely crocheting your gifts.

“I like the view” you answered him with a soft smile, the yarn rolling between your feet as you pull at it “And I’m almost done.”

Logan left his spot at the door and stepped into the room, his boots making soft thuds on the wooden floor. “What’re you makin’?” You shook your head as you did only a little to hide the plushie you were crocheting “It’s a surprise” you teased.

Logan raised an eyebrow, hand in his pant pockets, his lips quirking into a smirk. “For me?”

You rolled your eyes with a soft giggle. “Only if you want a teddy bear plush in Scott's outfit" you said, throwing him a knowing look.

He shuddered in mild disgust, chuckled, then settled into the armchair across from you. “Nah, I'm good" he replied, putting his hands up in defence. Then his gaze landed on the bottom of the sweater, his soon to be sweater, that poked out from under your blanket draped over your lap. He pointed to it "I think one of 'em ugly christmas sweaters you are makin' would suit Summers better" he joked, thinking you would laugh along, but he noted your slight hurt frown. Him saying that he thought christmas sweaters were ugly made your heart sting painfully. You pulled the sweater under your blanket completely, shielding it from Logan. “It’s not ugly,” you mumbled, averting eyecontact with him.

In that moment, you weren't too sure about your gift for Logan anymore. The sweater you would give him wasn’t the usual christmas sweater with bright colours and corny patterns, but still, maybe he wasn't a sweater person? What if he didn't like it? He would never say it to your face, but just imagining his unimpressed face, a forced smile as he reluctantly thanked you, already thinking about the best and fastes way to get rid of the clothing piece, it made you want to cry already. All this effort for nothing?

You hadn't realised that you stared at Logan while you where deep in thought, a lit cigar hanging lazily between his lips. “Why’re you always starin’ at me?” Logan asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.

Your face heated. “I wasn’t staring. Just thinking” you pressed out, quickly picking up your crocheting again.

Logan blew smoke from out of his nostrils “Sure you weren’t” he said, but there was no teasing in his tone. If anything, he sounded curious, curious of what exactly you where thinking with your brows knitted together.

You focused on the yarn in your hands, on the way your hook looped easily through every stitch, willing yourself to act normal. This was fine. You were fine. “You’re workin’ too hard” Logan muttered after a moment. “Spendin’ all your time on this.”

You shrugged “It’s worth it” you smiled without looking up. “I want everyone to have something special this year. And what's more special than a present made especially for them. I guess the best gift is when someone thinks of you”

Logan looked at you. Looked at you for a long second and didn’t respond right away. When you finally glanced at him, his expression was unreadable, his gaze already turned away and fixed on the fire. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Your heart skipped a beat, but before you could respond, ask him what he meant by that, Logan stood up, stretching his arms over his head. His white tank top rode up slightly as he stretched, your eyes staring at the dimples on his back before you shook your head, your cheeks on fire.

“Don’t stay up too late” he called, heading towards the door. “Santa don’t visit if you’re awake.”

You laughed, nodding your head dismissive manner “Goodnight, Logan.”

Logan smiled softly as he looked back at you one more time “Night, darlin’.” And then he was gone. You looked down at the half-finished sweater under your blanket, your chest tight as you sighed.

The mansion was alive with holiday excitement the next morning, despite the kids not being there. But if they were, you just knew that they would be buzzing about presents and sneaking peaks under the towering Christmas tree already.

You spent most of the day putting the finishing touches to most of your gifts, tucked away in a quiet corner of the common room. All your presents were nearly finished, except for the sweater you had planned on gifting Logan. You couldn't bring yourself to work on it anymore. You couldn't even look at it, too ashamed that you even came up with this idea.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that Logan appeared in the common room, carrying an armful of firewood. He always looked so effortlessly strong when he carried stuff, it almost made you drool over his forearms and hands. His flannel shirt was rolled up to his elbows, exposing his hairy forearms that had tiny snowflakes clinging to it.

You glanced up from your crocheting, trying not to stare too obviously.

“You been at that all day?” Logan asked, dropping the firewood near the fireplace with a loud thunk. He tried not to smile as he saw you bundled up with balls of yarn and wrapping paper surrounding you, a few ready gifts already stacked on top of the other, a hot cocoa with marshmallows steaming next to you on the coffee table.

“Almost done wrapping everything” you cheered, holding up a crocheted beanie for charles to keep his head warm.

Logans gaze locked onto the garment in your hands. His expression softened for a brief moment before he caught himself and cleared his throat. “Looks good” he said gruffly, turning his attention to the fireplace again.

You smiled faintly, folding the beanie neatly and tucking it into a small box with a gift card and putting it on the stack of finished presents after you wrote Charles name on it “Thanks.”

Logan unsheathed his claws and striked a match on one of them, shaking the tiny flame on a stick before throwing it to the pile of freshly chooped logs “You should take a break. All that knittin' and crochetin' must your fingers” Logan grumbled, blowing at the fire until the flames started to flicker to life, casting a warm glow across the room.

“I will once I am done with all of this” you replied to him, wrapping the next present aside. “it won't take long" Logan straightened back up, brushing his rugged hands on his jeans. “So, what are your plans tonight? Besides playin’ Santa Claus.”

“Ororo planned to watch a christmas movie with the team, I guess I will join them later” you replied, stretching your back a littlesince you had been sitting like a shrimp for the past few days, hunched over your projects. “Why, what about you?”

Logan shrugged "Not much" he cleared his throat “Might head out for a bit. Get some air.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

Logan gave a small, almost shy smile and shrugged “Never been much for all the holiday stuff.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “You could stay in. Watch the movie with us.”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to yours. “Yeah? You think they wouldn’t mind?”

Your eyebrows raised as he seemed so unsure “Of course not" you denied, smiling warmly. “I can promise that they all want you there, Logan. I know I do"

That evening, the two of you settled into the couch along with Jean and Scott, a bowl of popcorn between you. Ororo sat draped over the seat next to the sofa, Rouge and Remy sitting in front of you on the ground while Kurt was sprawled out right in front of the TV, looking up at the flimmering box with a toothy smile. Even Charles had rolled in to join.

The movie, a classic Christmas move, The Grinch, to be exact, played on the screen, and even though it was one of your favourite christmas movies, you found yourself paying more attention to Logan than the plot.

He was unusually relaxed despite everyone being so huddled up together, leaning back against the cushions with his arms crossed over his chest. You fleetingly looked over to the present neatly tucked away under the tree. His sweater. You had decided to finish it after bickering over it for so long. Well, you didn't exactly have time to make him anything else. And if you did, it would only be half assed. And you didn't want that, Logan deserved more. Something special.

Halfway through the movie, Logan reached for the popcorn, his hand brushing against yours briefly. The contact was fleeting, but it sent a spark up your arm and you felt like you were part of a cheesy and cliche slowburn fanfiction.

You quickly pulled your hand away, your heart racing. “Sorry” he muttered, his voice gruff and quiet as to not alert the others. “It’s okay” you whispered back, trying to sound normal.

The room fell into a comfortable silence again, the only sounds coming from the TV, the crackling fire and a little hushed banter between Rouge and Remy. But you couldn’t stop stealing glances at Logan, your chest tightening with every second you spent sitting so close to him.

“Thanks for talkin' me into this” Logan said suddenly, his voice low. “Didn’t think I’d enjoy it much, but… it’s nice.” Your lips curved into a soft smile. “I’m glad.”

He looked at you then, his dark eyes catching the light of the fire. There was something in his gaze you couldn’t quite place, something warm and unguarded, even though a lot of people were around that could potentionally witness it. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the world disappeared, leaving just the two of you sitting by the fire, the glow of the Christmas lights reflecting in his eyes.

Then Logan cleared his throat quietly, breaking the spell. “You’re really something else, I hope you know that” he muttered, his voice rough but sincere.

Your cheeks heated, and you looked down at your lap. There they were again, his words from yesterday. The thoughts you had repeated in your head the whole night, not knowing what they represented. “What do you mean?”

“You put all this work into makin’ people happy, to make 'em feel included even though they weren't into it at first.” He explained, draping a muscled arm over the frame of the couch. "You force people into their luck, ya know? Haven't seen anything quite like it"

You brushed a lock behind your ear. "I guess I just wanted to do something nice” you smiled softly. Logan let out a deep, content breath through his nose, looking at you, his eyes soft “Well, you did." Logan said, his gaze lingering on you.

For a second, you thought he might reach out and let the arm that rested over the couch snake around your shoulder to pull you into him, but then he shifted in his seat, his hand retreating to his side.

By the time the movie ended, everyone said their goodbyes and goodnights, swarming out to their rooms to sleep, letting the mansion fall quiet. Only Logan and you were left. You also wanted to just fall into your bed and sleep, but you were too tired already to get yourself moving.

Logan was the first to stand, stretching his arms over his head and giving you a good view of the prominent vein that cascaded below his waistband. You started to think he was doing this on purpose. “Guess I’ll head to bed too" he yawned, his tone thick.

Goodnight, Logan” you replied, watching as he headed toward the door.

He paused before leaving, turning back to look at you. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was soft when he spoke. “Night, darlin’. Sleep well.”

When he was gone, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

The morning sun filtered through the frosted windows of the mansion, bathing the common room in a golden glow.

Christmas Day had finally arrived, and the mansion buzzed with the christmas spirit of all. It was a bit overwhelming to see everyone in their christmas pyjamas sitting around the tree, eager for presents.

Logan was already there too, leaning against the mantle with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Well, you liked to sleep in okay? It wasn’t hard to be down in the common room before you.

Logans presence was as steady as ever, but there was a quiet contentment to him this morning, you noted. He looked up as you entered and something in his expression softened.

“Mornin’” he greeted, his voice low, smooth and warm from the hot coffee he was drinking. You lifted your hand in a tiny wave “Morning” you yawned, smiling as you made your way to the tree, the rest of carefully wrapped gifts in your arms that you had finished just the night before after the movie. You couldn't sleep anyway since the thought of Logan made you stay awake, might as well perfect your presents.

After a while, it was your turn to hand out your presents. You crawled under the large tree, gifting them one by one. You watched in glee as the room filled with laughter and delighted exclamations. Ororo beamed when she unwrapped the lavender scarf you had made for her and Hank was already slipping on his navy gloves. Charles shooked his head with a chuckle as he saw the beanie you had crocheted for him, letting his fingers trace over it.

Logan waited patiently, allthough he didn'texpect there to be something for him, his dark eyes following you as you worked your way through the pile of gifts, quietly enjoying the unfiltered reactions from everyone.

When there was only one wrapped gift left you had to hand out, Logan wondered who it could be for since everyone had gotten their present already. But as you turned to him, handing him the neatly wrapped box containing his sweater, his brow lifted in surprise.

“For me?” he asked, as if the idea of receiving a gift was foreign to him.

You giggled at his reaction "Of course. Did you really think I wouldn't give you something?" you asked, smiling shyly. You were just as nervous for him to open the present as he was.

Logan carefully peeled back the paper, his hands oddly delicate for a man who seemed to handle everything with brute strength. When the sweater emerged, he stared at it for a long moment, his thumb brushing over the tiny embroidered design near the heart. He remembered the colour. This was the sweater he had called ugly. He had called your thoughtful gift ugly. He was a horrible person.

“You made this? For me?" he whispered in awe, a little more to himself, his eyes tearing up slightly.

“I did” you nodded, fiddling with your fingers as your nerves ate away at your insides. “Do you like it?”

He looked up at you, his gaze piercing. “I...this is…” he trailed off, shaking his head as if he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he unfolded the sweater and pulled it on right then and there over his tank top. The fit was perfect and the sight of him in something you made with your own hands sent a warm flush through your chest. He looked like a chunky teddy bear and the urge to hug him was growing strong in your chest.

“Looks good on you” you said instead.

Logan’s lips twitched into a rare smile. “Feels good, too. Thank you.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of holiday cheer, but you couldn’t help noticing how Logan stuck close to you. He lingered near the kitchen while you baked cookies with Ororo and Rouge, his presence steady and reassuring. At one point, you caught him running his fingers over the sweaters fabric, his expression distant but content. He protected the sweater with his life, making sure no one ruined it by accidentally pouring wine over it. If just one atom of a cookie crumb were to touch the fabric, he would lash out.

It wasn’t until later that evening, after most had gone to bed and the mansion had settled into a peaceful quiet, that Logan found you sitting by the fire.

“You’ve been busy” he mumbled, his voice low as he sat down beside you.

“I guess I have,” you said, smiling. “It was worth it, though.”

Logan studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable like usual. Then he shifted and the next second, his big hand presented you a tiny wooden figurine, a little cat, carefully hand carved by him. "S'for you" he muttered, averting his gaze. The light of the fire did only so little to hide his embarrassed blush.

You gasped, taking the cat into your hands as if it was made out of glass and would break if you looked at it the wrong way "Did you....did you make this?" you asked him and he nodded reluctantly. You never thought Logan was into wood carving. But now that you knew, it made sense. "Yeah...didn't want to give it to you when everyone else was 'round. No need for 'em to know I have this hobby" he explained to you, picking at a loose thread on his sweater. Your stomach felt warm as you thanked him, holding onto his little present tightly.

You could feel Logans gaze on you as you admired his neat craftmansship, warm and steady and it took everything in you not to lean into him.

“Y’know” he said, breaking the drawn out silence between you “this is the best christmas I’ve had in a long time. Maybe ever.”

You looked up at him “Really?” you asked, your mouth agape in wonder.

“Yeah” he said, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile that was rare to see from him “And I think I’ve got you to thank for that.” Your heart swelled and before you could stop yourself, you reached out and placed your hand over his. Logan stiffened for only a short moment, his gaze darting to your hand, but then he relaxed, his fingers curling around yours.

“You’re welcome” you whispered softly. Logan didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes.

The fire started to die out, only faintly gleaming but still enough to wrap you and Logan in a light of warmth. Logans hand was still in yours, his warmth seeping into your skin as the quiet surrounded you both. You couldn’t remember how long you had been sitting there, since when you started to lean against him, head on his shoulder, but time seemed to stretch and slow, every second weighted with something unsaid.

“Darlin’” Logan finally murmured, his voice so soft it felt like it was meant for you alone. “Do you ever think about… settlin’ down?” the question caught you off guard for a second and you turned your head to look at him, your heart thudding in your chest. “Settling down?”

“Yeah” he breathed, his gaze fixed on the low fire. He found an iron rod to dig and shove between the wooden logs that had long turned into coal and ash, trying to distract himself so the words would come easier. “Findin’ somethin’, someone, you can hold onto. Somethin’ real. Y'know, not these kinds of meaningless situationships.”

Your breath hitched and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. Logan, the man who had always seemed like a force of nature. Wild, untamed and unyielding—looked almost vulnerable now, his expression open and unguarded.

“I guess I’ve thought about it. It would be nice to have that someone. The right person you can lean onto any time” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. You felt like you were leaning against that one person just now. “Have you?”

He let out a soft, almost self-deprecating laugh. “I didn’t think I had to. Thought I wasn’t the type for all that. But lately…” He trailed off, finally turning to meet your gaze, looking down at you cuddled up against him “Lately, I’ve been thinkin’ maybe I was wrong.”

The room felt impossibly still, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket. “Logan” you began, your voice trembling slightly “what are you trying to say?” allthough the answer seemed obvious, you feared you weren't understanding him correctly.

He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m tryin’ to say that I care about you. More than I’ve cared about anyone in a long time. And I know I’m not the easiest guy to be around, but… you make me wanna try. Make me wanna be better.”

Your chest tightened, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Logan…” were you imagining things? Were you actually by the windowstill, all alone, dying from the cold Logan warned you about? The cold that looked gorgeous from inside a warm room but was vicious in its beauty, killing you because you wouldn't listen and close the window? Were you just taking your last breath, your mind tricking you into dreaming about what could be?

“I know I’m probably messin’ this up" he swallowed deeply, his voice rough with emotion. “But I had to tell you. Couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

His words were real, his warmth, his soft breath fanning across your face. You weren't dying. You were just starting to live. “You’re not messing anything up" you shook your head, voice breaking slightly.

His eyes searched yours and for the first time, you saw a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “You mean that?”

Instead of answering, you leaned up, closing the space between you. Logan froze for a split second before his arms came around you, pulling you close into his lap as your lips met in a kiss that felt like coming home after a harsh and straining day out in the cold.

It was soft and tentative at first, but as the seconds stretched on, it deepened, the barriers between you dissolving like snow in the sun. Your hands laid flat against his chest, feeling the warm and fuzzy fabric underneath your fingers. Logan sighed from his nose as the kiss deepened, a quiet, longing noise forming in the back of his throat.

When you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, your breath mingling in the silence of the room.

“I care about you too” you whispered. “More than I can even put into words.”

Logan let out a soft, shaky laugh, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Guess that makes us both pretty bad at talkin’ about feelings.”

You laughed, the sound light and full of relief. “Maybe. But I think we’re doing okay.”

Logan nodded “Better than okay" he murmured, pressing another kiss to your mouth. He was already getting addicted to this.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of warmth and quiet joy. Logan stayed by your side, his hand never straying far from yours as the two of you talked about everything and nothing. You felt like two teenagers that had sneaked away from everyone else to enjoy the thrill of making out and cuddling like in a sappy romance novel.

By the time the first light of dawn crept through the windows, you found yourselves curled up on the couch together, a soft blanket draped over you both. Logans arm was around your shoulders, and your head rested against his chest, the steady beat of his heart lulling you into a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in a long while. The sweater he still hadn't taken off (and wouldn’t for a while) acting like a soft pillow under your face.

“Good night, darlin'” Logan murmured, his lips brushing against your hair before he looked out the window, the sun rising slowly. He knew it wouldn’t take long before the others flodded the room, but he wanted you to sleep and rest, even if it was just for an hour. He kind of felt bad for keeping you up until the sun literally rose again, but how was he supposed to fall asleep when he just found out you loved him back?

“Good night, Logan” you whispered, smiling as you closed your eyes.

For the first time, you knew without a doubt that this was where you were meant to be - wrapped in Logans arms, your hearts stitched together like the threads of a handmade gift, stronger and more beautiful for the care put into every moment you shared with him.

I've never tried putting dividers like this before, how do we like it? I am also sorry that I am not quite posting this on christmas anymore. I just always get the ideas so late and randomly that I can't get it out on time.

I can't type anymore bc my hands are literally that cold and now, update, i read over it and corrected some mistakes. If you still see any, im sorry😔🙏🏻 I've fallen you all

Merry christmas🎄🎀

[occamstfs]

No Need to Apply

Here is my 1K special! Though admittedly it is nothing much out of the ordinary- Thanks to everyone who submitted prompts but especially the anonymous suggestion that spurred this transformation of a desperate twink into a cocky slob! -Occam

Brock really needed a lucky break. He had been staying with his ex since they ended it, but now that he’s sleeping with someone it’s clear that Brock needs to get his own place. Unfortunately the market is not being quite so accommodating to his urgent needs. Given that he is now to be living alone it’s evident he also needs the place on the cheap. He had been denied all reasonable accommodations that he could afford and was beginning to contemplate moving back in with his parents when he suddenly received an email from an apparent realtor he’d never met.

It was an invitation to an open house at some ritzy downtown apartment that he was sure was out of his price range. Rather than just tossing it to his spam folder though, he finds himself looking at the handful of images with a voracity, whether it’s simple curiosity or a fantasy to have such clearly luxurious housing Brock reads through the whole listing. Reaching the end of the invitation and looking at the specs he finds the rent impossibly labeled as just under half his monthly paycheck.

Nearly spitting up coffee all over himself in shock, Brock’s eyes flutter to find exactly when and where this open house was. Surely the demand for this place would box him out but god wouldn’t it be nice to just check it out and dream. He sends an RSVP and far too quickly the realtor, Lucas, thanks him for his prompt response, wishes him well, and signs off saying see you soon. Brock went about the rest of his day as normal, if not a little cheerier than he’s been for some time as he keeps finding his mind drift to that almost-too-perfect apartment’s view over the city.

Fortunately off from work the next day, Brock took the bus to the open house, stopping by his favorite cafe that just so happens to be nearby. He grabs a drink and finds himself preoccupied with thoughts of what a convenience, what a windfall, this break would be. He heads inside and takes the elevator up to the suite and hesitates before entering at the door. Odd that there is no one else here, he double checks the room and floor and puts his ear to the door to see if perhaps other visitors are inside already.

In his untrained attempt to eavesdrop he puts his weight squarely against the door, pushing it open and stumbling in, nearly spilling his coffee over the pristine floors as he crosses the threshold into the apartment. Light streams in through the blinds, only magnifying the manicured state of the spotless room around him. The floor is clean enough to see his reflection, mouth agape, staring at how impossibly clean the apartment is. The only record at all that the place had ever been lived in is the furniture that had clearly been procured by someone of great means, though one lacking any critical eye or desire for design. He sees framed posters of some real red flag movies near a large TV and some sports trophies lined on a shelf. Brock can’t help but wonder what could cause someone to leave such personal artifacts behind and feels a chill in the air. 

He wanders away from the entrance to stand at the large windows, his phone ringing as he takes in the view of his town. Answering without checking the ID he hears a man’s voice he doesn’t recognize. Though he knows this must be the mystery realtor on the line, “How do you like the place Brock?” he begins to reply before being cut off by Lucas, “Have you seen the view yet, it’s quite something else.” 

Brock feels something flicker through his mind as he gazes at the city blocks around him, below him. His eyes briefly catch on his reflection in the glass, though not long enough to see his eyelids droop slightly as he is able to reply, a tad slower than he usually likes to project, “uhh, yeah I know right, how could I not apply to live here? It’s almost too good to be true right?” There is another chill in the air and his body shivers before tensing up, shocking him back to reality and awareness to something strange afoot, “Excuse me actually, I’m so sorry, how did you get my phone number?”

Lucas clicks his tongue and speaks with an almost sickly sweet tone, “Now Brock come now, what can I do to get you to move in today?” Shaking his head in shock Brock is immediately, regardless of the clear sinister air to this man, he really cannot afford to pass up this chance. He clams up as he clambors to express interest, “No I uh! Of course I want the place, just send the lease over so I can read through it.” There is a real weight to Lucas’ words as Brock hears them, the cloying tone impressing itself on his mind, “Wonderful! That is all I needed to hear!”

It is suddenly dark in the apartment, but wasn’t he looking out the window? He can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed but he cannot see. Brock tries to move his head around to see, to feel anything, he strains his mind reaching for any muscle to flex, any tendon to pull, limbs to controt. He loses track of time and reality as he sits in the darkness, trying to grasp anything beyond his own consciousness, unable to affect anything. He feels his right hand move in a familiar way then he feels a warmth, almost a burning, completely engulfs it. He can almost see the shine of a smile, stark perfectly lined teeth that seem eerily inhuman and suddenly there is once more light. He gasps, coughs, and spits up over himself. Immediately grateful that he can feel anything at all. After feeling his body, and seeing the world almost entirely like it was before he lost consciousness, besides a copy of some contract with his name signed at the bottom.

He takes deep breaths feeling his lungs stretch and he starts to read whatever he has gotten himself into in that stupor. He reads the first few lines before he loses where he was on the page. Going again he finds his eyes suddenly dry, doing an uncharacteristically heavy blink that he can’t quite recall ever doing before and as he wonders this he again forgets his work on the contract. He slams his hand on the thigh in a rare show of aggression and gives it one last go. Brock makes even less progress this time as he is almost immediately overcome by a headache. As soon as he looks away from the sheet though, it disappears. 

Brock groans as he feels himself starting to lose control of his senses before he hears his stomach grumble, and he finds a purpose he can immediately resolve. He starts to the fridge, clearly something has happened, an episode or something, he can figure it out later, he just needs food in his stomach now. He doesn’t stop to realize that there should be no food in the fridge since no one’s been living there. Though he finds there is no need as in the fridge, under a note labeled: “To Help Moving In -Lucas,” Brock sees at least a week of prepped meals. The thought that this is bizarre beyond imagination, as well as the concern at his missing time, is immediately pushed from his mind as his stomach rumbles once more, his mouth watering as he sees his soon-to-be dinner.

Brock swiftly heats it up and begins to scarf it down, throwing something on the paying no mind or care to the thought that he’s using the account of whomever the previous tenant was. He quickly scans through seeing a handful of shows and movies that he wasn’t quite interested in before stumbling on a reality show he was watching with his Ex. He grimaces and almost loses his appetite as he thinks about his boyfriend for the first time in what feels like forever. He sets his meal down on the coffee table and crashes down onto the couch. He continues to stew in ire at his ex, palming his crotch as his feelings become more passionate. He rolls his eyes in irritation at himself and that jerk, he’s not going to masturbate to that asshole. 

He reclines in the couch and hears the sound of paper shifting in the cushions, pulling it out he finds a crusted magazine lodged in the couch. What can he do besides shout “what the fuck” and toss it across the room. How could they have possibly missed that in their cleaning? Brock’s eyes shift across the room suspiciously, though he notices nothing amiss as the room is illuminated by only the television. He looks at his hand that grabbed the porn and blushes, wanting to joke about the absurdity to calm himself down. Though his body makes its priorities known once more as his cock pulses and he looks past to see the magazine once more. He did want to masturbate to anyone besides his ex right? 

He shuffles to pick it up, the discomfort and anxiety from handling something covered in a total strangers cum only heightens his pleasure as he sits back down. He grimaces as he sees this is a real hetero-bullshit magazine, he quickly flips through to find something he can work with. His cock keeps demanding his attention as he flips through, almost impatiently pulsing as if to suggest he doesn’t need the magazine at all, just give it your attention. Though soon enough he finds an ad for some protein powder made to emasculate the reader into buying, that almost immediately helps him lose control. 

Soon after he once more fades from consciousness, his cum joining the plethora of other stains in the magazine as he tosses it behind the couch. He finds himself in a darkness that this time feels almost familiar and pleasurable. He once more feels his hand, this time though it is wet and warm. He feels it scratching in briefs that are too tight, through pubes that are too thick. He hears snoring breaking through the silence of his sleep, but that can’t be right? He would know if he snores, surely that fucker of a boyfriend would have complained. He feels his head grow warm as if he’s got a fever, though he knows it is a rage. He feels his hand feel even tighter in his briefs as his cock begins to grow in them. He continues to think of every slight his ex made, every shortcoming he was made needlessly aware of, and of how much better things are going to be now.

The heat shifts from his mind through his whole body and as light begins to break through the windows. That is not what wakes him up though, rather it is the heavy scent coming from his now sweat stained clothes. He rolls off the couch onto his face, quickly removing his hand from his briefs to catch himself, landing the stinking hand too close to his face to not smell just how loud his underwear smells. He feels his clothes sit weird on his body as he starts to rise, while his shirt just feels like it’s hanging weird, surely from the sweat, it is impossible to not see how strained his underwear is. He groans as he feels them pull strangely before he just discards them and makes his way to the bathroom. 

His eyes immediately latch onto his now exposed crotch, he does a double take as he notices that it seems distinctly larger. He also would have sworn that he shaved his pubes far more recently than it seems. He scratches through them, blushing as he sees dried cum flake off curls that are longer and thicker than he ever remembers them begin. Rather than hoping in the shower like any reasonable person would do he instead tosses on some boxers, not questioning why clothing that isn’t his would just be lying out, or why he would ever put them on. Instead choosing to focus on how right wearing them feels. He pulls them tight and turns wanting to see just how his ass and bulge fill them out, though is waylaid as his shirt blocks the view. 

He sneers as he takes off the sweat-stained shirt and tosses it to the floor, stretching high as his reeking body feels the air on his skin. He smiles in shock as he sees the body he has now exposed, he sees hair spreading across his stomach and torso and sweat dripping off of pits that were sure to stain every shirt he is to wear from now on. Beyond that he feels a body that is indisputably powerful, where there wasn’t even fat on his body before there was now muscle accompanied with weight in all the right places. His eyes then trail down to see the weightiest part of him by far as it bulges even lower in his boxers.

He feels an urge to move, to flex, to stretch, fill him as he hungrily takes in every new change in his body. His eyes trace their way past muscles contorting to land on his face, seeing a jaw that could certainly do with a shave. He sees his eager grin begin to turn into a cocky sneer as he begins to stretch once more, trying to will his torso even longer, trying to force his body even taller. His voice grows even deeper to his barely-aware ears as he closes his eyes to stretch, not seeing his throat force itself thicker and longer. There is once again a flicker in his mind as Brock is in darkness once more. Where there was once discomfort and fear there is now only hunger and an eagerness to grow even more.

He feels an itch burn across his body. He feels his hands dig deep into his pits scratching as hair grows thick enough to hold an odor that would never dissipate. He smells as even in this dreamstate he raises his hands to his nose to give them a post-scratch whiff. He feels the same itch cry out from his chest and pubes, from his lower back and his ass. He feels himself move his jaw as it squares up, a rumble in his throat as he feels his groans grow even deeper. He feels his mind thicken and slow as his muscles flex in his sleep. His arms do rep after unconscious rep as he feels biceps that should not be rub against a chest that has never been there before.

Finally he wakes one last time, his hand as it apparently always is, shoved in his pants, once more barely fitting despite wearing the spacier boxers. Brock blearily looks to see lines of takeout containers covering his coffee table. He scratches his beard using the hand from his crotch and he deeply inhales, two birds one stone after all. He sets out to get started with his day, tossing over in his head if he should masterbate again or not, a stain from a wet dream clearly showing through his boxers. Instead he throws Drake on his speakers and starts getting an early workout in, seeing to every part of his body getting a pump as he feels the hunger in his crotch grow only more urgent. 

Going about this workout Brock feels totally at home in this apartment. After all he’s lived here for? Uh? His mind empties as he looks around and sees weeks of piled up detritus and filth. He sees dirty clothes and cum stains on his couch. Looking past them there are his American Psycho and Fight Club posters, discarded underwear hanging off the latter, as well as the trophies he distinctly remembers winning back in college wrestling. He smirks and flexes tilting his head to sniff his pit. Beyond feeling at home in his apartment he also feels unequivocally at home in this, in his body, duh. He jumps to his feet with ease, his stomach rumbling as he once more goes to meet a basal need.

Throwing some of his favorite protein powder in a blender with some milk and eggs he hears his phone go off. There are a string of messages from some bitch asking him to come back and for the life in him Brock can’t remember who that little fucker is? Hearing his shake finish blending he stares at the profile picture of whoever this twink is as he starts to down it, wiping his lips on his sweaty arm as needed. The twink he doesn’t know calls him Brock and his eye twitches, ugh. Why is this dude calling him by his, uh? Is that his middle name? Or no he was Brock right?

He finishes the shake, tossing the blender onto the pile of dishes in the sink and his mind finds itself deeply conflicted. As ever though, his body is more than happy to assuage him, the phone vibrates once more and his cock begins to bring him clarity, demanding his attention once more. Brock’s a little bitch name. He smirks as he looks around at his sty of an apartment, not remembering how neat it once was. Peeking from under a particularly dirty dish there’s a contract that he remembers that he meant to have a look at. 

Bringing it to his face however he simply can’t find the motivation to even start. Why worry about this when he can masturbate, or fuck maybe he can get that whiny bitch to come over? His eyes trail to the end of the paper and see his signature, written clear as day “Adam.” He guffaws at this, god how stupid can you be, he basically forgot his own name after that twink called him uh, whatever that bitch name was. He feels his crotch grow tight again, that is kinda hot though? He moans to himself, pawing at his crotch and texts whoever this man is his address and to come ready to fuck. Adam feels no real attachment to whoever it is, nor should he, a hole is a hole after all. Saying that thought he can’t help but feel this hole is due to be taught a lesson.

If you enjoyed this I also recommend @fredwkong's The Voice in Your Head which explores a similar idea in quite a unique and captivating way!

[mrsvante]

The Long Game VII

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: sugar daddy au, yandere, domestic bliss

summary: he’d prepared for this moment a thousand times, imagined every sound you’d make, every look you’d give. But nothing compared to the reality of you—standing in the space he’d shaped around your absence, breathing life into rooms that had felt cold without you. you had no idea. no idea what you’d done to him. no idea how far he’d go to keep you exactly where you were now.

warnings: domestic namjoon, there’s some fluff, breeding kink, oral f!recieving, possessive vibes on crack, namjoon is drunk off you, the life of luxury 😩

word count: 3,505



Namjoon could barely contain himself.

No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t containing himself.

His usual cool, collected demeanor had all but crumbled the second you stepped through the doors of his penthouse, your penthouse now, whether you realized it or not. He’d been practically vibrating since the moment you landed, eager anticipation simmering beneath every polite smile and courteous gesture.

Now, as he guided you through the space with your hand resting delicately in his, Namjoon felt like a boy showing off a science project he’d spent months perfecting. He watched you with hawk like intensity, hanging on every delighted sound that left your lips, cataloging every wide eyed glance and shy little smile as though they were treasures in and of themselves.

He was… ecstatic. And that wasn’t a word Namjoon often used for himself.

The penthouse had undergone a transformation in your absence, stripped of the sleek, cold minimalism that had once defined it. The walls were warmer now, soft grays and delicate earth tones replacing the harsh slate palette. The furniture had been swapped out for cozier, more inviting pieces, and tasteful personal touches were scattered throughout.

You couldn’t stop turning in slow, stunned circles as you took it all in.

“You remodeled… everything,” you whispered, breathless. “It feels so different.”

Namjoon’s lips curved into a soft smile, so unbearably tender it made his cheeks ache. He couldn’t help himself—he reached for you, brushing his fingers lightly along your jaw, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

“For you,” he murmured, voice thick with quiet devotion. “Only for you.”

He led you next to your new office. Custom built ins lined the walls, housing art supplies, books, your laptop setup—everything you could ever need. The oversized window overlooked the city, allowing natural light to pour in, and Namjoon made sure you noticed the little details: the plush rug beneath your chair, the coffee warmer on your desk, the miniature fridge stocked with your favorite drinks.

“Now you can work without distractions,” he said, pleased, watching your mouth part in disbelief.

Then came the closet. He’d knocked down walls for this, expanded what was once merely impressive into something borderline decadent. Your clothes had already been carefully unpacked, organized perfectly, and your bags, shoes, and jewelry were on display like pieces of art.

You laughed in shock. “You remodeled your closet?”

Namjoon only smirked, tugging you closer until your back hit his chest and his mouth pressed against your ear. “What’s mine is yours. Besides,” his hand slid down your waist, squeezing lightly, “you take up so much space in my life already. Might as well make room everywhere.”

The greenhouse stole your breath next. He’d designed it entirely for you—lush with tropical plants you’d brought back from Singapore, softly glowing grow lights overhead, humidity carefully regulated. It was warm and serene, a perfect little haven nestled right in the sky.

Namjoon watched you press your hands to the glass of the windows, your eyes glassy.

“You did all of this… for me?”

“Of course.” He said it simply, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. In his mind, it was. There had never been a version of this life where he wouldn’t make every inch of his home ready to receive you properly.

But the real jewel came last—the bedroom.

You gasped when you stepped inside. Gone was the stark, cool aesthetic from before. Now, it was intimate and warm. Soft, airy curtains framed the windows, plush rugs covered the hardwood floors, and the walls had been painted in a muted, romantic taupe.

The bed was massive. Dressed in seductive silk sheets, pillows upon pillows, and a comforter that looked impossibly inviting. There was a stunning vanity fully stocked with all of your makeup and skincare. On your side of the bed, Namjoon had even stocked your nightstand. Your favorite lip balm, your water carafe and glass, your favorite snacks tucked away in the drawers.

But what made you laugh softly, tears threatening to spring into your eyes, was the familiar sight of your giant shark plushie propped up between the bed and nightstand.

You turned, overwhelmed and radiant, throwing your arms around Namjoon.

“Joon,” you whispered, pressing kisses to his face, his jaw, his lips. “You are… so fucking good to me. This is everything. You’re everything.”

His eyes fluttered shut, basking in your affection, but beneath his soft smile, something deeper stirred. Because as much as he adored your gratitude—the kisses, the words, the way you clung to him —it wasn’t enough. Not yet. Not for a man like him.

What he really wanted… was you. In this bed. Wrapped up in his sheets. Marking this space as yours in the only way that mattered.

And so, Namjoon kissed you back.

Slowly at first. Almost achingly tender.

His lips tasted of restraint and simmering hunger, a fragile balance he knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain for long. He walked you backward with deliberate steps, the heat rolling off him in waves, until your knees bumped against the edge of the bed. You fell back easily when he guided you, trusting him, pliant beneath the weight of his stare.

His body pressed over yours, large hands spanning your sides as though they were meant to anchor you there, under him, with him. His mouth dragged lower, down your throat, lingering with greedy intent at your collarbones where his lips left slow, wet kisses. They felt like brands, like marks that silently screamed mine.

You giggled softly, breath hitching as your fingers tangled in his hair.

“Greedy man,” you teased with a breathless laugh, your words threaded with fondness. “You already did all this for me and now you want more?”

Namjoon groaned, rolling his hips down against you, the thick press of his cock, still restrained by his sweats, grinding perfectly against your core. It pulled a soft gasp from your lips and immediately satisfied some deep, primal part of him.

“You know exactly what I want,” he rasped darkly, his voice already wrecked from need.

Clothes soon became meaningless. They were removed slowly, almost ceremoniously, his hands sliding across every inch of newly exposed skin like he couldn’t bear to leave any part of you untouched. Each patch of bare flesh was met with worship.

Kisses that lingered, touches that lingered longer.

He sucked marks onto your thighs, leaving evidence of his possession in tender bruises. He traced his tongue up your stomach, following the soft lines of your body with an almost devout care, and then buried his face between your breasts, inhaling like he could live off the scent of you alone.

It was intoxicating. You, laid out for him like this.

By the time he slid down between your legs, his control had frayed dangerously thin.

His tongue licked slow, calculated stripes over your pussy until you writhed for him, your moans bouncing off the walls and filling the newly christened bedroom. Namjoon hummed in satisfaction, fingers gripping your thighs tighter as he devoured you with slow, sinful expertise.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, voice muffled by your slick heat. “Let me taste home.”

You came fast and hard, body tightening beneath his mouth, and he didn’t stop until you were shuddering and tugging at his hair in desperation.

Only then did he rise, mouth glistening, eyes dark with hunger as he lined himself up and thrust deep in one long, claiming push.

You gasped, your legs instantly locking around his hips as your nails dug into his back.

Namjoon groaned harshly, pressing his forehead against yours, his hips barely moving yet as he savored the overwhelming tightness.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he breathed out, lips brushing against your temple. “You feel perfect… so fucking perfect for me. Always so warm, so tight. Like you were made for my cock.”

His thrusts began slowly, deep and rhythmic, dragging pleasure from both of you in slow, consuming waves. Your back arched off the mattress as breathy moans spilled from your lips, your arms curling around his broad shoulders like you needed to hold onto something, anything.

Namjoon couldn’t help but murmur into your skin, drunk off your body, drunk off you. His mouth dragged lazy kisses across your throat, lips swollen from how desperately he’d kissed you moments before.

“You’re my good girl,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Always so good for me.”

His hand slid down to cradle your thigh, holding you open as he rocked deeper into you, as if he could mold you to fit him even more perfectly.

“My perfect girl.” He kissed the shell of your ear, and the possessive tremble in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.

“Back where you belong,” he rasped, burying his face in the crook of your neck like he was trying to disappear inside you. “Back where I need you. Where you’re safe. Where you’re mine.”

His thrusts slowed, deepened—less frantic now, more deliberate. Like he wanted to feel every inch, like he wanted to memorize this. You. The soft, sinful way you wrapped around him.

“I missed this,” he breathed. “Missed us. Missed being inside you where I’m supposed to be. Like I’ve been walking around empty without you.”

“You were made for me,” he whispered. “Just for me.”

You whispered his name softly—Joon, Joon, Joon—like you couldn’t say anything else, like it was the only thing tethering you to reality.

But softness never lasted long with Namjoon.

Not when you clenched around him so sweetly. Not when your thighs trembled, your mouth hung open in pleasure, your face flushed from his love.

His pace grew rougher, more urgent, and he sat back slightly to grab your hips, angling you just right so his cock slammed into the perfect spot with every desperate thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed in the bedroom, joined by your breathy cries and his low, guttural grunts.

That’s when the shift happened.

That’s when he fell into it, that dark, obsessive place he rarely let show in front of you.

“Fuck,” Namjoon growled, his voice thick, drunk on the way your body responded to his every move. His eyes flicked down to where your pussy was stretched around him, flushed with hunger, taking him so perfectly. “Look at this. Look how you take me. Like you were born for me.”

His pace faltered, grinding instead of thrusting as he leaned closer, lips grazing your jaw.

“Gonna fill you up,” he whispered, his voice a sharp edge wrapped in silk. “Gonna fuck my cum so deep inside you, baby. You’ll be dripping with me for days.”

You whimpered his name, shaky and overwhelmed, but Namjoon wasn’t listening. Not really. He was gone, swept up in the idea of you.

“Imagine it,” he murmured, licking into your mouth as he continued to grind deep. “My wife. My perfect little wife, belly round with my baby, stuck at home because you’re too fucked out and swollen to do anything but wait for me to come home and fill you again.”

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Joon—”

“Imagine walking around this penthouse pregnant,” he continued, nearly delirious now. “Our home. Our bed. Every room yours… except you can’t even bend down to pick something up without my help because you’re carrying so much of me inside you.”

Your breath hitched, face burning with arousal and embarrassment.

“You’re insane,” you gasped, but your hips rolled up to meet his desperately, chasing the drag and press of his cock.

Namjoon groaned deeply, eyes fluttering as he lost himself in the idea.

“Insane for you,” he corrected, his thrusts suddenly brutal again, snapping into you hard enough to make the headboard knock softly against the wall. “Fucking crazy for you. Want to keep you like that. Want to make you mine in every way there is. Want everyone to look at you and know who fucking owns you.”

You moaned loudly, clenching around him hard, and Namjoon cursed, losing what little control he had left.

“Gonna fill you up every night,” he growled, slamming in deeper, harder, his pace wild now. “Over and over until it takes. Until you’re knocked up and glowing and stuck right here with me.”

Your cries echoed around the bedroom, your body locking up tight as you came again, sobbing his name as your walls fluttered wildly around him.

Namjoon followed instantly, hips grinding down as he spilled inside you, a long, desperate moan falling from his lips as he emptied himself completely.

He stayed there, buried deep, panting against your shoulder, his arms tight around your body like he couldn’t bear to pull away.

“I love you,” he whispered fiercely, pressing frantic kisses to your neck. “I need you.”

“You’re mine. Always mine.”

You whimpered softly, too wrecked to answer, but you pressed your lips against his jaw weakly and that was enough.

Eventually, Namjoon shifted, carefully easing out and gathering you into his arms as though you weighed nothing. He carried you to the bathroom, gently cleaned you up, and pressed soft kisses to your thighs and belly as you dozed off, too spent to protest.

When he tucked you back into bed, brushing your hair from your face and whispering quietly as you drifted to sleep.

“Sleep, princess. You’re home now,” he murmured, trailing his fingers along your arm.

—

The sun was still low in the sky when Namjoon stirred.

The penthouse was bathed in soft, early light, golden and warm as it filtered through the sheer curtains. The city beyond the windows was quiet, still asleep, but inside this bedroom, inside this bed, everything felt perfect.

You were curled against him, your face pressed into his bare chest, one leg tossed possessively over his waist. Your breathing was steady, lips parted slightly as you slept, blissfully unaware of the way Namjoon’s dark eyes traced every feature of your face like he was memorizing you.

Like he hadn’t spent the entire night tangled with you.

Like he didn’t already know every inch of your body and soul.

His fingers trailed softly down your spine, barely grazing, but the simple act made his cock twitch beneath the covers. Not even from lust—though that simmered quietly, as always—but from pure obsession.

You were here.

You were his.

Back in Seoul, in his bed, in his life.

Namjoon swallowed thickly, heart aching in a way that wasn’t gentle or romantic. It was primal. A dark, desperate need that twisted low in his gut and whispered that he would never, ever let you leave again.

Not now. Not after this.

He stayed like that for nearly an hour, just watching you sleep, before you finally stirred, groaning softly and stretching like a lazy cat. Your eyes fluttered open and met his gaze immediately.

“Why are you awake?” you asked, voice scratchy with sleep, lips curving slightly at the corners.

Namjoon smiled, warm and devastating, and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he murmured. “Not with you looking like that right next to me.”

You rolled your eyes but blushed anyway, hiding your face in his chest with a shy laugh.

“Gross,” you teased. “You’re gross in the mornings.”

“You love it,” he countered easily, his arms tightening around you. “You love me.”

You froze for a split second—then relaxed, heart skipping as your fingers trailed up his ribs.

“…Yeah. I do.”

Namjoon kissed your crown like he’d won something monumental. Like your sleepy little confession had satisfied something deep inside him that words couldn’t reach.

Breakfast was lazy. He ordered in, everything you liked, and insisted on feeding you bites straight from his chopsticks. He sat close, closer than necessary, his knee pressed against yours, his hand occasionally sneaking under the oversized shirt you wore, his shirt, to squeeze your bare thigh.

At some point, though, as you sipped your tea, you remembered. Your face warmed as you glanced over at him, watching as he polished off his own plate, annoyingly casual.

“…Joon?”

“Hm?” He glanced at you, licking a bit of sauce off his thumb, utterly at ease.

“Last night,” you began slowly, unsure how to phrase it without sounding too affected. “You said some stuff.”

His brows lifted faintly, clearly amused. “I said a lot of stuff, baby.”

You scowled playfully but your heart pounded. “You know what I mean.”

He stared at you for a beat. Then, slowly, a wicked grin spread across his face, so lazy and fond and dangerous it made your stomach flip.

“Oh,” he drawled, voice dropping slightly. “You mean when I told you I was going to make you my wife and pump you full of my babies?”

You choked on your tea, eyes wide. “Joon—!”

“What?” he asked innocently, leaning back and stretching his arms behind his head, muscles flexing beneath his tshirt. “It’s true. That’s the plan. I want you barefoot, pregnant, and stuck at home so I can keep you all to myself.”

You stared at him, mouth opening and closing uselessly, and he just smiled like you were adorable for being so flustered.

“You’re serious,” you finally whispered, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

Namjoon tilted his head, his grin softening into something more intense. “Of course I’m serious. Why wouldn’t I be? You’re mine. And soon, you’ll be mine legally too. That ring is coming, sweetheart. Soon as you even hint that you’re ready…”

His eyes darkened, voice turning rougher.

“I’ll put a baby in you so fast you won’t even remember life before it.”

You sputtered, your cheeks on fire.

“Joon, my parents haven’t even met you yet!” you blurted. “I haven’t even met your parents—how can you talk about marriage and babies like that?”

Namjoon blinked once, very slowly. Then, his lips twitched like you’d just said something very stupid.

“…Is that it?” he asked, voice low and amused. “That’s what’s holding you back from our future?”

You didn’t even get a chance to answer before he pulled out his phone.

You gawked. “Namjoon. Joon. What are you doing—?”

He was already typing. Already calling.

Within seconds, he had the phone to his ear and his tone flipped immediately. Soft, polite, almost boyish in a way that made your head spin.

“Eomma,” he greeted warmly. “Good morning. No, everything’s fine. Actually—yes. I have someone I want you to meet. Your future daughter-in-law.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, your stomach flipping wildly as he casually, shamelessly said the words like it was the most natural thing in the world. You couldn’t hear his mother’s response, but Namjoon’s pleased hum and knowing grin told you everything.

“Mm, yes. Soon. I’ll set up a day and time. Appa too? Of course. I want them both to meet her properly.”

When he hung up, he was glowing. No, preening. He looked absolutely smug and satisfied as he turned back to you.

“There,” he said simply. “Handled.”

You could only gape. “Namjoon…”

“What?” he asked, eyes gleaming with mischief and affection. “You said that was the issue. So now it’s not.”

You hid your face in your hands, laughing in disbelief.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Namjoon reached forward and tugged your hands down gently, cupping your cheeks as he leaned in, his voice dropping low and dangerous.

“Unbelievably in love with you,” he corrected, kissing your lips softly.

You melted, just a little.

“…My parents…” you tried again weakly, but Namjoon didn’t let you finish.

“Tell me about them,” he said easily. “I need to know everything before I meet them.”

It rolled off his tongue so easily. As if he hadn’t done an entire background check on every single on of your living relatives. Immediate and distant family. He’d left no stone untouched when he was debating on making you an offer of being his sugar baby.

How drastically things have changed over the years.

You hesitated, and then started explaining that they knew about someone. You’d vaguely told them you were seeing someone exclusively, but you definitely hadn’t explained that he was your sugar daddy turned boyfriend turned obsessed husband to be.

Namjoon listened carefully, nodding along with a thoughtful hum.

“And they’re… traditional, you said?”

You nodded sheepishly. “Kind of. They’re not super strict but, y’know… they don’t like too much PDA. Especially when meeting someone for the first time.”

For a moment, Namjoon just stared at you. Then his lips curled in a way that made your stomach clench.

“No hands?” he asked slowly, clearly amused.

“No hands,” you confirmed firmly.

“No kisses?”

“Joon.”

“No fucking?” he added with a wicked grin.

You groaned, slapping his arm.

“They’re my parents, Namjoon. Behave.”

He laughed, pulling you closer until you were straddling his lap again, his hands automatically sliding down to cup your ass possessively.

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” he promised smoothly. “But you know I’m going to be inside you as soon as they leave, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but your body betrayed you, heat flooding between your thighs at the thought. Namjoon kissed you again, slow and possessive, humming softly as he tasted your surrender.

“Soon, princess,” he whispered against your lips. “Soon you’ll be my wife. And then I won’t ever have to pretend to behave again.”

And the terrifying thing was… you weren’t sure you wanted him to.

six | masterlist | eight

[angelsfat3]

꽃.ㅤㅤ( 𝓕𝑢𝔠𝒌 ) ／ㅤ𝔩𝓲𝒌𝑒ᆞᆞ 𝑨𝓷𝔦𝑚𝐚𝑙．

𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇, 𝗅𝖾𝗍'𝗌 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗅 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗈 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽? .. 𝗇𝗈? .. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎? 𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒. 𝖧𝗒𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌.ㅤ／ㅤ 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑟!𝐽𝑎𝑦, 𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑠/𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑡𝑠, 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡.ㅤ٭ㅤ危险──R𝑜𝑢𝑔𝒉 𝑠𝑒𝑥 (𝐼 𝑔𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑠), 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑒𝑛𝑑, 𝑏𝑜𝑡𝒉 𝑓𝑖𝑔𝒉𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝐻𝑒𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝒉𝑢𝑠𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑡𝑜𝑝 𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟.

Competing wasn't your favorite pastime. Or well, that's what you liked to believe... until Jay showed up in your life. With his shirt always perfectly fitted, his expensive watch gleaming under the white office lights, and that arrogant little smile that made your blood boil (and other things it was better not to mention).

And working next to him felt like walking on fire. Always two steps ahead of you, always with a comment ready to make you roll your eyes—or bite your tongue so you wouldn’t sound like an idiot, or worse, make you look like one.

Especially because you knew he didn’t play fair. No, Jay had a natural talent for getting too close, for whispering something in your ear when no one was looking, making you lose focus on what was actually important. Sometimes he’d leave papers on your desk… along with notes that said, "Good 'luck' today!" followed by a damn wink drawn by hand.

Yeah... Son of a bitch.

You weren't planning on losing. Not the position. Not the ridiculous war that, frankly, was starting to feel more like a game of "who humiliates the other more, wins" than a serious work competition.

So when you saw him approach that day, leaning on your desk like it was his, you could only raise an eyebrow, cross your arms, and say:

"Did you lose your cubicle, Jay? Or are you here to cry about being below me on the project consideration list?"

His deep laugh—damn attractive, of course—vibrated through the air as he shrugged.

"Below you?" he repeated, tilting his head slowly in a way that made you swallow. "Doesn’t sound too bad when you say it."

And you, instead of pushing him away, could only smile slyly, cursing internally at how much you were enjoying that absurd low voice, enjoying all the possible scenarios where your hands would be caressing his naked body.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Sure, before all this chaos, you and Jay... well, you weren’t exactly mortal enemies.

In fact, when you first started working, there were moments when you could even call him "jayjay." You’d sit in the same meeting room, share stolen coffees from the kitchen machine, sometimes help each other out with the reports for the meetings, talk about the secretary and the boss, and laugh together at the accounting boss—Heeseung—who always forgot to mute his mic during video conferences and you could hear him eating ramen, etc.

Everything was tolerable. Fun, even.

But then, the announcement came.

A new position. Promotion. Raise. A private office with a window and all those things that felt like heaven after months (years, to be honest) of surviving in gray cubicles and chairs that squeaked just by breathing.

And the moment the boss uttered those magic words, something shifted in the air.

Jay glanced at you sideways, and you returned his gaze, both of you stopping your laughter, and in that moment, you both understood the same thing: neither of you was going to let the other win.

From that instant, the cold war began.

Jay started staying late, preparing presentations that looked like they were from a luxury ad agency. His watermark even looked that expensive.

You started adding visual details to your reports, using graphs, animations, even designing project covers like you were a frustrated graphic designer—some ideas stolen from Pinterest, but who the hell cares about that.

Mostly because Jay always had something more, something better.

Always.

If you arrived early, he was already there, with two coffees on the table, one for him and one (of course) for you, just to then say, "I don't want you to lose from lack of energy, we don’t know what could happen."

If you made a creative proposal, even if you’d asked “a little” help from chatgpt, he’d show up with something that looked like it was designed by Google.

It wasn’t personal. Of course not.

Until it started to be.

Because you couldn’t help but notice it. Every time your project was praised, Jay would smile... but then his eyes would darken, calculating and sharper.

Every time you laughed in a meeting at some useless comment, he’d look at you like you were the only loud one who wouldn’t hesitate to shut up by shouting.

Every time your boss said, "Well done, [...]! I’d like to see more of that proposal, come see me after the break," you could see Jay squeezing his pen, as if he were going to break it between his fingers.

Competing had never felt so... addictive.

It had never been so personally exciting.

Things finally exploded one Friday night when the entire building seemed to have fallen silent, except for the damn clacking of keys and the sound of frustrated, tired sighs with no real escape.

Your cubicle and his were barely separated by a thin wall, too thin not to hear him breathe, clear his throat, laugh quietly... or make some sharp remark.

"Need any help, [...]?"

Jay asked, with that voice full of false innocence.

"I mean, if you want me to check your project before you make a fool of yourself... you don’t have to beg me by torturing the poor keyboard with your fingers."

You rolled your eyes, not even turning to look at him. You already knew his expression.

"Help? From you?" you replied, letting the pen fall onto the desk with a small thud. "Ha. Don’t take offense, but I’d rather lose the opportunity than copy your... whatever the hell you call your style."

You heard him get up from the chair. The slight creak. The sound of his steps approaching and how he rolled up his sleeves.

“Don’t take offense?”

He shot, now right behind your cubicle, looking at you barely over the thin cardboard wall.

“Coming from someone who makes PowerPoint graphics like they're a starving designer... Well, I’m really flattered. At least mine isn’t complete fucking shit.”

“Complete shit?” You turned, glaring at him. “Don’t you have another place to vomit your nonsense, Park?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Jay let out a short laugh, but it was loaded with venom.

“Nonsense and me in one sentence?” He leaned slightly over the cubicle wall, too close, too arrogant.

“Come on [...], admit it... you're scared shitless. You couldn’t stand losing to me... though I think you already did. You’re just throwing desperate kicks with your boring presentations, you used to be good, but well, that was because I was the one helping you.”

That was the last straw.

Without thinking, you stood up, your hand gripping tightly at the collar of his t-shirt—that one which probably cost more than your rent—dragging him without warning into the empty meeting room.

He just let out a laugh, stumbling slightly, following you without resistance, like he was enjoying every second of seeing you angry.

You slammed the door behind you with a dull thud, not hesitating to lock it and lower the blinds.

Both of you were breathing heavily. The air in the small room became thick, charged with warm air in seconds.

Jay shook himself a little, adjusting his shirt, looking you up and down with those dark eyes that you couldn’t tell if they were challenging you or undressing you. The same ones you’d place on him when he was in a meeting or talking to another worker.

“What’s the matter, [...]?” he asked with a dangerous tone.

“Did you finally give up and are you going to ask me to be gentle when I fuck you and win that position?”

You smiled, stepping a step closer.

Or maybe it was him who closed the distance. It didn’t matter anymore.

“You have so much confidence for someone who only knows how to brag.” you whispered, so close that you could smell his cologne, a mix of wood, coffee, and something too overpowering to be fair.

Jay tilted his head slightly, his lips brushing the edge of a lopsided smile.

“Brag?” he whispered. “No, [...]. If I wanted to brag, I’d already have you pinned against this table.”

And honestly, at that moment, fighting was the last thing you wanted to do.

It was the last thing either of you did because the distance between you and Jay kept growing more tense, the words colliding in the air with each breath.

The small space of the meeting room became suffocating, and the brush of his body against yours felt like a constant reminder that, at this moment, neither of you was willing to yield, to show submission.

Until you made the first move.

With a swift motion, you pushed him back, forcing him against the table with a dull thud that echoed through the walls of the room. Jay, surprised by the sudden force, tried to regain control of himself, but his hands only grazed the edge of the table. The light in his eyes dimmed for a moment, but you didn’t mention it. Words weren’t necessary.

You took another step, pressing Jay’s face down against the table with a firm hand on his chest. He didn’t move, but his breathing became heavier, almost like a gasp, deeper, as if he had felt the shift of whatever this was.

“I’d rather see you against the table.” you said softly, not breaking eye contact. Your tone was different, deeper, more playful. The sarcasm you always carried as a shield faded away.

Jay couldn’t help but smile, but there was something nervous in his expression. He knew you had noticed. The control, the same control he always thought he had, was no longer in his hands.

“What are you... doing...?” he asked, his voice softer than usual, as if he was finally feeling the situation slip out of his hands.

You didn’t give him a chance to speak another word. With a quick motion, you placed your other hand on his neck, not applying too much pressure, but enough for him to feel that, at that moment, his freedom depended on you.

“What am I doing? What I’ve always wanted...” you said, your words sounding more like a warning than a sentence. “Shutting your dirty mouth for once.”

Jay swallowed, feeling the pressure on his neck increase, but not violently. It was subtle, gradual. You controlled each second, making it harder for him to breathe.

And that was when he saw you had made the first move. You had dropped that ‘mask’ you’d been wearing, showing a side of yourself he hadn’t expected, but deep down, he loved.

He wasn’t on the defensive anymore. He wasn’t the "arrogant" one you used to answer back to, the one you always kept at arm’s length.

Now, he was the one starting to panic.

“And you think it works?” he asked, his voice lower, almost whispered.

It wasn’t the same raised voice from before, nor that confident smile he always carried. Only a fragile line of a leader quickly fading.

“Mmh, maybe I’ll need other... resources.”

You responded with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You leaned in a little closer, noticing how his jaw tightened, how his hands gripped the table, searching for something to hold on to, but finding only cold.

The room was thick with tension.

You had already won. But what hurt Jay the most wasn’t losing the position at this stage of the game, but that he had been cornered by you. You, the one who had always kept a relaxed attitude, emotional distance, and those stupid, absurd ideas. Now, in that small space, he was the one losing control of everything he had planned.

It didn't take long for things to take a more... dangerous turn.

The sound of the fluorescent lights created a background melody, while the thickened air remained tense. Both of them knew something had shifted, and they knew it all too well.

Jay stayed there, leaning against the table, breathing heavily, his shirt slightly unbuttoned. The force with which you had pushed him, the way you had dominated him, left him speechless. And the most ironic thing was that, instead of feeling humiliated, something inside him twisted, yearning for more.

Each breath became faster, more erratic, and their heartbeats seemed to match the same rhythm, as if the universe had paused for a single moment, allowing the rivalry to transform into something more tangible, something more flexible.

Your hands were no longer a threat. They were a confession. Each touch on his skin became a mark, a reminder that he no longer controlled anything. Jay, who was once used to being the leader, now seemed to be desperately searching for a balance that had never existed.

One of your hands was squeezing his hips against yours, but you weren’t doing it with the violence you had before. No. Now there was a calm in your movements, a new patience. And, as you settled back into him slowly, the temptation was no longer just physical, but mental.

“I knew you’d sound so cute moaning my name, precious.” you told him as soon as you started moving, your voice so low and soft it was almost like a caress, though the words were empty. As you spoke, your face neared his, your lips just centimeters from his ear.

Jay’s breathing was ragged, his hands now trapped beneath the weight of your body. He tried to move, but his muscles seemed to fail him, and all he could do was feel. Feel how every part of you imposed itself on him, in him, how you stripped him of all the control he thought he had.

“Come on... Am I the loudmouth now? Is it too much for you?” you continued, never losing the rhythm. “Now is when I really need that mouth.”

Honestly, you didn’t expect a reply. Your body leaned into him, and the temperature in the room seemed to rise with each move you made. You felt him against you, noticing how his muscles tensed, as if, finally, he was acknowledging that the rules of this game had changed. You had taken control, finally.

It was funny, because as far as you can remember, you were standing in front of him, pulling down his pants, and all you could hear was his nails digging into the dark wooden table.

"I'm going to suck it until you're begging me to fuck your ass.. until you're sobbing and screaming for my goddamn cock.” You told him as soon as you pulled down his boxers, looking at the erect cock, dripping precum all over his shaft.

You had that perverted smile on your face, licking your lips before you wrapped your lips around the swollen head of Jay's cock, your tongue flicking out to lap at the leaking slit. You groaned at the way Jay's cock throbbed and jerked against your lips, it was pulsing with need, desperate for more of your touch.

What you clearly did by bobbing your head slowly, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside of Jay's shaft. You could feel the thick vein running along it, could feel the way it throbbed and jumped with each beat of Jay's racing heart. It made you moan around his mouthful of cock, the vibrations traveling up Jay's shaft and making him gasp.

Your hands didn't torture themselves by sliding around to grip Jay's ass, squeezing the firm globes as you sucked him harder, faster.

You could feel the way Jay body trembled and shuddered, could hear the desperate, broken moans spilling from his lips. It spurred you on, made you suck even harder over his tip, take more of Jay into you greedy mouth.

A whimper escaped Jay's lips, that same sigh that made you smile, a subtle touch of triumph that made it clear and that made you turn back to reality. Where you were grabbing Jay's hips hard enough to bruise, yanking him back against the thick, throbbing length of your cock. You could feel it leaking, pulsing with a desperate need to be buried inside jay's tight, virgin ass once again.

“You think you can just taunt me like that, like the cocky little bitch you are, and not face the consequences?” you punctuated the words with a sharp smack to Jay's ass, watching the round cheek jiggle and redden under your palm.

You couldn't resist any longer, not when you had a round, perfect ass waiting to be filled. You pushed forward, the thick head of your cock popping past that tight ring of muscle, sinking into the scorching heat of Jay's ass.

You groaned at the feeling, your eyes rolling back in his head as Jay walls clenched and fluttered around you, trying to push you out.

"Fuck.. you're so goddamn tight even after putting three fingers in you." you panted, fighting the urge to just slam forward, to bury yourself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You forced yourself to go slow, to push in inch by careful inch, letting Jay feel every throbbing, pulsing inch of the cock as it stretched him open.

"Ugh, shit... I want.. more.. fucking deep..." Jay groaned, his voice pitching higher with each word as your cock sank deeper into his tight heat. Jay's eyes squeezed shut, dark lashes fluttering against his angular cheeks as he fought to process the intense, overwhelming sensations.

Both of your clothes were slightly disheveled—belts loosened, zippers partially undone, pants around your ankles, the buttons of Jay’s shirt half unfastened, and his fingers clawing at the table as if that might give him something to hold onto, even though the real struggle was happening inside his mind. Every part of him wanted more, but his instincts betrayed him, keeping him exactly where you wanted him.

You didn't know how to stop anymore, as soon as you felt his insides get used to your size, your hips became pistons and your nails dug into his skin. Your balls were sticking against his, it was somewhat addictive as it filled the room with the sound, just like you used to imagine it would all those times when he would interrupt your chances to talk with your boss.

"S-stop! [...]! U-ugh... I can't.." Jay whimpered as he felt his cock rubbing itself against the edge of the dark wood. He turned his head sideways, letting you see him frown, biting his lower lip and looking at you with forgiveness. Damn, just like you dreamed.

Was it all too much for him? Of course. It wasn't normal for someone like him to be getting his dick like a prostitute on a Friday night. Although it seemed that way, judging by the way his tears were running down his face for every time you gave him a deep thrust, letting him feel a nice bulge against his tummy.

Your eyes darkened with a feral, possessive light as you watched Jay come undone beneath him, his beautiful and delicious hot liquid was between the wood, his stomach and his shirt. You watched him trembling, moaning and clenching down on your cock like the desperate slut he was.

You could feel the way Jay's body yielded to you, the way his tight, abused hole fluttered and squeezed around your shaft, trying to pull you in deeper, to keep you buried inside. This was better than using a egg toy.

"That's it... A-ahh.. fucking take it."

You growled with a voice a low, menacing rasp. You only gripped Jay's hips hard enough to bruise, slamming forward the last few inches that were outside his beautiful channel, burying yourself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. He could feel your heavy balls slap against his ass in a better way, you felt proud as you watched Jay's body jerked forward from the force of it, the desk creaking beneath.

"U-ugh... [...], p-please.."

“Shut up. You fucking needed this, didn't you, whore?" —you taunted, rolling your hips, grinding your cock against Jay's prostate.

You could feel it, that special spot deep inside Jay that made him see stars, that made him cry out and clench down on your shaft like his life depended on it.

"You needed to feel my cock splitting you open, claiming this tight little cunt.. fucking making it mine just to keep you quiet."

Jay did nothing but throw his head forward, moaning and silencing the screams that spelled your name. But was the sight of his ass bouncing, the way his ring swallowed your cock like a pro that make you feel your own release approaching, your balls tightening, your phallus pulsing and throbbing deep inside Jay's cheeks. You were close, so fucking close to filling this slutty hole with his seed, to claiming Jay in the most primal way possible.

Jay body was trembling beneath you, you could clearly hear the desperate, wanton moans spilling from his lips. That only turned you on more, made you fuck his tight heat with even more ferocity, determined to make this slut beg for your cum—although you only needed a little more to be as shaky as he was, to scream your name until it was the only thing he knew.

"Just... fucking... cum!"

Jay punctuated each word with a sharp, desperate buck of his hips, trying to impale himself even further on your throbbing cock. A needy gasp escaped him, the sound catching in his throat and morphing into an unhinged moan.

You groaned, gripping Jay's hips tighter, fingers sinking into the firm flesh of his ass, as you rutted into him with wild abandon. The desk beneath was shaking with each powerful thrust, the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin echoing obscenely in the room.

Your breathing grew even more erratic, your hands trembling slightly as you tried—vainly—to keep up the façade. But you couldn’t. You needed this. You’d been holding back only to watch that boy, the one who always bragged about being the best, being the leader, now begging you, begging you for your milk.

You leaned down, putting your chest against his back just to take his limp, sensitive cock, stroking it in time with your relentless thrusts. You could feel it pulsing in your grip, leaking cum all over your fingers.

"Yknow? I want to feel this greedy hole squeezing my cock... milking me for every last fucking drop."

Yeah.. It had been minutes fucked him through it, pounding Jay's prostate, forcing him to take every inch of your veiny meat as your spilled hot and hard into the tight clutch of his ass. You knew it was time, but damn, you had to use that ass no matter what.

"[...] I swear to God—if.. if you don't cum in me... I'll crush you at the conferen!..."

You roared, slamming into Jay—finally—one last time before burying yourself to the hilt. Your cock jerked and throbbed, painting Jay's inner walls with thick ropes of your seed, marking him, claiming him, owning him utterly.

You collapsed against Jay's back, your hips still twitching as the last spurts of your release pumped into the boy.

You could feel Jay's body shuddering, hear the choked sobs and gasps of ecstasy spilling from his lips, and you knew you had ruined him. Known that Jay would never be the same, that he would always be yours, no matter what.

"Mgh.. shit was good, but.. I'll still be better than you." You whispered into his ear, gently licking and biting it.

"Also... I was recording our... Lovely session. You dare to surpass me and you're dead, Park Jongseong."

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ݁⠀⠀،،⠀⠀메모 ! ㅤ⸻ㅤ Do you guys hate me? Yeah, I would too. Sorry for disappearing for so long, I was just focused on college stuff! Oh, and perfecting some stories. 🫠

Honestly, I was nervous writing this. It's been a while since I've written smut, not as 'explicit' as Sunghoon's! I still hope you like this one too.︐⠀📍

⠀𝒊. ⠀─⠀ All credits to @angelsfat3 / @foschiamara⠀𝄒

. . . ₍⠀아이디어 !ㅤ⸻ㅤfeel free to leave requests! <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>⠀₎⠀ ִֶָ

˖⠀⠀ ݁⠀©⠀،،⠀If you liked it you can like, follow me or reblog!!

[seokminfilm]

"better half" ── lee seokmin

🤍 pairing, lee seokmin x reader

🤍 warnings, non idol-au, college au, short, photography major seokmin, graphic design major reader (neither majors are really focused on), fluff, classmates/friends to lovers, confession, kissing, lots of giggling and laughing (reader and seokmin are both so soft and shy around each other they don't know what to do)

🤍 summary, your confession to lee seokmin, photography major did not go the way you were planning it to.

🤍 author's note, this was requested by dawn (@realmofclouds) like a month ago....😭 when i got this request i was slowly entering a writer's block and then got out of it and forgot about the request for a while 🧍sigh hopefully this goes the way i want it...i rewrote this fic like 12 times when i was in writer's block sdjdjskfkdjfs

🤍 now playing, dream (seventeen)

🤍 word count, 900 | for @kstrucknet, @maestro-net

"what, you never did that as a child? you never kidnapped ladybugs and tried to get them to marry each other?" you ask with a laugh, and seokmin shakes his head, slightly bewildered as he flushes.

"i was scared of most bugs when i was a child, so probably not," the laughter that erupts from both of you fills the whole study hall, and you're convinced that half of the student body can hear that you two aren't doing the project you were assigned to complete.

you and the photography major class were paired together for a graphic design project, and lee seokmin was chosen as your partner. the two of you had talked many times before but never had a full conversation until now.

seokmin was a great student and doubled as a great partner and even better talking buddy, and the two of you had grown close over the months. he was like your best friend now, hanging out with you and helping you out when needed. you don't know where'd you be without him.

the two of you sat on the floor in one of the study rooms as you finished up the final draft of the design. the warm spring sun was filtering in through the windows, and you could feel the warmth on your hands as you worked on your laptop.

seokmin looked illuminated by the sunlight, smile radiant and laughter contagious as his dark eyes watched you with intent. seokmin had worn a button-up today, light blue fabric soaking up the warm light.

you had found yourself looking at him more and more as the months went on, and you couldn't answer the question of whether you had a crush on him or not. your friends had caught onto the way you talked about him, and you couldn't bring yourself to deny it anymore, either. maybe you did like lee seokmin.

"hey, i'm really glad we've talked over these few months." seokmin says randomly, and you lock eyes with him, warm blush on your cheeks as you smile.

"oh, um─me too! this whole project has been an experience for me, but i'm glad you were the one i experienced it all with." you nod, unable to stop smiling at the way seokmin's grinning at you.

a brief but comfortable silence stretches between the both of you, and you hold each other's gaze, unable to look away. seokmin's dark eyes are so warm as he looks at you, and you feel your face heat up, unable to stop the words from tumbling from your lips.

"seokmin, do you know why i was asking you all of those random questions earlier?" you say, and seokmin's eyebrows crease slightly, shaking his head as he tilts his head.

"i just thought you were being nice or trying to make conversation. i like talking to you, so i went along with them, even if they were a little...." seokmin trails off, smiling nervously at you as you flush an even darker red, nodding.

"random and weird, yeah." you laugh lightly, and seokmin chuckles along with you, watching you with curious eyes.

you sigh, taking a step back from the situation at hand before you take a deep breath and wet your lips. "i was asking you all of those questions because i like you."

seokmin falls silent, and you watch his face, studying his expression. his eyes are widened as if he's in disbelief about something. before you know it, a small smile is spreading across his pretty features, and he chuckles softly, taking your hand in his in a high-five-like gesture as he winks at you.

"well, i really like you, so─we're even." seokmin nods, and you can't help but grin from ear to ear, still slightly in disbelief that you had even confessed to him. "really?"

"really." seokmin says softly, and now, you notice how close the two of you had gotten to each other. your laptop had been moved moments ago, and you two now sit in front of each other, eyes on each other's figure as seokmin's eyes trail to your lips first.

"is it okay if i...." seokmin trails off, the tips of his ears turning red as you nod eagerly, letting him cup your cheek as you smile softly.

"yeah, it's okay. please do," you whisper, and seokmin does just that, placing his lips on yours in a quick moment. it's quiet, but you're sure that you can hear your heart beating a mile a minute. you let seokmin lead, letting him softly mold his lips to yours in a way that leaves your cheeks burning.

once you pull away, both of you are red, and seokmin's hands are still interlocked with yours, smiling at you as he studies your face.

"this was not how i wanted this to go." you giggle nervously, head dropping down as seokmin chuckles. he lifts your chin up to him, grinning from ear to ear as he consoles you with his touch.

"you had a whole plan for this?" seokmin asks innocently, and you nod, laughing nervously. "keyword there being 'planned'." you sigh, and seokmin smiles, face radiating joy as he giggles.

"i don't care how this came about. i'm just happy it happened, you know?" seokmin questions, and you nod, kissing his lips softly as you lock eyes with him.

"yeah. i'm happy it happened too."

[novemberheart]

{overview} Its agreed. The 141 needs an omega. But how will you react after already being rejected by them?

{warnings} Fem reader, a/b/o dynamics, light pricexsoap

Chapter 1 <- Chapter 2 -> Chapter 3

“Visitor!” Ms. Helen knocked on your door, causing it to open.

“What did you do now?” Miriam smirked from her bed next to you.

“Nothing.” You replied, baring your teeth playfully. She laughed, throwing a pillow at you on your way out. “Do I get to know?” you hummed, trying to keep up with Ms. Helen.

“No,” she responded harshly. She was all bark no bite. You rolled your eyes, running your fingers across the wall as you followed her to the visitation room. It was cozy, and designed to make omegas comfortable. Soft lighting, lots of windows and things to hide behind. When the door opened you caught sight of a familiar blonde.

“Kate.” You cheered, as Ms. Helen shut the door to give you two privacy.

“Hey, Honey.” she greeted warmly, giving you a tight squeeze.

“How's Robin?” You asked, plopping down with her on the couch.

“She's good, busy with the dogs and garden. She says ‘hi’.” Kate smiled, taking a quiet deep breath of your scent. Peaches and Vanilla. It wasn't nearly as fulfilling as her wife's scent, but it was enough to take her slight edge off.

“Please tell me you're breaking me out of here for lunch.” You pleaded to the alpha next to you.

“We can do that after.” She smiled at you. “There is something we need to discuss first.” The smell of nervous alpha drifted towards your nose, giving you goosebumps.

“Alright.” You said slowly. You projected your scent, trying to cover hers. It seemed to work.

“I have a placement for you.” She finally admitted. The first reaction you had was to wince, your head beginning to feel light as your lungs dropped to your stomach along with your heart.

“Really?” You said slowly. “Did they pick me?” was your second question. Her smile faltered a bit.

“No. But I'm picking you.”

You guess that'll have to do.

You and Kate had known each other for a little over a year now. She had met you when she was interviewing omegas to be paired with military packs. You quickly became her favorite, (and almost everyone else’s who interviewed you) and she knew exactly where to put you. Unfortunately, the rest of your ‘soon to be’ pack wasn't as willing. Kate put a hold on you though. Leaving you effectively stuck in an omega-holding house.

“They've already rejected me before, Kate.” It came out as a whine, you couldn't help it. “Is it the same pack? What's going to make this any different?”

She winced at the noise, her brows furrowing.

“Yes, it’s the same pack. And they didn't reject you, they just rejected the idea of an omega.” she corrected. “It's different this time because they've wised up. They asked me to find them an omega.”

“And here I am,” you said glumly.

“None of that.” she scolded, her hand smacking against your knee. “You still have their files?” She asked. You nodded your head. Of course, you still had their files. They practically haunted you.

Plus it was just about the only eye candy you could get in a place like this.

“You remember Simon right?” she continued. You nodded your head. The only man in your file without a picture. He was a fan favorite amongst your friends, along with Kyle. Something about the mystery just had everyone's wheels turning. “He got hurt. Hospitalized.”

“That's terrible.” You gasped. “He’s going to be alright?”

She quickly nodded her head. “Yes, but on the bright side, it made them realize how much they need you,” she said softly. You begin to have a gnawing feeling in your stomach and you are one more fact away from getting the shakes. “Calm down.” she groaned, waving a hand in front of her face. When nervous your scent turned from sweet to sour. Not in a moldy fruit way, but in a strong lemon way. Kate could feel her mouth pucker.

“I can't help it.” you groaned back. “I thought I was going to die in this place. Now you're telling me I have to leave and go out into the world. Not only that but I get to join a pack that has no interest in me other than a healer. You know what it's my turn to refuse.” You snapped. “If that Captain ‘Cost’ or whatever his name is wants me then he can come down here and ask me.” You snapped.

“Captain Price.” Kate corrected, working her hardest to stifle a laugh. “How about we go to lunch, then you can think about it. I can tell you a bit more about them. Maybe that’ll change your mind? Hhhm?” She soothed, patting you on the back.

Who were you to turn down lunch?

Simon had yet to fully wake up. The doctor was right, waking up was a nightmare. John had decided to spend the night outside Simon’s door- just in case. The sound of a thundering growl quickly jolted him awake. John had to tranquilize Simon himself, through a hole in the door. First and hopefully last time he'd ever have to use a blow dart.

It went on like this every few hours, until finally the nurses just decided to keep him under. Simon had cracked a few of his ribs in the fight with himself, along with obtaining more bumps and scrapes.

“Poor lad.” John huffed, after telling the rest of the pack.

“Didn't happen to record any of it did you?” Johnny questioned. “What?!” he spat after Kyle and John glared him down. “Simon drugged up trying to fight nonexistent enemies. Don't sit here and tell me it wasn't entertaining.” Johnny smirked. Kyle pressed his lips together, his imagination slowly taking control.

“Was a sight.” John admitted finally. John suddenly leaned forward his finger tapping against the Scots left shoulder, where Simon’s mark was.“That's one of your alphas you're talking about.” John corrected. Johnny shivered, instinctually leaning into John's warm touch.

“Technically he's the second alpha. You're the pack alpha.” Johnny continued, wanting to soak up as much affection as he could. It worked.

“Good boy.” John praised, his hand drifting over to Johnnys' right shoulder, where his mark was. Johnny purred, his eyes drifting over to Kyle who was watching the whole ordeal with slowly lowering eyelids. Kyle snapped himself out of it.

“Not in public.” Kyle reprimanded.

“You're just jealous.” Johnny nearly panted.

“You get worked up so fast,” John murmured.

“Still got any tranquilizers?” Kyle growled.

After talking with Kate and about three margaritas later you had softened. She had dropped you back off at the omega house holding house, with a tight hug, promising you that everything would work out.

John twitched in surprise when his phone began buzzing in his pocket.

“Kate?”

“When do you need her?”

Yay, you're here for chapter two! Chapter three will be uploaded in two days! See you there 🧡🤎

[aspenmissing]

ꜱʜʀᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx | ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 6133 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ?

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: @hollstar07 , ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ ꜱᴛᴀʀ! ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀʏ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴀᴍ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇʟᴀʏ ɪɴ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴅᴏɴᴇ! ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅʟᴇꜱꜱ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx

JAYCE

Jayce had three alarms in his life now.

One was the sunrise—early and golden, painting soft lines across your shared bedroom and dragging reluctant warmth over his skin. A natural nudge to the day.

Two was his carefully chosen, peaceful wake-up tone. Something gentle and melodic, a sound he’d once been proud of because it made him feel like someone who had his life together. A simple piano tune, curated and clean—just like his calendar and meticulously organized sock drawer.

And three—

Was you.

Specifically, you and your 8 a.m. blaring AC/DC, like a fire alarm designed by drunk gods with guitars and absolutely no respect for peace and quiet.

It didn’t matter where you were— The kitchen. The garage. The shower. Even once, God help him, the toilet.

Wherever you went, metal followed. And with it came the sounds of hellfire, rebellion, and the unmistakable buzz of your soldering iron hard at work.

=

Jayce groaned dramatically, pulling the pillow over his head as Highway to Hell rattled the windows hard enough he was sure the glass panes would one day just walk out in protest.

“Babe!” he shouted over Angus Young’s manic solo, voice muffled by cotton and morning despair. “It’s Saturday!”

No response.

Of course.

Jayce sighed the sigh of a man who had long since accepted his fate, kicked off the blankets, and dragged himself out of bed. Barefoot and in sweats, he trudged through the hallway like a man on his way to the gallows. The scent of solder and freshly brewed coffee hit him almost instantly—a strangely comforting blend that somehow now meant home.

He rounded the corner into the living room, and there you were.

Your latest project—something he didn’t even want to understand, because last time he asked, you launched into a twenty-minute explanation about circuit stability and heat dispersion—was spread across the floor. A tangle of wires, tools, sparks, and your signature chaos.

You were crouched low, barefoot and glorious, dressed in your torn, very well-loved AC/DC “Back in Black” shirt. You wore it like armor, faded and soft, sleeves cut off and hemline frayed. Grease stained the fabric and your jeans, and your wild, unbrushed hair was tied back haphazardly, little strands sticking out in every direction like you’d just stuck a fork in a socket.

And Jayce? He was ruined for anyone else. God, you were beautiful. Feral. Loud. Irreverent.

And his.

“Morning, sunshine,” you said with a shit-eating grin, pushing your goggles up into your hair.

Jayce rubbed at his eyes, still squinting against the daylight and guitar riffs. “You couldn’t wait until at least nine to start summoning the rock gods?”

You cackled, standing to stretch and cracking your neck like a prizefighter ready for round two. “Music fuels the soul, baby. What do you want me to do—weld in silence like a serial killer?”

He raised a brow. “You’re literally building something with a blowtorch while AC/DC screams about damnation. I don’t think you get to claim the moral high ground here.”

“Oh, Jayce,” you cooed mockingly, voice syrupy sweet, “normal people don’t fall in love with walking thunder.”

You leaned back with your arms wide like you were on stage in front of thousands, haloed in smoke and sparks. Jayce just shook his head, smiling despite himself.

You were ridiculous.

And yet...

He crossed the room, warm hands finding your waist, fingers grazing the hem of your shirt. He didn’t mind the grease, the grime, the literal danger zone of your projects. He never had. You were his mess—wild and brilliant and unapologetically yourself.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, leaning in.

“And yet,” you whispered, lips brushing his, “you chose this chaos.”

“I did,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Regret it every morning, but… yeah. Still choosing it.”

The kiss deepened, your hands sliding up into his still-mussed hair, tugging slightly. You tasted like coffee and smoke and something darker—like adrenaline and late nights and middle fingers at the world.

Jayce kissed you back, slow and sleepy and utterly in love. Until Back in Black swelled again behind you, breaking the moment with a triumphant guitar riff.

He groaned. “Do you have to blast it at max volume? Every time?”

You pulled away with a grin. “It’s not max yet. That’s for when I’m angle-grinding.”

He made a face. “Remind me why I let you move in again?”

“Because I’m hot, I make good coffee, and I make you laugh so hard you snort.”

“You do make good coffee,” he muttered, already defeated.

You strutted back toward your project like a rockstar leaving the stage. “I was thinking,” you called over your shoulder, “I could make you your own battle vest.”

Jayce blinked. “A what?”

“A battle vest! You know. Patches, studs, chaos, denim. I could start you off easy—maybe something with Architects or Ghost if AC/DC’s too ‘loud’ for your refined Piltover palate.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I swear to god, if you iron a patch onto my suit jacket, we’re breaking up.”

Your laugh rang out loud and unfiltered, and Jayce realized once again that there was no escaping you—and that he didn't want to.

“I love you,” he sighed.

“I love you more when you admit defeat,” you said, flipping your goggles back down. “Now be a good boy and bring me more coffee. This bad boy’s not gonna weld itself.”

Jayce rolled his eyes, but he was already halfway to the kitchen, shaking his head and smiling like a man utterly ruined for peace and quiet.

Metalhead or not—grease, guitar solos, and all— You were home. And he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

VIKTOR

The walls of your shared apartment shuddered under the weight of a relentless guitar solo—one so feral it could’ve resurrected the dead.

In the other room, Viktor blinked slowly, lifting his head from the warm glow of his laptop screen. His reading glasses slipped halfway down the bridge of his nose, and the document he had been quietly annotating trembled ever so slightly as another blast of drums crashed through the thin apartment walls like a sonic boom.

His glass of water did a nervous little shimmy on the desk.

He exhaled slowly—through his nose, a breath long and even, the kind trained scholars take when they are desperately trying to be patient. A fond, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the pulse beginning to form at his temple.

“Y/N,” he called, his voice just loud enough to pierce the auditory battlefield.

No response. Or maybe your music had killed your hearing.

Viktor sighed again—less patient this time—and carefully set his laptop aside. He leaned his cane against the edge of the desk and stood, joints protesting slightly as he straightened his back and ran a hand through his messy brown hair. His gait was slow but purposeful as he limped down the hallway, cane tapping rhythmically against the wooden floor with each step.

He followed the sound of guttural vocals and apocalyptic riffage like a monk chasing a devil through a monastery.

The kitchen.

Of course.

There you were: an image that somehow managed to be both chaotic and domestic.

Dressed in one of your favorite band tees—Slayer today, cut to hang loose and just short enough to reveal the sliver of your midriff as you moved. You were barefoot, swaying slightly to the beat while washing dishes like the world depended on your devotion to the rhythm. Soap suds clung to your fingers, your sleeves were shoved haphazardly up your forearms, and you were mouthing the lyrics like a woman possessed. One of your tattoos—an intricate ink of skeletal wings—peeked from beneath your sleeve and flexed with each movement of your arm.

The kitchen was awash with the smell of lemon soap, old coffee in a mug that had long since gone cold, and the faint trace of your metal-scented cologne—iron and sandalwood and smoke. The air shimmered with energy, sound, and the unapologetic you-ness of it all.

Viktor paused in the doorway, resting a hand against the frame to steady himself. He watched you with something equal parts amusement and reverence, like he still couldn’t believe this chaotic marvel of a human had willingly chosen to share a life with him.

He let the moment stretch—let it warm the silence between the chords—then finally spoke.

“You’re aware,” he said dryly, raising his voice just enough, “that I am not deaf, yes?”

You jumped a little, startled, before breaking into a grin. “Vik!” you chirped, rinsing your hands. “You scared me!”

You padded over to him barefoot, still dripping slightly. “You don’t like the new album?” you asked, almost like you couldn’t believe it.

He gave the speaker, still wailing in the corner, a flat look. “It sounds like someone is torturing a blender.”

You gasped—scandalized. “Blasphemy! That’s pure musical artistry. That scream? That was a note held for fourteen seconds.”

“Fourteen seconds of anguish,” Viktor muttered, though there was no venom in it—only that quiet, biting humour he saved just for you.

“Screaming is a valid emotional expression,” you said haughtily, grabbing a towel and tossing it over your shoulder like a warrior donning a cloak.

“And migraines,” Viktor countered, stepping farther into the room and lowering the volume with the remote, “are a valid medical condition.”

You huffed, but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “I am concentrating,” you said. “Metal gives me laser focus. It drowns everything else out. I’d probably file my taxes to Cannibal Corpse if you’d let me.”

Viktor’s brows lifted behind his glasses. “Please don’t. The IRS will think you’re summoning a blood god.”

“Only if they audit me.”

You stepped forward and looped your arms gently around his waist, mindful of his balance. His body eased into yours automatically, cane tapping once against the floor before he braced himself with a hand on the counter beside him. He smelled like cedarwood, old books, and a faint trace of ozone—the kind that always lingered after he’d spent hours working on something tech-related.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” you murmured, resting your chin against his chest. “You’ve started recognizing bands. You even tapped your foot once to that Gojira song.”

“I was adjusting my sock,” he said flatly.

“Uh-huh. Denial is a river in Egypt, babe.”

He rolled his eyes but his hand came up, fingers threading softly through your hair with the same meticulous attention he gave his blueprints. “And yet I stay,” he murmured, voice low and warm.

“You love me,” you said, smug.

“I must,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to your forehead, soft and sure. “Even if you are singlehandedly destroying my inner ear.”

You snorted and pulled him closer. “Balance,” you said. “You bring the calm, I bring the chaos. Yin and yang.”

“More like tea and thermite.”

“Aw, is my little scientist making metaphors now?” you teased, tapping your finger against his nose. “I’m rubbing off on you.”

“I pray not,” he said. “You are a hazard to both public safety and noise ordinances.”

But he was smiling—soft and private, the kind of smile that only you got to see. You lived for it.

You pulled your phone from your back pocket and cued up another playlist. This one was still heavy—still unapologetically you—but had more melody and clean vocals, a smoother edge beneath the rage.

“This one’s for you,” you said, sliding the phone onto the counter. “I call it: Songs That Won’t Make Viktor Cry.”

He arched an eyebrow. “A surprisingly short playlist, I imagine.”

“Just long enough,” you said, stepping closer, “for dish duty, cuddles, and maybe a slow dance in the kitchen.”

Viktor huffed out a laugh, low in his chest. “You truly are ridiculous.”

“And you adore me.”

“I really, really do.”

He leaned in slowly, gently, lips brushing over yours with reverence. One hand still braced on the counter, the other curled lightly at your hip. It was tender and soft, the kind of kiss that said: I have loved you quietly for a very long time. And maybe always would.

The guitar faded into a softer outro. You pressed your forehead to his, swaying just a little—more of a lazy rock than a dance, but it was enough.

Just you, him, the kitchen, and the last note of a metal ballad bleeding into golden quiet.

JAYVIK

The sound of distorted guitar riffs and off-kilter rhythms ricocheted off the brick walls of the townhouse, bleeding out from the open back door like an electric storm. The overgrown flower pots on the patio trembled in time with Radiohead’s “Myxomatosis”, the pounding beat colliding with the shrill whistle of a kettle just beginning to scream on the stove.

Jayce winced, reaching for the kettle with one hand and Viktor’s favorite mug with the other. Steam rose like ghosts, curling lazily into the dim light of the kitchen as he poured the boiling water over a sachet of loose-leaf tea.

“Seriously,” he muttered, raising his voice over the music, “how is she not deaf by now?”

Across the room, Viktor sat perched on a stool at the kitchen island, moving like someone who’d memorized the mechanics of his own pain. He adjusted the angle of his cane before folding his hands neatly around the mug Jayce slid his way.

“She is deaf,” Viktor replied flatly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Emotionally. To common sense. Or volume limits.”

Jayce huffed a laugh and looked out the window above the sink. Beyond the warped glass, the back garden was a tangle of green and rust, split down the middle by a narrow flagstone path that led to a workbench of utter chaos. Smoke puffed into the sky from behind it in short bursts, rhythmic, like a dragon breathing under control. For now.

“Remind me,” Jayce said, sipping his coffee, “why we let her buy a welder off eBay?”

“Because she was cute when she begged,” Viktor replied, dipping a spoon into his tea with meticulous care. “And because you folded after two minutes of her giving you those eyes.”

Jayce muttered something under his breath but didn’t deny it.

=

Outside, you were crouched like a gremlin goddess among coils of wire and metal debris. Your combat boots were scuffed, your ripped jeans coated in ash, and your Radiohead shirt—circa 2003 tour—looked like it had survived several house fires. An oversized utility apron was slung over your front, streaked with oil, paint, and what might’ve been blood from a rogue screwdriver incident last week.

Your welding mask was down, the glass catching the orange flare of the torch in wild bursts, dancing to the erratic beats of Thom Yorke’s voice screaming through the speaker beside you. There was no such thing as “low volume” in your world. The smell of burnt metal and summer grass lingered thick in the air, and little clouds of smoke chased away the butterflies brave enough to flirt with the dandelions.

Jayce leaned against the doorframe, coffee in one hand, watching you with the kind of expression that blended exasperation and adoration.

“You’re gonna set the whole yard on fire one day, babe!” he shouted, though it was a miracle if you heard anything over the drums.

You paused. The torch cut off with a hiss.

A moment passed, filled only by the jagged wail of guitar and birds squawking in protest from the fence. Then, slowly, you lifted your welding mask like the dramatic reveal in a music video, face glistening with sweat, hair in a chaotic bun secured by a pencil and a bent nail. You squinted at him, eyes adjusting, voice unapologetic.

“I’m making art, Jayce!” you yelled. “And also, possibly, a weapon. We’ll find out in about fifteen minutes.”

“She’s being responsible today,” Viktor called from inside, tone laced with dry affection. “She hasn’t set herself on fire once.”

Jayce chuckled, stepping down onto the patio with the casual caution of a man who’d seen at least three accidental flamethrowers in the last six months. “If you blow up the rose bushes again, I’m not covering for you.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed your water bottle, half-empty and coated in fingerprints. “They’re your rose bushes. Don’t bring your horticulture into my war zone.”

Jayce crouched beside you, his massive frame blocking a sliver of sun. He reached out, thumb brushing a black streak of oil from your cheek with that gentle touch that always managed to contrast the chaos you radiated.

“You’ve got something right… there. No, other side. Nope—still there.”

You crossed your eyes trying to follow his finger, then shrugged. “Adds character.”

Viktor emerged from the house moments later, walking slowly down the path, the tap of his cane rhythmic and steady on the stone. His loose linen shirt fluttered in the breeze, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, exposing fading ink and old burns from his academy days.

At the sound of his approach, you perked up and practically launched yourself at him, arms wrapping around his waist without a care for the grime you were transferring onto his clothes.

“Hey, sweetheart! Look what I made!” you beamed. “It might be a door hinge or a time bomb. Either way, it opens something!”

Viktor huffed, but there was no true annoyance in it. He carded his fingers gently through your hair, tucking a stray lock behind your ear. “You’re very talented. I will watch… from ten meters away, in protective gear.”

Jayce had already made himself comfortable beside the pile of half-finished projects and tangled copper wiring, one leg folded under him like he belonged there. “So,” he asked, raising an eyebrow, “when are you actually going to finish that mech suit you keep talking about?”

You grabbed your torch again with a wolfish grin. “Right after I finish playing Idioteque on max volume and scaring off the entire neighborhood’s dog population. Priorities, babe.”

Jayce leaned over to press a kiss to your temple, still warm from the heat of your mask. “God, I love you.”

Viktor reached out with his free hand, threading his fingers through yours. “You’re a menace,” he murmured. “But yes… we do.”

With a smirk, you flipped your mask back down.

“Damn right you do.”

And then the torch roared back to life—blue sparks flying, Radiohead howling about the end of the world, and your two boyfriends sitting back, sipping tea and coffee, watching you like you were both the storm and the sunbeam after it.

The chaos was constant. The love was louder. And somewhere behind it all, your next invention hissed ominously.

VANDER

It started the same way every Saturday morning did.

The entire apartment building shook with the opening scream of Slayer’s Raining Blood. The walls rattled. The floorboards hummed. Somewhere in the plumbing, something groaned in protest.

Vi groaned louder. From beneath her blanket cocoon, she yanked a pillow over her head like it was going to save her from the inevitable blast of drums and rage.

“She’s at it again,” she mumbled, muffled and miserable.

Claggor, already up and planted lazily on the couch with a half-empty bowl of cereal resting on his stomach, grinned over the top of his spoon. “I dunno,” he said with a shrug. “I kinda like it. Better than Mylo singing in the shower.”

“Hey!” Mylo shouted from the hallway, toothbrush jutting from his mouth like a cigar, hair spiked out in five different directions. “That was one time! And I nailed it!”

Vi shot him a glare and shoved her pillow aside. “You broke a tile with your footwork, dumbass.”

Too late to fix it now anyway.

A soft, sleepy shuffling came from down the hall. Powder emerged from her room in oversized bunny slippers, wrapped in a faded purple blanket like a sad, adorable burrito. She rubbed her eyes, squinting toward the kitchen.

“Is the world ending again?” she asked groggily, blinking up at Claggor like he might have an answer.

He gave her a pat on the head as she passed. “Just another Saturday.”

=

In the kitchen, it was absolute, glorious mayhem.

You were in your element.

Dressed in a weathered Iron Maiden tee you’d cut the sleeves off of, black ripped jeans smeared with paint and god-knows-what from your garage work, and bare feet tapping against the tile floor, you moved like a chaotic conductor orchestrating a symphony of sizzling batter, boiling coffee, and thunderous guitar riffs.

Your hair was wild—half from headbanging to the solo, half because brushing it on weekends was a suggestion, not a rule. A streak of flour crossed one cheekbone, and your tattoos peeked out from under the fabric of your shirt, inked patterns shimmering faintly with sweat from the kitchen heat.

The coffee machine hissed.

The skillet hissed louder.

The stereo screamed.

You flipped a pancake into the air like you were tossing a grenade and caught it effortlessly with the spatula. Perfect landing. You grinned to yourself.

This? This was your temple. And the gods you worshipped wore leather and screamed in drop D. Then, right on cue, Vander appeared in the doorway.

Fresh from his morning run, sweat still clinging to his broad shoulders, towel slung lazily over his neck, he leaned against the doorframe and took in the scene:

You, shirt clinging slightly to your back. The smoke curling up from a pancake you'd forgotten. The stereo rattling the windows. The kids—half-dressed, half-asleep, definitely regretting ever moving in with the loudest woman on the planet.

And you, smiling like it was the best morning of your life.

He couldn’t help it. He just… grinned.

“You’re gonna kill that speaker one day, love,” he rumbled, voice hoarse from the cool air and full of amused affection.

Without turning around, you raised your spatula in defiance and shouted over the blast of drums, “Worth it!”

Vi stumbled into the kitchen, groaning dramatically as she slammed her head down onto the counter. “Can we please have one morning without her summoning Satan through the stereo?!”

You turned, grinning like the devil himself, spatula in hand. “It’s Pantera today, thank you very much!”

Powder, now parked on the counter with a juice box wedged between her knees, gave a sleepy little nod. “I like this one,” she mumbled. “It sounds like fighting robots.”

Vander walked up behind you, one hand resting lightly on your waist, the other brushing your hair away from your face before pressing a kiss to your temple. You leaned into it without missing a beat, flipping the next pancake and singing along—off-key and loud.

“You’re gonna get noise complaints again,” he said softly.

“I baked muffins for the old lady downstairs last time,” you replied with a smirk. “She called me a loud angel.”

Vander chuckled, shaking his head. “Loud angel,” he repeated. “Fits.”

=

Later that day, you disappeared into the garage like some kind of grease-stained sorcerer, and the metal followed you.

This time it was some obscure Swedish death metal band—so brutal it sounded like they recorded it with a chainsaw in a thunderstorm. The garage door rattled. A few crows scattered from the roof.

Inside, your welding mask was pushed up, oil smeared across your forearm, one knee balanced against the frame of a half-finished motorcycle you'd been pouring your soul into for months. Metal clanged. Sparks flew. A coil of smoke curled from the soldering point like incense at a ritual.

Claggor hovered nearby, curiosity outweighing the noise.

“You think you could teach me how to fix that?” he asked, nodding toward the bike. “Y’know… without blowing myself up?”

You passed him a wrench without even looking away from your work. “Only if you bring your own playlist next time.”

“What if I say…” he hesitated, voice sly. “I like Taylor Swift?” You paused, slowly lowering your goggles and turning to stare at him dead-on.

“I hope you like learning the hard way, Claggor,” you said flatly. “Because I’m making you work double.”

He laughed, raising both hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”

=

That night, everyone crashed on the couch for movie night.

You’d finally cleaned up, traded your oil-stained tee for one of Vander’s massive hoodies—it practically swallowed you whole—and your legs were draped over his lap as he toyed with the hem of the sleeve absently, your hand tangled with his.

Powder was tucked under your other arm, her blanket now more yours than hers.

Mylo balanced the popcorn bowl on his knees and smirked. “Y’know, you’re kinda soft when you’re not listening to murder music.”

You flicked a kernel at him with deadly precision. “You’d miss it if I stopped.”

He ducked, chuckling. “I’d miss getting my ears back.”

Vi, already halfway asleep with her feet propped on Claggor’s back, muttered, “She’s not wrong, though.”

The apartment buzzed with that peaceful kind of exhaustion. Popcorn crumbs. Static on the screen. The smell of motor oil still clinging faintly to you, just beneath the clean scent of Vander’s hoodie.

Vander looked down at you, eyes warm, hand brushing back your hair again.

“She’s ours,” he said quietly. And this time, no one argued. Not even the stereo.

SILCO

Silco wasn’t sure what was worse: the guttural screaming pouring from the Bluetooth speaker in the corner of the apartment, or the fact that it was the third time he’d heard this exact song today. The aggressive blast of Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” filled the cramped living room, rattling the windows and setting the old radiator into a low hum.

You were bent over your workbench in the corner, soldering goggles perched on your forehead and sleeves rolled up over an arm tattooed with a riot of black ink — skulls, serpents, and an intricate spiderweb creeping from wrist to elbow. Your oversized Iron Maiden tee was faded and stretched, hanging loose off one shoulder, streaked with smudges of engine grease that only added to your unbothered, effortless style.

The iconic galloping riff tore through the air, and you bobbed your head along, completely immersed in the music and your craft. A delicate mechanical part, tiny and intricate, was being soldered with deft precision between your nimble fingers. You didn’t flinch even as the track hit its ferocious breakdown, the vocalist’s howl ringing sharp and raw.

Silco leaned against the doorway, a fresh cup of coffee in one hand and a distinct look of mild suffering on his face. The faint scent of tobacco from his coat lingered in the air, mixing oddly with the metallic tang of your workspace.

“You’re aware,” he began, voice low and dry, “the human ear wasn’t designed to survive that… assault repeatedly.”

Without looking up, you gave him a grin sharp enough to slice through the noise. “Come on, it’s not that bad. You just don’t have the right appreciation for the artistry.”

“I feel like I’m being exorcised,” Silco said, clearly not convinced.

“That’s the point,” you muttered proudly, tightening a screw and reaching for your soldering iron. “This one’s Slayer. I was in a mood.”

Silco exhaled slowly, setting his coffee down on a cluttered side table. “This is the third Slayer I’ve encountered today, and none of them were figurative.”

You snorted at that, finally setting the soldering iron aside to take off your goggles. Your eyes sparkled with mischief and affection as you turned fully toward him. “Sorry, babe. I forget you’re not quite as... musically adventurous as me.”

“I have taste,” Silco said with a mock offense, lifting his chin as if daring you to argue.

“You listen to Beethoven’s symphonies in the shower,” you teased.

“Exactly,” Silco shot back with a small smirk, “appreciation of structure and refinement.”

You laughed harder, the sound cutting through the roar of the music. Wiping your hands on a rag, you stepped up and looped your arms around his waist, pulling him close. His all-black ensemble — a sharply tailored shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a vest with a subtle sheen, and those infamous reading glasses perched on his nose — contrasted with your casual, worn-in style.

“You knew what you were signing up for,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the edge of his jaw. “Band tees, blown-out speakers, a sea of skull rings, and the occasional growl at the neighbours. Non-negotiable.”

Silco huffed, but his arm came around your waist just the same, hand resting low on your back in a possessive, grounding way. “And yet somehow, despite all odds, you have infiltrated every corner of my life.”

“Even your playlists,” you added with a teasing smirk. “I caught Black Sabbath on your ‘Liked Songs’ the other day.”

“That was a misclick.”

“Sure it was,” you said, stepping closer to nuzzle your face against his neck. “I can turn it down if it’s too much.”

“No,” he murmured, fingers brushing over the fabric of your tee, lingering. “Keep it. It’s... oddly comforting. Like I always know when you’re nearby. Or... not dead.”

“High praise,” you said with a laugh.

Silco let out a rare, low chuckle and pulled you tighter. “There’s something poetic about it. A metalhead and a megalomaniac.”

You snorted, playful. “That should be our band name.”

“If we ever start one,” Silco said dryly.

“Only if you sing.”

He gave you a look sharp enough to stop a lesser person’s heart. “I would rather die.”

You grinned wide, pulling away with a wink. “Then you’d make a killer black metal vocalist.”

The next song started up automatically — AC/DC blasting the iconic riff of “Back in Black.” You flipped the volume higher with a satisfied smirk.

Silco sighed and retrieved his coffee, moving to sit in the window nook where the weak afternoon light fell over his dark hair. He pulled a book from the pile beside him but found himself watching you instead, marveling at the way your whole body moved with the music — untamed, fierce, alive.

Despite the chaos, despite the noise, despite everything…

It suited him.

Because in your madness, in your fire, in your relentless passion for life and sound, he found a strange kind of peace. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

JINX

You slam your Blackened Thunder band tee against your chest with a grin—the jagged, blood-red logo splashed boldly across the fabric like a badge of honor. The fabric is soft and worn from countless shows and late-night practices, the kind of shirt that smells faintly of leather, sweat, and smoke. Around you, the cramped rehearsal room feels alive with history. Faded concert posters peel at the edges, plastered haphazardly over walls layered with decades of stickers from underground bands and local punk shows. A cracked mirror leans in one corner, its surface smeared with fingerprints and grime, reflecting the tangle of amps, cables, and mismatched drumsticks piled in every nook.

Your fingers move with practiced ease, deftly adjusting the tuning pegs on your battered electric guitar. Each string hums and twangs as it tightens, the sound mingling with the steady roar of a new metal track blasting through your headphones—raw and thunderous, filled with guttural screams and serrated riffs. You tap your nails lightly on the guitar’s scratched body, head nodding almost involuntarily to the rhythm, the familiar adrenaline of anticipation humming under your skin like electricity.

Outside the music, you hear the distant hum of the city—sirens, cars, voices fading into the night. But here, in this small, dimly lit room, it’s just you, the instruments, and the pulse of metal thrumming through your veins.

Then—boom!—the door slams open with a burst of energy that could only be Jinx. She storms in like a hurricane, carrying that wild grin she wears like armor, black leather jacket studded and festooned with patches—RazorFang, GraveMistress, Iron Fangs—all the bands you both worship like sacred gods. Her bright blue hair catches the light as she spins around, slamming a battered guitar case on the floor with a satisfying thud.

“Yo! Check out these killer new pedals I snagged off that sketchy dude at the flea market,” she announces with a manic sparkle in her eyes, tossing a fresh set of drumsticks onto the snare drum. “Also, I re-tuned the snare so it screams like a banshee now. Ready to rip the roof off this place or what?”

You push your messy hair back, strands falling in a wild halo around your face, the corners of your mouth twitching upward into a grin. “Born ready, spazz. But don’t cry when I leave you in the dust.” You flash her a cocky wink.

Jinx throws her head back and laughs, loud and reckless, the sound bouncing off the walls and filling every corner of the room. She practically leaps onto her drum throne, sticks poised like a warrior preparing for battle.

The moment her sticks hit the drum skins, the room erupts into a raw, thunderous rhythm—the kind that shakes your chest, rattles your bones, and lights up every nerve ending like a live wire. You slide onto your scratched-up stool, your fingers curling eagerly around the neck of your guitar. No hesitation. No second guessing. You launch into the opening riff—a jagged, biting line that slashes through the air like a bolt of lightning.

The sound is everything you live for—gritty, loud, electric chaos—and it floods the tiny room like a storm breaking free from a cage. You and Jinx move in perfect sync, a well-oiled machine of sound and fury. Your riffs weave through her pounding beats like fire and steel, a fierce dance of power and precision. Every crash of her cymbals is met by your shredding licks, every thunderous kick drum matched by the growl of your distorted guitar. It’s more than music; it’s an unspoken conversation, a shared language only the two of you truly understand.

=

Minutes bleed into each other, the hours dissolving in the blur of sweat and noise. Beads of sweat gather on your forehead, your band tee sticking to your skin as your heart races with the pure rush of adrenaline. Your arms ache, but you don’t stop. You can’t. Because out here—right now—there is nothing but this. The music, the noise, the freedom.

Finally, the room falls into an exhausted, buzzing silence. You lower your guitar and take a shaky breath, the heavy bass still thrumming deep in your chest. You glance over at Jinx, who’s leaning back, chest rising and falling fast, her wild hair damp with sweat and sticking to her flushed cheeks.

Her grin is wide and fierce, like she’s just won the best battle of her life.

“You know,” you say, voice rough and cracked from shouting lyrics and blowing out air, “I don’t think I’d survive high school without you and this noise.”

Jinx shrugs, a cocky smirk tugging at her lips as she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. “Same here. Who else would put up with my insane drum solos and still wanna jam every damn weekend? Honestly, you’re the only one who gets how much louder my brain is than the rest of the world.”

You bump fists hard enough to make the amps rattle. “Metal forever, partner.”

Her eyes gleam with promise and something unspoken—a bond forged in noise and chaos. “Always.”

She leans back, flipping her wild hair out of her face like a flag waving in the storm. “Hey, you think we should hit up that underground gig next weekend? GraveMistress is playing, and I heard they might debut some new stuff. I swear it’s gonna blow the roof off.”

Your heart skips, a rush of excitement that has nothing to do with the music. “Hell yes. Let’s show them how it’s done. No one rips a crowd up like we do.”

Jinx throws her head back and laughs again, wild and free, the kind of sound that makes your chest warm despite the chill creeping in from the cracked window. You grab your guitar, tuning pegs clicking as you prep for the next round of riffs, your fingers itching to dive back into the noise.

Because for you and Jinx, this isn’t just a hobby or some teenage rebellion. It’s a lifeline, a rebellion against everything that tries to silence you. It’s the roar of your souls made audible, the kind of friendship that screams louder than any amp ever could.

And tonight? Tonight, you both own that roar.

[aventurineswife]

Howdy there! Can I request a suggestive fic with Kaveh where the reader tries their best to convince Kaveh to not pull an all nighter and exhaust himself out because of a big project he's been working on, so they take it upon themselves to try and convince him with sweet kisses and soft caresses! I just love the mental image of reader sitting on his lap and kissing him all over to convince him to go to bed so he can rest while they spoil him, because he absolutely deserves to be spoiled!!!!!.

Have a good day, and no pressure with making this <3

Tired Eyes, Tender Heart

Summary: Kaveh has been pushing himself too hard with a big project, ignoring his need for rest. His concerned partner tries to convince him to take a break, gently coaxing him with soft kisses and affectionate touches. Eventually, Kaveh surrenders to the warmth of your love and care, allowing himself a moment of relaxation and tenderness. In the end, it’s a night for Kaveh to receive the attention and rest he so desperately deserves.

Tags: Kaveh x Reader, Suggestive, Fluff, Soft Romance, Emotional Comfort, Slow Burn, Affection, Rest, Caregiving, Light Dom/Sub Dynamics

Warnings: Suggestive Content, Mild Innuendo, Emotional Vulnerability, Physical Affection.

It was late. The moonlight filtered through the half-open windows, casting long shadows across the room where Kaveh sat hunched over his desk, the light of his lantern flickering weakly against the sheer volume of blueprints sprawled across the surface. His fingers trembled slightly, not from lack of skill, but from the exhaustion that had taken over his body. Yet, the passion that fueled his soul refused to let him stop working. The lines on the parchment blurred, but his mind was alive with his grand designs. He had to finish this—he simply couldn’t stop.

But then, a soft voice broke through the storm of thoughts swirling in his head.

"You're going to burn yourself out, Kaveh."

You stood at the doorway, watching him for a moment before stepping inside. Your eyes softened at the sight of him—his hair disheveled, his sharp eyes weary yet still focused. You had seen him like this far too many times. He was always so driven by his ideals, always pushing himself too hard. The thought of him falling into a deep exhaustion, unable to recover, unsettled you.

"You know that this project won't go anywhere if you're too exhausted to finish it," you continued, your tone gentle but firm.

Kaveh let out a sigh, not bothering to look up from his work. "I know, but this... this needs to be perfect. Every detail matters."

You couldn’t help but smile at his dedication. His idealism was something that you admired deeply, but it also made him blind to his own needs. With a soft laugh, you crossed the room, kneeling beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder.

"How about you take a break?" you suggested, your voice laced with sweetness. "Just for a little while. A moment to rest, so you can come back to this with a clearer mind."

He didn’t respond immediately, but the weight of your touch seemed to slow his hands. His eyes met yours for the first time in what felt like hours, and for a moment, you saw the weariness in them, the silent plea for someone to care enough to help him.

Before he could protest, you slipped onto his lap, straddling him gently. His breath hitched as you leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. His body stiffened in surprise, but you stayed close, your warmth against his. The kiss you gave him lingered longer than necessary, a silent invitation to let go of the tension that gripped him.

"Kaveh," you whispered, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "You’ve been working so hard. You deserve a little rest. Let me take care of you."

He hesitated, his hands flexing at his sides as though debating whether to push you away or hold you closer. But then, as you kissed him again—this time on his lips, slow and tender—he gave in, his body relaxing under your touch.

You didn’t stop there. Your kisses became a trail down his jaw, along his neck, sweet and soft, coaxing him into relaxation with every touch. His breath grew shallow, and his hands finally reached up to rest against your waist, pulling you even closer. But you didn’t let him pull away from your affection.

"You've worked so hard, Kaveh," you murmured against his skin, nipping lightly at his earlobe. "But you can’t do it all alone. Let me spoil you for once."

Kaveh’s mind was swirling, and though his body still ached to finish his project, it also longed for the tenderness you were offering. He leaned back in his chair, allowing you to guide him into a position of comfort. You kissed him again, this time deeper, more insistent, as if telling him, without words, that he deserved to rest, to feel loved, to be cherished.

When you finally pulled away, he was left breathless, his eyes half-lidded as he gazed at you with a mix of admiration and gratitude.

"You spoil me too much," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

You smiled softly, brushing your hand through his hair, smoothing out the tension there. "You deserve it, Kaveh. You deserve every bit of rest and affection. Now let me take care of you. Just for tonight."

He seemed to contemplate your words for a moment, his hand finding yours and squeezing it gently. Finally, with a sigh, he nodded, his voice barely a whisper.

"Alright. You win."

You couldn’t help but smile at his surrender, glad that he’d finally let go. As he relaxed into your embrace, you kissed him once more, this time a soft promise to care for him, to ensure that he never forgot how deserving he was of love and rest.

Together, you guided him away from his desk, towards the warmth of the bed, leaving the plans behind—if only for the night. Kaveh had given so much to the world, but tonight, it was his turn to receive, and you were more than happy to spoil him as he truly deserved.

[tunastime]

do androids dream of electric sheep?

I am nothing if not a vessel for self-indulgent docsuma, especially @shepscapades's dbhc self-indulgent docsuma. sometimes you fall asleep in the lab, and sometimes your friend feels compelled to make sure you're okay <3

(3964 words)

Doc sometimes slips into daydream.

It’s not unlike him. He’d been doing it for some time now, some fix halfway between awake and Sleep Mode. Not quite his mind palace, but still wedged into predictive processes, still trying to work to replay memories. In quiet moments, more often than not, he finds that it’s easier to slip away, to tuck himself into his work, drafting, or building, or walking thoughtful circles and let the mechanical parts of his mind slip away into calculation.

In those same dreams, he tries to calculate the probability of events with what he has, blocking out the movements of who he knows best, who he may be able to pinpoint. He works in quiet as his mind runs in the background, wondering how conversations may go, how actions could be perceived. He maps what might happen if someone got hurt, or if someone needed help, or if someone fell asleep in the lab. Someone. Just anyone. He tells himself it could be anyone, but he would be lying if he didn’t know who.

It was hard, right—it felt wrong if he didn’t. Something he was designed to do, put to waste because it felt silly to imagine waking his lab partner, his friend, making sure he was alright, helping him. Was it wrong to want to be helpful? Was it wrong to want anything? It feels—it’s silly. Want was such a human word. He’s not sure he can really want at all. The paper in front of him is getting fuzzy around the edges, though, as he forces himself back into his true waking mode, and focuses on the task in front of him, now a line of text in his eyesight.

Doc leans hard on his hand, cupped around the side of his jaw as he studies the plans in front of him. He’s long since set them to memory, easily recalled with the summon of command, but he works out the fine details of the draft in front of him, still unsatisfied with his new creation. He works quietly, mentally mapping the lists of supplies he might need, the time it may take. If he were to concentrate the slightest bit more on the display in the corner of his vision, he might note how late it had gotten. Without any windows down here, the night sky can’t leak in, which means Doc doesn’t know it’s gotten dark until Xisuma starts to yawn or he manages to peek outside. 

He sets his pad down, eyes skimming the surface. Right, and where was X, anyway? The space, ever growing, up, down, sideways, that he used as his lab had gone still and quiet some time ago. Enough for Doc to take note of. Enough to be a little odd, he would assume, even for him, and the behaviors he knows well from Xisuma. Xisuma didn’t just wander off without a word—he was much too narrative for that. Doc sits up, hand falling to the table. 

“X?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows. The room stays quiet, aside from the hum of recirculating air and electronics. Doc taps his hand against the table—it was some sort of tic he’d picked up from Ren, a sign of his impatience. He couldn’t shake the habit of mimicking it while he was thinking.

Okay, right. Last time he saw X. He gathers up the recall of the path Xisuma would’ve taken from his side, checking over his work at Doc’s request, and around the lab itself, looping back to a series of benches to work on. Leaning from his spot, he tries to pinpoint the peek of green helmet or shoulder piece. He finds neither in the direct line of sight, though, and slowly, bracing his prosthetic arm on the table, Doc stands. 

It’s a gentle quiet that fills the room, nice and easy and soft to step through as Doc makes his way around the space. Despite having another work bench quite close, Xisuma had a habit of leaving his stuff about, flitting between projects as he saw fit. It was interesting, sometimes, to watch him move around the room—not that Doc had done any of that. He seemed to bounce from point to point, sometimes staying still for hours, unmoving, lost in work. It was in those hours that Doc found himself watching, just for a moment, studying the shallow curve of his nose and the way his hair fell into his face from behind his helmet. 

His office is here, too. Though it’s no different than any other working space in terms of equipment, the space itself is fully outfitted, lined with tools and a large work table, his computer, a desk with a chair. Through the glass, he can see the shape of Xisuma at his desk, likely too caught up in whatever he had been working on to notice Doc’s concern. Doc pauses as he slides open the door, standing in the doorway, announcing himself to the cluttered room.

“Xisuma,” Doc starts. “I know it’s late, if you want to head home, I’m sure I can finish…”

Xisuma is slumped over on  his desk as Doc enters. There’s a brief moment, no more than a second, where Doc’s mind spins a scenario hard and fast, the crumpled shape of Xisuma over his desk. But he can see the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. He registers the slow, steady heartbeat in Xisuma’s chest, and his shoulders sag with relief. He stands in the doorway for a moment. Xisuma looks small, head pillowed on his arms. He’s still running a series of code on the console next to him, which illuminates the back of his head in pale lines of data. His hair falls half loose across his shoulder, like he’d forgotten to finish tying it away from his face, and the slow, deep breaths make it seem like he’d been sleeping here a lot longer than Doc realized. He’s without his helmet, too, which sits beside him on the desk, discarded.

Long enough to get a sore neck and complain about his upper back hurting. Long enough to worry that he might not be getting enough oxygen. Doc sets his shoulders. There’s something in his chest that feels like it skips—regulator, pump, or otherwise. They work in tandem to produce whatever fluttery feeling invades the space where his ribs should be. He presses the heel of his synthetic hand against the depression of his chest, rolling his wrist. The feeling fades for a moment, shuddering through his wrists like it might rest there. He was never going to get used to it, was he?

He steps into the lab proper, sticking his hands into his pockets. He picks his way around the room, trying to walk quietly around it. Xisuma stays asleep, shoulders rising and falling in that even tempo. Doc crouches beside him—Xisuma is properly slumped, back curved forward as he rests. What little Doc can see of his face is soft with sleep, eyelids fluttering just so. When X doesn’t move, he rests his palm over the curve of his shoulder, gentle and slow. He tries not to focus on the fact that so much of his face is exposed to him, aside from just his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He’s seen him before, briefly, every so often, but it was so different watching him now, calm and comfortable. Doc forces himself to focus.

“Xisuma,” he says, voice dipping low and quiet. He runs his hand over the part of his shoulderblade he can reach. He pats the high of his back. “Xisuma, hey…”

X takes a long breath in, making a squeaky sort of sound high in his chest. Doc feels him hum out from under his hand.

“Doc,” he says, voice rumbling in his chest. It was a tired sort of rumble, just on the edge of being rough with sleep, just enough to bring that feeling back to Doc’s internal components, like thirium was sludging too quick too warm through him. He huffs a little breath, a sound caught in his throat.

“You fell asleep at your desk, X,” Doc says, not able to weasel the amusement out of his voice. He runs his hand over his back again, just to see Xisuma’s eyes open tiredly, and shut again. It was so unlike the version of him that he knew in his mind, seeing him savor the brief contact, even from Doc. Especially from Doc. Xisuma was always the one reaching out for him, repairing or correcting or studying. All with purpose. There was no lingering touch between them. And though this had its purpose too, Doc lingered, feeling Xisuma breathe under his hand. 

“Sorry,” X mumbles, finally moving to lift his head, to open his eyes. Doc’s hand slides away as X sits up, over his back and back to Doc’s side. Xisuma blinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hands. A frown comes between his eyes as he tries to focus the world around him a little clearer. Like it were mimicking the score across his cheek and nose, there’s a fine indent pressed into his cheek. Doc smiles at him, scrunching his nose in a way he’s seen X do a hundred times. 

Xisuma jolts, half reaching for the helmet beside him. If Doc were to really look, he might see the pink-red flush over his cheeks and ears.

“Sorry—I didn’t…”

There he lingers, halfway to reaching. Doc looks away from him, purposefully averting his eyes.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “You have to be comfortable too.”

Xisuma hums, smiling a little, hanging his head as he leaves his hand on the table.

“Hah,” he says, ears still pink. “Right. Sorry, sorry, Doc. Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I didn’t know where you had gone off to, so I figured I would come make sure you were okay.”

X nods. Doc watches him twist around, hearing the faint give and pop as his spine adjusts to sitting upright. 

“‘M alright,” he says. Then he laughs a bit—the sound is airy and half in his chest, enough to shake his shoulders but more of a wheeze than anything else. Everything fit so well to the timbre of Xisuma’s voice, it seemed, be it the way he moved about, or the way he laughed, or the way his shoulder sloped or face was shaped. Not that Doc had been looking. Regardless, Xisuma sighs, and smiles back at him.

“Just embarrassed is all,” he manages. “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate you.”

X leans back in his chair. Doc watches him resettle and hum to himself as he gets comfortable against the plush backing. Doc makes a clipped sound, reaches out and moves away again, halfway between shaking him awake and letting him sleep.

“X,” he says. “Would it not be more comfortable if you were sleeping in your spare room?”

Xisuma frowns. 

“Would be,” he says, eyes still closed, mumbling. “It just gets awfully cold in there. ‘N if I’m perfectly comfortable in here, why not stay tha’way?”

It’s almost amusing, the trickle of stubbornness that leaks into the tired slur of Xisuma’s voice. It’s almost endearing. He watches X fold his arms over his chest, armor only partly discarded, watches his face wrinkle as he notices and tries to rearrange himself. Doc smiles, something that he simply can’t help—it feels so right, considering how ridiculous this is. He considers his options and weighs the success rates, the action taking a fraction of a second in time, though the scene plays out in his head in full.

“Because you’ll hurt your back,” Doc says plainly. X frowns, clearly mulling it over. There—that’s one that Doc knows, that face, where X slips into thought and worries the inside of his cheek and works his jaw. Doc raises his eyebrows, as if to question him without saying anything, without Xisuma even looking at him.

“Mhh,” Xisuma huffs. He pulls his knees up. Somehow, he manages to fit himself into his desk chair, curling his tall body over his knees and leaning sideways into the back. Doc hums, makes the approximation of the sound he knows.

“Xisuma,” he says. “I’m not going to let you sleep in that chair, you know. You are being stubborn.”

“M‘kay, okay…” Xisuma wheezes, finally uncurling himself.

It takes him a second. Watching Xisuma stretch and blink awake is like watching him come to life. He stretches up and around, face pulling as he likely unsuccessfully shakes the tension from the line of his spine. As he twists, he freezes, face scrunching all at once as he winces, hand shooting up to cup his neck.

“Ow. Jeez.”

He can see it tight in his shoulders and neck, even as X deflates, looking up at him blearily, still slightly slumped in his chair. His eyes shut again. 

“Xisuma…” Doc says, mouth twisting.

X sighs.

“‘M fine, Doc,” he manages to murmur out. “Just’a sore neck. Mm’exhausted.”

“Sounds like you need a real bed, mm?” Doc replies, setting his hands on his hips. Xisuma peeks at him, one eye opening, and shutting again.

He sees the fraction of a smile lift the corners of X’s mouth.

“Sure, sure…”

Doc looks over Xisuma’s face. With his eyes shut, face softening, hair tumbling over one shoulder, he looks comfortable. It’s as if someone took a brush to his features and smoothed out any hard edge—either that, or the static has leaked back into Doc’s vision. He feels a chug in his chest and his joints as he locks up.

X hasn’t moved. Doc reaches out, tapping his knee. Xisuma huffs, clearly startled from the half-sleep he’d drifted back into.

“Too tired t’stand,” he manages. Doc makes a questioning noise.

“I think you can make it,”

There’s a beat of silence. Xisuma cracks an eye open again, shuts it, furrowing his eyebrows. Doc watches him curiously, mind running through the list of possible scenarios. He’s made it part way when Xisuma says:

“‘M using you t’stand, then.”

And he makes a little, amused heh, before he says:

“That’s fine.”

There’s something he means to say alongside that, but as soon as X’s very warm, very human hand makes contact with the fabric of his lab coat and the cool synthetic of his arm, he loses focus. He should be used to this—the amount of times X has performed his routine maintenance, sweeping his hands over the replaced shoulder joint to check for seams, or made sure the regulator functioned, or backed up personal data, fingers skimming the shallow port at the back of his neck. He should be, but that contact alone sends a prickling-warm jolt up his arm. It feels foreign to let the touch linger. But Xisuma lingers regardless, hand flat against the space where Doc’s left ribs should be. He’s gone from holding, to simply sitting there, arm bent at the elbow, held weakly up. 

“Mrghh…” he complains. Doc taps his elbow, trying to jolt him back awake.

“C’mon, X, you can get up.”

X shakes his head slowly, his hand finding the inner curve of his prosthetic arm, squeezing just once, like he’s remembering it’s there. Then, X leans into him, all at once, slumping into his chest. Doc lets out a wouf in surprise. He holds still, aside from the simulated breath in his chest. After a moment, Xisuma makes a small, tired sound, almost like a laugh.

“Houfh,” he mumbles. “I, mm, don’t…don’t think ‘m gonna make it, Doc.”

“Mhm…” Doc chides. 

Xisuma laughs again, lying still for a moment, voice still heavy with sleep. There’s a moment where he shifts, and there’s a small, painful noise that he makes.

“Ow, mrrgh—ow, okay—” he gripes. Doc’s synthetic hand finds the curve of his shoulder, patting gently.

“Oh, X—just…stay still, mhm?”

“Mm,” Xisuma says tiredly, “Alright.”

As much as he wants to move him, X is still wearing that damn armor.

Doc lets him lean into his chest as he tries to weasel off the bits of armor left over. It’s a struggle, keeping X comfortable and trying not to pull him around awkwardly, while trying to remove his chestplate with one hand. Once the armor pulls away, he resettles him, slowly scoops one hand under his legs. Something about this, about the way Xisuma leaned heavy into him, felt so painfully human he feels it curl up between the wires connecting his regulator to his side fans.

“Ready?” he says, mostly to the top of Xisuma’s head.

“Mmh…” X murmurs.

He hefts him into his arms, settling him against his chest. When Xisuma sighs, it’s profound and heavy and he tucks his face into Doc’s coat. Doc can feel the remnant of heartbeat from where his arm rests behind his back, thudding away behind his ribs. His breathing stays even, though shallow. One of Xisuma’s hands clasps over the back of his neck, keeping him still.

It’s a careful walk to Xisuma’s spare room. Doc is careful not to bump anything, measuring the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he walks. He drifts back to sleep, though, through the lab, through Doc shutting the lights off. He’ll have to come back through to power down their various computers, but for now, the dull white-blue glow illuminates the room. He carries him into the halls and through and to his room. It’s smaller than the room in his base by a sizable margin—just enough for the essentials. X stirs as Doc pauses to flip on the lamp, the light warm and yellow briefly illuminating the room. This can’t be a daydream, now, with the way X sighs and wriggles himself free as Doc pulls back the quilts and lets him down. He sits down with him, and the warm shape that Xisuma makes curls toward him, just a fraction, as he pulls the blankets over him. 

Part of Doc knows that Xisuma won’t remember him carrying him to bed, or making sure he was warm, or keeping the light on so he wasn’t disoriented when he woke. Xisuma sighs, sinking into the pillows, expression relaxed and content. Doc hums.

“That’s better, yeah?” Doc says. He reaches out, instinct, want, desire, something, hammering away in his chest, as he brushes hair from X’s face, tucking it behind his ear. He brushes through the hair close to the base of his neck, across his cheek with his synthetic thumb. His dark hair is fine and soft and it must be a daydream—or it isn’t and he was right, because there have been moments like this in his head. Wondering if Xisuma would let himself succumb to soft comforts. He’s spent his own share of time lying next to him, ignoring the way Xisuma curls up next to him, pretending he himself didn’t move closer when Xisuma lies still. It was this dance that Doc didn’t understand, that he wasn’t sure if he was overthinking. Or overstepping. But Xisuma shifts, pressing his cheek to Doc’s synthetic palm, and Doc suppresses a shudder. It sparks something that could’ve been painful right up his arm and through his chest, bright and warm and staticky. 

Doc hums, smiling to himself. Something like a dull thrum knocks in that space of his pump, pushing itself a little further, a little harder. It was sweet. X trusts him, not only to see him without his armor, but to help him to bed, to help him sleep. But Doc lifts his hand away, feeling that ache, the nervous shudder through his system.

X makes a sound, then, something small, eyes fluttering as Doc pulls away. Doc pauses.

“Mhh,” X manages. Doc swallows—he shouldn’t have to. That’s not something he should have to do, or be able to do, but the action just feels appropriate. It goes right along with sighing and laughing, and as he does it, Xisuma says:

“Thanks,” in a small, soft voice, and, muffled, and slightly slurred with sleep: “Didn’t have’ta stop.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping, Xisuma,” Doc says. He can feel his temperature tick up several notches, no doubt a blue flush coming to the high of his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. He laughs, just a bit. “Did I wake you up?”

X sighs, stretching as he does.

“No,” he manages. “No, y’didn’t…”

“Oh,” Doc says. “Were you awake this whole time?”

Xisuma nods slowly. Ah. Ah. Doc dismisses a temperature notification.

“A little.”

“Mm,” Doc hums. “Silly Xisuma.”

Xisuma laughs. The sound is high and a little fuzzy and a bit caught in his throat. His bright eyes blink up at him and shut again as a smile settles on his face. 

“Doc?” he asks. 

“Mhm?”

Xisuma yawns, smothering it with the back of his hand, just barely. He tucks that hand close to his chest, curling up further still under his thick comforter. 

“Could you…could’you do tha’again? The…” Xisuma lifts his hand, miming a brushing motion as he does. Another temperature warning, higher than the last, blips into Doc’s field of vision. It’s immediately dismissed, but he pulls in a breath, quiet, trying to turn it into a soft laugh.

“I can do that,” Doc says gently. Gingerly, he brushes his fingers through X’s hair, sliding back against his head. He combs through, lifting his hand to go back to his forehead, back to cradle his skull. X’s eyes fall closed again.

Doc can tell the moment that Xisuma truly slips into sleep. He lingers in his space, tracing out the base of his skull with his thumb, taking in the sensation of warmth and contact and stimulation, fingers flickering white up to his wrist. He wishes biting down on his tongue would do anything. He wishes that the hollow of his chest didn’t hold a weight that no diagnostic could fix. He felt too awkward and stilted and not nearly gentle enough. But as Xisuma stays asleep, he draws his hand away. He mumbles his good nights as he stands slowly, shutting out the light and wandering from the room. 

He makes his way back into the lab. He replays the memory of Xisuma’s small smile, the fine line of his scar as he’d pressed his face into the pillow, the way he’d relaxed against Doc’s touch. He replays the memory, again, and again. It has to be a daydream. Has to be. There’s no other logical explanation to all of that.

Maybe that would explain the ache in his chest, far too human to be his own.

Doc goes back to work. He sits down at the lab table, spreading his arms as he braces against the white tabletop. He furrows his eyebrows. Something doesn’t feel right, too warm or out of place. He feels gross. Not gross bad, maybe, gross different? Broken? Not broken, maybe. Weird. Wrong. Out of place. It doesn’t make any sense. Or it has, and he’s refusing the obvious answer. Xisuma didn’t ask for any reason. Xisuma asked because he was tired, and tired people do silly things, and silly people are a handful, and Xisuma is a handful—a lovely one. Doc shuts his eyes. His chest hurts. It’s an awful hurt, actually, less painful than it is just weird. He thinks for a moment he might be better off if he left, maybe the weight of whatever lingered in his memory would be better off if he were to take a break from standing in the same spaces. 

He sends Xisuma a message. From his office, he hears his com ping.

Docm77 whispered to you… Xisuma I’m stepping out, sleep well :-)

[sturnswrites]

protective!matt and innocent!reader see each other for the first time since high school …

You hadn’t expected him to look like this.

The office is sleek and imposing—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pulse of New York, deep charcoal tones, and marble accents that scream precision. It’s exactly what you’d expect from a man like Matt Sturniolo. But none of it is as commanding as him.

When he looks up from the paperwork on his desk, the first thing you notice is the way his piercing blue eyes meet yours, steady and sharp, sending a ripple through your chest. You remember those eyes, even after all these years, but they seem different now—hardened, more focused. They hold the weight of someone who doesn’t let anyone too close.

“You’re here,” he says simply, as though he doubted you’d actually show up.

You nod, clutching your sketchpad tighter against your chest. “Of course. I wasn’t going to back out of a project like this.”

His gaze softens just a touch, but his expression remains unreadable. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t trust you to handle it.”

Those words settle deep in your stomach, warm and unexpected. Matt had hired you—sought you out specifically for this project, despite being surrounded by some of the best designers in the city. He’d told you in his email that he admired your work, that your eye for creating spaces that “felt like people” was exactly what his office needed.

But standing here, in his presence, you can’t help but feel out of place.

“It’s been a while,” you manage, your voice quieter than you’d like as your gaze darts away from his.

“Years,” he agrees, standing from behind the desk. He moves with the kind of confidence that fills a room effortlessly—broad shoulders, rolled-up sleeves revealing strong forearms, and a no-nonsense air about him that makes your pulse stutter. Yet, there’s a familiarity to him, too, like he’s still the boy you passed in the halls of your Boston high school.

“Boston feels like a lifetime ago,” you add softly, not knowing what else to say.

Matt tilts his head slightly, the hint of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “You haven’t changed as much as you think.”

Your cheeks heat at the way he’s looking at you, like he’s remembering something only he knows—something that feels too heavy for the quiet moment stretching between you. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment,” you joke, trying to keep the mood light as you scan the pristine office.

“It is,” he replies, his voice low but sure. “You’ve always had a way of seeing things differently. That’s why you’re here.”

That catches you off guard, and you glance back at him to find his eyes still fixed on you, holding your gaze like he’s daring you to look away. There’s something in them—something protective, almost possessive—that wasn’t there before.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, your voice almost lost in the cavernous room.

Matt nods, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark trousers. “Let’s see what you’ve got in mind, then.”

The words are professional enough, but the way he says them—steady, low, and just a little too soft—makes your heart skip. You busy yourself pulling out your sketchpad, desperate for something to distract you from the weight of his attention.

As you start explaining your ideas, your voice finds confidence in the familiarity of your work. You talk about softening the harsh lines of the space, adding warmth and texture to make the office feel less like a fortress and more like him.

Matt listens intently, never once interrupting. His eyes follow you as you move around the room, gesturing to where you’d add natural light, plants, subtle artwork that tells a story. It’s only when you glance back at him that you catch it—the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“You’ve thought this through,” he says finally, his voice softer than before.

“I don’t take projects lightly,” you respond, standing taller despite the flutter in your chest. “Especially not ones like this.”

For a beat, the silence hangs between you—thick, charged, and laced with something you can’t quite name. It’s the energy of two people who know each other but don’t, who share a history but have yet to bridge the gap the years have created.

“You haven’t changed,” he repeats quietly, his eyes lingering on you a moment too long.

“And you have,” you counter, surprising even yourself with the boldness in your voice. “But not as much as you think.”

That earns you a faint, knowing smirk, and the glint in his blue eyes shifts—something softer, something real.

As you turn back to your sketches, you feel him watching you still. The tension is palpable, humming just beneath the surface, like an unspoken understanding that this project—this reunion—will be more complicated than either of you are willing to admit.

But Matt hired you for a reason. He trusted you. And for now, that has to be enough to steady the chaos he so effortlessly brings into your carefully curated world.

----------------------------------------------------------------

[tulipmusez]

you are so lovely

Finnick Odair x (Female) Reader

*finnick odair and all other hunger games characters mentioned are not owned or created by me*

note: this is inspired from the movie “Titanic” when Jack draws Rose

Summary: Reader is an artist that works with the highly renowned Capital stylist Cinna. Reader and Finnick are in an established, serious relationship. when reader is working on a dress design for an upcoming capital event, she gets the idea to draw Finnick with his trident.

You catch him staring at you again. His eyebrows rise and his cheeks hollow as a thin smile appears when your eyes meet. His sea green eyes melt, and a single lock of his curly bronze hair falls to just barely cover the top part of his left eyebrow. You can’t help but return his grin. You look at him as he sits on the couch. He looks like a Greek god. Pure, unfiltered sunlight seeps from the window through the linen curtain and paints his body in the most beautiful gold you’ve ever seen. 

“Can I draw you Finnick, please.”

“Why sweetheart, doesn't Cinna give you enough projects?”

“Yes, but those are for work. this- well, this is for me. will you do it for me?” 

moments pass before Finnick rises from his spot on the couch and walks over to your chair. when he reaches your chair, he squats down to your level and holds his hands out to you. in one fluid motion, his gentle, but calloused hands reach to grasp your palms. you feel the smoothness and warmth of his hands as his thumbs begin to slowly stroke up and down your hands. his green eyes peer into yours as he continues to run his thumbs up and down your hands. 

“Darling, if you want this so bad, then- I will do it, for you.”

a large smile instantly appeared on your face. he reciprocated the joy you felt by smiling at you, then grabbing your face with his palms. he stared at you for a long while before rubbing his thumbs in a circle motion around your cheeks, similar to the pattern he traced on your hands moments ago. you smiled at him as he pushes a stray curl away from your face and places it behind your ear. you could feel Finnick’s warm breath on your cheeks as he moved his face closer to yours. you reached up and ran your hands through his messy, but breathtaking hair before your hands meet and secure themselves around his neck. you both stay there for a second, relishing the feeling of your close proximity. Finnick is the first to cave. he grabs you face and presses your lips together in a flushed moment. your lips connect and your hands around his neck press his face closer to yours. you feel a smile on your lips as Finnick continues to gently kiss you. 

after what feels like hours. Finnick withdraws his lips from yours, leans upright, and joins your foreheads together. his hands drop from your face and return back to your palms where they resume there circular massaging. 

“Where do you want do draw me love?”

a wide grin appears on your face as he reminds you of drawing him.

“there” you whisper, pointing over the to the sunlit window. the linen curtains stir slightly as the cool evening air blows. 

Finnick removes his forehead from yours and looks in the direction where you point. he smiles gently, admiring your ability to craft and select the perfect scenery. Finnick extends his legs and returns to standing, towering over you in the most flawless way. 

you rise from your spot on the chair to gather your art supplies. you grab your drawing pencils, erasers, and paper as Finnick begins to walk over to the window. 

“he needs something to hold... a prop of some kind” you think. 

“his trident” you decide

a soft pinks blush erupts on your face and paints your features as you picture him standing in front of you with his trident. 

“finnick?” you question

finnick glances your way and smiles

“what sweetheart?” 

your eyes are scared to meet his and drift to the floor as you request “could you grab your trident? i think the drawing will come out better if i draw you holding it”

 a cocky grin erupts from his face at your request. he knew that you admired his dexterity and talent that he exhibited trough his trident although you never watched his games. Finnick made it clear that he never wanted you to watch his games so you would never experience or realize what type of person he could become in order to keep you safe and be reunited with you. the only time you saw him with his trident was when he trained with it. he only trained in case he ever had to reactivate that side of him he fought so desperately to keep from you. 

you finally look up from the floor and see him walking over to his closet, across from the window. he silently slides open the door and reaches for his trident, which was tucked away behind some of the outfits you designed for him. you marvel as the strong but soft muscles of his right arm contract under his skin. his veins move comfortably around his biceps as he slides the closet door shut with his left hand. he walks back to his spot by the window, never breaking eye contact with you. he stands in front of the window with his right hand grasping his glimmering trident. the sliver metal of the trident shines and sparkles in the sunlight. 

he watches you as you scramble to gather the rest of your supplies and join him near the window. you take a seat in your olive-green corduroy chair with a small table on the side of the left arm. the chair was made especially for you in your favorite color and material to perfectly suit your taste. the bamboo table on the side of the chair was the perfect for finishing up some late-night projects and sketches for Cinna. you scooted the chair slightly to the right to get the perfect view of Finnick and his trident. 

your eyes meet his again as you tear a piece of fresh paper out of your sketchbook and place it on your side table. he makes a mental note to always remember the way your eyes sparkles as you lay out your drawing pencils or how your eyebrows furrow in a gentle cross as you adjust the paper placement on your table. moments like these remind Finnick why he fought so hard in the arena...to be here today, with you. 

you almost decide that everything is perfect until you look up at Finnick. you stare at his hand and forearms for a second. you think of how much you will enjoy shading in and sketching in the chiseled muscles on his arms and decide that they alone will not suffice you. you want--no, you need more. 

“one last thing” you whisper, glaring at his chest, which was covered in a dark brown ribbed tank top. 

“anything for you y/n” he replies with a smile

you find this request far more embarrassing and unlikely than the previous as you ask, "will you take off your shirt, please?” 

he chuckles lightly before propping his trident against a nearby wall and grabbing the bottom hem of his top. he slid off his top off of his chest, balls it up in his hands, and tosses it on the floor.

you couldn’t help but bite your lip as your eyes scanned his newly uncovered skin. his pecs and abs shined in the sunlight. the black sweatpants around his waist provided a wonderful contrast to the golden light surrounding him. how you wished you could trace the lines of his abs or rub his v-line that trailed down his lower stomach into his sweatpants. he was truly perfect

Finnick’s arm reaching for his trident against the wall brought you back to reality and the task at hand. with his trident in hand, Finnick strolled back over to his spot near the window and met eyes with you. a smile appeared on both of your faces at the gentle intimacy that was forming. 

you grabbed a light graphite pencil, pressed it to the paper, and began sketching the outline of Finnick's hair and face. every strand of hair and curve of his face was expertly drawn. 

Finnick watched you in admiration as you sketched, then looked back up at him, then resumed sketching. he would never truly understand how he got so lucky to call you his.

 a dark pink paints your cheeks as you began drawing the lower portion of Finnick. he begins to grin as you began sketching his abs.

“i do believe you are blushing y/n” 

his remarks only make you blush more. 

regaining your focus, you resume drawing with sure strokes, determined to make this your best piece you have ever done. 

this is a sight you will both carry for the rest of your lives. you wish you could live in this moment forever. you, him, and the sun.