#assignment submission deadline

[rightnewshindi]

इग्नू जून 2025 टीईई: असाइनमेंट जमा करने की तारीख बढ़ी, परीक्षा फॉर्म की प्रक्रिया शुरू, जानें पूरी डिटेल!

इंदिरा गांधी राष्ट्रीय मुक्त विश्वविद्यालय (इग्नू) ने अपने छात्रों के लिए बड़ी राहत की खबर दी है। जून 2025 टर्म-एंड परीक्षा (TEE) के लिए असाइनमेंट, प्रोजेक्ट रिपोर्ट, फील्ड वर्क जर्नल, प्रैक्टिकल, शोध प्रबंध और इंटर्नशिप रिपोर्ट जमा करने की अंतिम तिथि को बढ़ाकर 30 अप्रैल 2025 कर दिया गया है। इसके साथ ही, टीईई के लिए परीक्षा फॉर्म भरने की प्रक्रिया भी शुरू हो चुकी है। यह खबर उन लाखों छात्रों के…

[why-the-heck-not]

Hey, just dropping by to ask what happened to that all nighter you pulled for a thesis submission? And good luck!

Honestly not great :D I ended up going to sleep at around 5am, didn’t get enough of things done & managed to majorly fuck up my sleep schedule. Aka basically the authentic allnighter experience

[girlivealwaysbean]

okay okay i guess i do kinda want kids

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 008. the email.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 3.3k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: yum. good night, see you next week <3 -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

On the board: a rough, sketched spiral that narrowed into itself. Then—without explanation—he stepped back and faced the room.

“The Julia Set,” he began, “is defined through recursive mapping of complex numbers. For each point, the function is applied repeatedly to determine whether the point stays bounded—or diverges to infinity.”

He turned, writing the equation with a slow, deliberate hand, the symbols clean and sharp. He underlined the c.

“This constant,” he said, tapping the chalk beneath it, “determines the entire topology of the set. Change the value—just slightly—and the behavior of every point shifts. Entire regions collapse. Others become beautifully intricate. Sensitive dependence. Chaotic boundaries.”

He stepped away from the board.

“Chaos isn’t disorder. It's order that resists prediction. Determinism disguised as unpredictability. And in this case—beauty emerging from divergence.”

Your pen slowed. You knew this was about math, about structure, but there was something in the way he said it—beauty emerging from divergence—that caught in your ribs like a hook. You glanced at the sketch again, now seeing not just spirals and equations, but thresholds. Points of no return.

He circled a section of the diagram. “Here, the boundary. A pixel’s fate determined not by distance, but by recurrence. If it loops back inward, it’s part of the set. If it escapes, even by a fraction, it’s not.”

He let the silence stretch.

“Think about what that implies. A system where proximity isn’t enough.”

A few students around you were taking notes rapidly now, perhaps chasing the metaphor, or maybe just keeping up. You, however, found yourself still. His words hung in the air—not heavy, but precise, like the line between boundedness and flight.

Stay bounded… or spiral away.

Your eyes lifted to the chalk, now smeared faintly beneath his hand.

Then—casually, as if announcing the time—he said, “The application deadline for the symposium has closed. Confirmation emails went out last night. If you don’t receive one by tonight, your submission was not accepted.”

It landed in your chest like dropped glass.

It’s already the end of the week?

You sat perfectly straight. Not a single muscle out of place. But you could feel your pulse kicking against your collarbone. A kind of dissonance buzzing at the edges of your spine. The type that doesn’t show on your face, but makes every sound feel like it’s coming through water.

“Any questions?” he asked.

The room was silent.

You waited until most of the students had filed out, notebooks stuffed away, conversations trailing toward the courtyard. Anaxagoras was still at the front, brushing residual chalk from his fingers and packing his notes into a thin leather folio. The faint light from the projector still hummed over the fractal diagram, now ghostlike against the faded screen.

You stepped down the lecture hall steps, steady despite the pressure building in your chest.

“Professor Anaxagoras,” you said evenly.

He glanced up. “Yes?”

“I sent you an email last night,” you said, stepping forward with a measured pace. “Regarding the papers you sent to me on Cerces’ studies on consciousness. I wanted to ask if you might have some time to discuss it.”

There was a brief pause—calculated, but not cold. His eyes flicked to his watch.

“I saw it,” he said finally. “Though I suspect the timing was… not ideal.”

You didn’t flinch. “No, it wasn’t,” you said truthfully. “I was… unexpectedly impressed, and wanted to follow up in person.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he speaks again—calm, almost offhanded.

“A more timely reply might have saved me the effort of finding a third paper.”

You swallow hard, the words catching before they form. “I didn’t have anything useful to say at the time,” you admit, keeping your voice neutral. “And figured it was better to wait to form coherent thoughts and opinions… rather than send something half-baked.”

He adjusts his cuff without looking at you. “A brief acknowledgment would have sufficed.”

You swallow hard, the words catching before they form. “Right,” you murmur, choosing not to rise to it.

Another beat. His expression was unreadable, though you thought you caught the flicker of something in his gaze. 

He glanced at the clock mounted near the back of the hall. “It’s nearly midday. I was going to step out for lunch.”

You nodded, heart rising hopefully, though your face stayed calm. “Of course. If now isn’t convenient—”

He cut in. “Join me. We can speak then.”

You blinked.

“I assume you’re capable of walking and discussing simultaneously.” A faint, dry smile.

So it was the email. And your slow response.

“Yes, of course. I’ll get my things.” 

You turned away, pacing steadily back up the steps of the hall toward your seat. Your bag was right where you left it, tucked neatly beneath the desk—still unzipped from the frenzy of earlier note-taking. You knelt to gather your things, pulling out your iPad and flipping open the annotated PDFs of Cerces’ consciousness studies. The margins were cluttered with highlights and your own nested comments, some so layered they formed little conceptual tangles—recursive critiques of recursive thought. You didn’t bother smoothing your expression. You were already focused again.

“Hey,” Kira greeted, nudging Ilias’s arm as you approached. They’d claimed the last two seats in the row behind yours, and were currently sharing a half-suppressed fit of laughter over something in his notebook. “So… what’s the diagnosis? Did fractals break your brain or was it just Anaxagoras’ voice again?”

You ignored that.

Ilias leaned forward, noticing your bag already packed. “Kira found a dumpling stall, we were thinking of-”

You were halfway through slipping your tablet into its case when you said, lightly, “I’m heading out. With Professor Anaxagoras.”

A pause.

“You’re—what?” Ilias straightened, eyebrows flying up. “Wait, wait. You’re going where with who?”

“We’re discussing Cerces’ papers,” you said briskly, adjusting the strap across your shoulder. “At lunch. I emailed him last night, remember?” 

“Oh my god, this is about the symposium. Are you trying to—wait, does he know that’s what you’re doing? Is this your long game? I swear, if you’re using complex consciousness theory as a romantic smokescreen, I’m going to—”

“Ilias.” You cut him off with a look, then a subtle shake of your head. “It’s nothing. Just a conversation.”

He looked at you skeptically, but you’d already pulled up your annotated copy and were scrolling through notes with one hand as you stepped out of the row. “I’ll see you both later,” you added.

Kira gave you a little two-finger salute. “Report back.”

You didn't respond, already refocused.

At the front of the lecture hall, Anaxagoras was waiting near the side doors, coat over one arm. You fell into step beside him without pause, glancing at him just long enough to nod once.

He didn’t say anything right away, but you noticed the slight tilt of his head—acknowledging your presence.

You fell into step beside him, footsteps echoing softly down the marble corridor. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was anticipatory, like the silence before a difficult proof is solved.

“I assume you’ve read these papers more than once,” he said eventually, eyes ahead.

You nodded. “Twice this past week. Once again this morning. Her model’s elegant. But perhaps incorrect.”

That earned you a glance—quick, sharp, interested. “Incorrect how?”

“She defines the recursive threshold as a closed system. But if perception collapses a state, then recursion isn’t closed—it’s interrupted. Her architecture can’t accommodate observer-initiated transformation.”

“Hm,” Anaxagoras said, and the sound meant something closer to go on than I disagree.

“She builds her theory like it’s immune to contradiction,” you added. “But self-similarity under stress doesn’t hold. That makes her framework aesthetically brilliant, but structurally fragile.”

His mouth twitched, not quite into a smile. “She’d despise that sentence. And quote it in a rebuttal.”

You hesitated. “Have you two debated this before?”

“Formally? Twice. Informally?” A beat. “Often. Cerces doesn’t seek consensus. She seeks pressure.”

“She’s the most cited mind in the field,” you noted.

“And she deserves to be,” he said, simply. “That’s what makes her infuriating.”

The breeze shifted as you exited the hall and entered the sunlit walkway between buildings. You adjusted your bag, eyes still on the open document.

“I marked something in this section,” you said, tapping the screen. “Where she refers to consciousness having an echo of structure. I don’t think she’s wrong—but I think it’s incomplete.”

Anaxagoras raised a brow. “Incomplete how?”

“If consciousness is just an echo, it implies no agency. But what if recursion here is just… a footprint, and not the walker?”

Now he did smile—barely. “You sound like her, ten years ago.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“She used to flirt with metaphysics,” he said. “Before tenure, before the awards. She wrote a paper once proposing that recursive symmetry might be a byproduct of a soul-like property—a field outside time. She never published it.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “She said, and I quote, ‘Cowardice isn’t always irrational.’”

You let out a soft breath—part laugh, part disbelief.

“She sounds more like you than I thought.”

“Don’t insult either of us,” he murmured, dry.

You glanced over. “Do you think she was right? Back then?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then: “I think she was closer to something true that neither of us were ready to prove.”

Anaxagoras led the way toward the far side of the cafeteria, bypassing open tables and settling near the windows. The view wasn’t much—just a patch of campus green dotted with a few students pretending it was warm enough to sit outside—but it was quiet.

You sat across from him, setting your tray down with a muted clink. He’d ordered black coffee and a slice of what looked like barely tolerable faculty lounge pie. You hadn’t really bothered—just tea and a half-hearted sandwich you were already ignoring.

The silence was polite, not awkward. Still, you didn’t want it to stretch too long.

“I’d like to pick her mind.”

He glanced up from stirring his coffee, slow and steady.

You nodded once. “Her work in subjective structure on pre-intentional cognition it overlaps more than I expected with what I’ve been sketching in my own models. And Entanglement—her take on intersubjective recursion as a non-local dynamic? That’s… not something I want to ignore.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he said. 

“I don’t want to question her,” you said, adjusting the angle of your tablet. “Not yet. I want to understand what she thinks happens to subjectivity at the boundary of recursion, where perception becomes self-generative rather than purely receptive. And many other things, but—”

He watched you closely. Not skeptical—never that—but with the faint air of someone re-evaluating an equation that just gave a new result.

You tapped the edge of the screen. “There’s a gap here, just before she moves into her case study. She references intersubjective collapse, but doesn’t elaborate on the experiential artifacts. If she’s right, that space might not be emptiness—it might be a nested field. A kind of affective attractor.”

“Or an illusion of one,” he offered.

“Even so,” you said, “I want to know where she stands. Not just in print. In dialogue. I want to observe her.”

There was a beat.

Then, quietly, Anaxagoras said, “She’s never been fond of students trying to shortcut their way into her circles.”

“I’m not trying to–.” You met his gaze, unflinching. “I just want to be in the room.” 

There was a pause—measured, as always—but he understood your request.

Then, Anaxagoras let out a quiet breath. The edge of his mouth curved, just slightly—not the smirk he wore in lectures, or the fleeting amusement he reserved for Ilias’ more absurd interjections. A… strange acknowledgment made just for you.

“I suspected you’d want to attend eventually… even if you didn’t think so at the time.” He said, voice low.

He stirred his coffee once more, slow and precise, before continuing.

“I submitted an application on your behalf.” His eyes flicked up, sharp and clear. “The results were set to be mailed to me—” After a brief pause, he says, “I thought it would be better to have the door cracked open than bolted shut.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t speak yet. You stared at him, something between disbelief and stunned silence starting to rise.

“… And?”

He held your gaze. “They approved it.” He said it matter-of-factly, like it wasn’t a gesture of profound academic trust. “Your mind is of the kind that Cerces doesn’t see in students. Not even doctoral candidates. If you ever wanted to ask them aloud, you’d need space to make that decision without pressure.”

Your heart skipped a beat, the rush of warmth flooding your chest before you could even fully process it. It wasn’t just the opportunity, not just the weight of the academic favor he’d extended—it was the fact that he had done this for you.

You looked down at your tablet for a beat, then back up. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t sure it would matter to you yet.” His tone was even, but not distant.

Your chest tightened, heart hammering in your ribcage as a strange weight settled over you.

You leaned back slightly, absorbing it—not the opportunity, but the implication that he had practically read your mind.

You swallowed hard, fighting the surge of something fragile, something that wanted to burst out but couldn’t quite take form.

“And if I’d never brought it up?” you asked.

“I would have let the approval lapse.” He took a sip of coffee, still watching you. “The choice would have always been yours.”

Something in your chest pulled taut, then loosened.

“Thank you,” you said—quiet, sincere.

He dipped his head slightly, as if to say: of course.

Outside, through the high cafeteria windows, the light shifted—warmer now, slanting gold against the tiles. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. 

You’re halfway back to your dorm when you see them.

The bench is impossible to miss—leaning like it’s given up on its academic potential and fully embraced retirement. Dog is curled beneath it, mangy but somehow dignified, and Mydei’s crouched beside him, offering the crust from a purloined sandwich while Phainon gently brushes leaves out of its fur.

They clock you immediately.

“Look who’s survived their tryst with the divine,” Mydei calls out, peeling a bit of bread crust off for the dog, who blinks at you like it also knows too much.

“Ah,” he calls, sitting up. “And lo, they return from their sacred rites.”

You squint. “What?”

“I mean, I personally assumed you left to get laid,” Ilias says breezily, tossing a leaf in your direction. “Academic, spiritual, physical—whatever form it took, I’m not here to judge.”

“Lunch,” you deadpan. “It was lunch.”

“Sure,” he says. “That’s what I’d call him too.”

You stop beside them, arms loosely crossed. “You’re disgusting.”

Mydei finally glances up, smirking faintly. “We were betting how long it’d take you to return. Phainon said 45 minutes. I gave you an hour.”

“And I said that you might not come back at all,” Ilias corrects proudly. “Because if someone offered me a quiet corner and a waist as sntached as his, I’d disappear too.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m romanticizing,” he counters. “It’s a coping mechanism.”

“So,” you ask, settling onto the bench, “Mydei, did you get accepted?”

Mydei doesn’t look up. “I did.”

Phainon sighs and leans back on his elbows. “I didn’t. Apparently my application lacks ‘structural focus’ and ‘foundational viability.’” He makes air quotes with a dramatic flourish, voice flat with mockery. “But the margins were immaculate.”

Ilias scoffs immediately, latching onto the escape hatch. “See? That’s why I didn’t apply.”

“You didn’t apply,” you repeat slowly, side-eyeing him.

“I was protecting myself emotionally,” he says, raising a finger. 

“Even after Kira asked you to?” you remind him.

“I cherish her emotional intelligence deeply, but I also have a very specific allergy to what sounds like academic jargon and judgment,” he replies, hand to chest like he’s delivering tragic poetry. 

You snort. “So you panicked and missed the deadline?”

“Semantics.”

The dog lets out a sleepy huff. Mydei strokes behind its ear and finally glances up at you. “I still can’t believe you didn’t apply. The panel was impressive.” 

You hesitate, staring down at the scuffed corner of your boot, when your phone dings.

One new message:

From: Anaxagoras   Subject: Addendum   Dear Student, I thought this might be of interest as well. – A.  

There’s one attachment.  

Cerces_MnemosyneFramework.pdf

You click immediately.  

Just to see.

The abstract alone hooks you. It’s Cerces again—only this time, she’s writing about memory structures through a mythopoetic lens, threading the Mnemosyne archetype through subjective models of cognition and reality alignment.

She argues that memory isn’t just retentive—it’s generative. That remembrance isn’t about the past, but about creating continuity. That when you recall something, you’re actively constructing it anew.

It’s dense. Braided with references. Challenging. 

You hear Ilias say your name like he’s winding up to go off into another overdramatic monologue, but your focus is elsewhere.

Because it’s still there—his voice from earlier, lodged somewhere between your ribs.

"A brief acknowledgement would have sufficed."

You’d let it pass. Swallowed the dry implication of it. But it’s been sitting with you ever since— he hadn’t needed to say more for you to hear what he meant.

You didn’t know what to say. Maybe you still don’t.

But you open a reply window. anyway.

Your thumb hovers for a beat.

Re: Still interested Nice paper, Prof. Warm regards, Y/N.

The moment it sends, you want to eat your keyboard.

He replies seconds later.

Re: – “Warm” seems generous. Ice cold regards, – A.

The moment it sends, you want to eat your keyboard.

It’s a small, almost imperceptible warmth spreading across your chest, but you force it back down, not wanting to make too much of it. 

Then you laugh. Not loud, but the sort of surprised, almost nervous laugh that catches in your chest, because somehow, you hadn’t anticipated this. You thought he’d be... formal. Distant. You didn’t expect a bit of humor—or was it sarcasm?

Your fingers hover over your phone again. Should you reply? What do you even say to that? You glance up, and that’s when you see it—Ilias’ eyes wide, his face scrunched in disbelief, like he’s trying to piece together the pieces of a puzzle.”

He points at you like he’s discovered some deep, dark secret. “You’re laughing?”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face, trying to will the heat out of your cheeks.

He doesn’t even try to hold back the mock horror in his voice after peeping into your phone. “Anaxagoras is the one that;s got you in a fit of giggles?”

Ilias gasps theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wait. Wait wait wait. Is he funny now? What, did he send you a meme? ‘Here’s a diagram of metaphysical collapse. Haha.’” He deepens his voice into something pompous and dry: “Student, please find attached a comedic rendering of epistemological decay.”

You’re already shaking your head. “He didn’t even say hello.”

“Even better,” Ilias says, dramatically scandalized. “Imagine being so academically repressed you forget how greetings work.”

He pauses, then squints at you suspiciously.

“You know what?” he says, snapping his fingers. “You two are made for each other.”

Your head whips toward him. 

He shrugs, all smug innocence. “No, no, I mean it. The dry wit. The existential despair. The zero social cues. It’s beautiful, really. You communicate exclusively through thesis statements and mutual avoidance. A match made in the archives.”

“I’m just saying,” he sing-songs, “when you two end up publishing joint papers and exchanging footnotes at midnight, don’t forget about us little people.”

You give him a flat look. “We won’t need footnotes.”

“Oh no,” Ilias says, pretending to be shocked. “It’s that serious already?”

You stomp on his foot.

-> next.

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[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝒽𝒶𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝑔𝓇𝒾𝓂 / 𝒸𝒶𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You were just an average assistant at a high-profile fashion magazine, drowning in coffee runs, a horrible bitch boss, last-minute deadlines, and the occasional existential crisis. Nothing out of the ordinary.

That was until he showed up; a sharp-tongued, infuriatingly attractive grim reaper with a bad habit of haunting you. Why? Good question. Apparently, you were on some kind of hit list, and he was assigned to reap your soul.

But if he thought he could scare you into submission, he was dead wrong. Because if a little reaper wanted to haunt you… 

…well, you might as well haunt him right back.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: Me. A new obsession. So this one extra long and I wrote this while listening to 'Haunted' by Beyoncé, feeling every note, and watching The Devil Wears Prada.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: casper x afab!reader, subby!casper x dominant!Reader, soul-stealing, playful power dynamics, praise, pet names, teasing, love/hate relationship, possessive behavior, enemies to lovers, slow burn, seductive banter, gentle, blowjob then maybeeeee rough smut, anal sex.

The mortal plane was always predictable.

A annoying world of flesh and bone, ruled by where life start in the wound and ends with a tomb. No matter how any human they fought, no matter how desperately they clung to existence, all paths led to him in the end.

Life was but a momentary flicker in the abyss, and he was the hand that extinguished the flame.

The space between worlds was his domain. A place where the living dared not tread, where the air was thick with the murmurs of the forsaken. Here, in the endless dark, he watched.

They called him many things—Grim Reaper, Phantom of the Veil, Death itself. He was the silent end of all things, the whisper in the final breath, the inevitable shadow lurking behind every heartbeat.

With a touch, he unraveled kings, crumbled empires, and reduced the devout to weeping husks. His presence alone could halt the breath of creation.

Like there was no force he could not bring to ruin. No soul could resist his claim. He had never known hesitation. Never known failure. And yet now, something wrong stood at the threshold of his dominion.

You. A mortal—or so you should have been.

His gaze burned through the abyss, crimson eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, his presence stretching across the fragile boundary between realms. A cold wind stirred in the living world, unnatural in its weight, pressing into the earth, curling around your feet like unseen fingers.

A warning. A summons. A death sentence.

And yet, you did not move.

Other spirits shrank from him, retreating into the shadows, whispering their prayers into the void. They clung to you—not in terror, but in something else. Recognition. As though you were not an intruder among them, but kin.

It was unnatural. A violation of the natural order.

A mortal could not walk this close to death and remain. A mortal should not be able to meet his gaze and still breathe. Yet, you stood unshaken, silent at the edge of the veil.

At first, he thought it was something else—perhaps a simple mistake? Some foolish soul who had wandered too close to oblivion.

But then, he saw it.

The unnatural stillness in your breath, steady and unfaltering, untouched by fear. The way the spirits curled around you—not in dread, but in something eerily close to devotion. The way you stood, unshaken, where no living thing should linger.

You were not like the others.

The realization coiled in his mind, very much amused. His head tilted, strands of white hair slipping over his shoulder as his crimson eyes narrowed. Did you sense him?

Could you feel the weight of his gaze settling over you like frost, lingering against your skin like the cold fingers of the dead?

You should have.

And yet, even as the wind howled and the night pressed in, you remained unbothered. No shiver. No faltering breath. No fear.

A slow, eerie smile crept across his lips. How quaint.

It had been centuries—millennia—since anyone had dared to meet his gaze with such unwavering defiance. The bold ones never lasted long. The moment they recognized him for what he truly was, the bravado cracked, the terror set in, and they fell apart like all the rest.

But you… you were different.

Grim let the word slip from his lips like a curse, testing the weight of it in the space between you.

"Mortal."

The sound twisted unnaturally in the air, stretching across the veil like a breath of something ancient, something final. But even as it echoed through the abyss, it felt… wrong.

You did not carry the scent of death, nor the warmth of the living. You stood in the in-between, poised on the knife’s edge of existence. Impossible. An aberration.

His fingers curled beneath his chin, gloved and motionless as he exhaled, mist curling from his lips like the dying breath of a world. No, you weren’t quite mortal, were you? Something sharp and hungry settled in his chest, a curiosity he had not felt in a very, very long time. 

Perhaps he should test you.

See what made you different.

The studio thrived with straight-up chaos—just racks of garments rolling between rooms, fabrics draped over mannequins like offerings to some unseen deity.

Photographers adjusted their lenses, capturing such perfection with every calculated click, while designers hovered over sketches, their minds frenzied with last-minute alterations. 

The air smelled of high-end perfume, ink, and freshly steamed fabric, a scent so distinctly alive that it nearly repelled the presence lurking in its midst. It wasn’t long before he found himself within a space not meant for his kind.

Grim rarely walked among the living so openly, yet here he stood, a phantom amid the world’s most fragile creatures—so blissfully unaware of how close death brushed against their skin.

And then, there was you.

Moving effortlessly through the flurry of industry, weaving between designers and assistants, clipboard in hand, murmuring approvals, adjusting details. Unlike the frantic energy of those around you, you moved with certainty, never flustered, never scrambling, as if the world bent to your pace rather than the other way around.

Grim watched. Intrigued. How pretty.

The thought whispered through him, curling in his mind like smoke. But not in the way he usually observed mortal beauty—delicate, soft, doomed to wither. No, you were not something that would crumble at a mere touch. You were enduring. Again, soft, like a perverse flower. Something worth admiring.

And he should not have been admiring you at all.

He had come for someone else. A soul marked by time, its final grains of sand slipping irreversibly through the hourglass. But you...

You were full of life. Stubbornly so.

It was meant to be nothing more than a passing glance, his eyes filled with curiosity. And yet—something about you demanded his attention. How dare you?

Perhaps it was the way the golden studio lights framed your face when you stopped at your desk, scanning through today's catalog. The glow from your laptop screen reflected in your eyes as you sent out the requests your boss had demanded. Or perhaps it was the way you should have sensed him.

Because you did. 

He saw it in the way your fingers lingered over your keyboard, a slight hesitation, the briefest flicker of something in your expression. The way your posture shifted—not in fear, but in awareness.

You looked up. Behind you. To the side. As if you expected something to be there. And still… no fear. 

Grim's lips curled into the ghost of a smirk, a slow, knowing thing. How quaint. A mortal that did not cower in his presence. He had seen countless souls—broken, frightened, bargaining for more time.

They always begged. Always.

But you? Shit, you couldn’t care less.

You simply turned back to your work, unbothered, as if Death itself was not standing like right behind you, watching. Fascinating.

Like damn, this was going to be a long day. 

You shouldn’t have looked at him. 

Honestly, rookie mistake. Why, out of all the places to let your eyes wander, did they have to land on a pale figure just lurking at the edge of your vision? White hair, almost glowing in the bright golden office lights, just floating there menacingly.

At first, you barely reacted. Spirits followed you enough that one more ghostly presence in your life wasn't exactly a new issue. It was like another annoying email in your inbox—just something you learned to ignore.

But then... he got closer.

You’d think a literal death-bringer would have better things to do than stalk some underpaid assistant at a fashion studio, but nope, there he was, just lingering. Hanging around the clothing racks, floating down the hallways like he had nothing better to do.

"Mortals are usually more entertaining than this," he mused, materializing beside you as you sorted through today’s catalog.

You didn’t react. Nor said anything back.

"They beg, weep, try to strike deals, but you? Not even a glance?" He leaned over your shoulder, reading the emails you were responding to. “Are you truly this dull, or is this job slowly draining what’s left of your soul?”

Still, you ignored him. Just to pretend you were irritated about work rather than the undead menace hovering behind you. Your boss stormed past your desk, rambling about a last-minute change in the collection lineup, completely unaware that you were being haunted.

“You!” she barked. “I need all the model sheets and—ugh, coffee. Black. No sugar.”

You didn’t even blink. “Yes, ma’am.”

Grim tilted his head, amused. “So obedient. How tragic.”

Your eye twitched.

Twenty minutes later, he was still talking.

"So, what exactly do you do here? Fold fabric? Worship those absurdly tall skeletons you call ‘models’? Suffer?"

You exhaled sharply, flipping through the model sheets as you strode down the hall, hoping to outwalk itself.Spoiler alert: you couldn’t.

"Why can’t they see you?" you muttered under your breath, careful not to draw attention from your coworkers as you balanced a tray of coffee cups.

Grim laughed. "Because I don’t want them to."

"Then why can I?"

"Good question. Why can you?" His grin was infuriatingly smug.

You glared at him, resisting the urge to dump scalding coffee onto thin air just to see if he could feel it.

Instead, you set your boss’s drink down on her desk and marched straight to the breakroom, hoping for a few minutes of peace. You swore, though, he was practically waiting outside the door for his cue, like some kind of ghostly actor who knew exactly when to make his dramatic entrance.

And when he did walk in, it was with the kind of confidence that only the dead—and apparently, Spirt—could possess. He moved like he owned the place, a pale figure that seemed to suck the air out of the room. You just wanted to sip your lukewarm tea and get a moment of calm in this whirlwind of a day.

A quiet moment. As rare as they were in this fashion department. But, of course, the real problem started the moment he stepped into the room.

Because as soon as he entered, he decided to open his mouth. 

And when you say talk, you mean he did not shut up.

“Is this your lunch break? How tragic. So much time wasted just sipping a tepid drink while the world spins itself into chaos,” he mused, hovering a little too close for comfort.

You blinked, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “Could you not?” You muttered, but he didn’t care. Oh no. He had all the time in the world to follow you around and spout whatever grim commentary he thought would make him sound more ominous.

"Such a sad existence you lead," he added, his voice trailing through the air like the chill of a winter’s night. “So many frivolous tasks, chasing shadows, pretending they matter."

“I’m sorry, what?” you said, only half-listening, as you dumped more sugar into your cup. Honestly, you’d been through worse. Talking to spirits was one thing, but this guy? This one was special. He dared to follow you everywhere—like an annoying coworker you couldn’t escape.

The tea was forgotten, abandoned on the counter as you stormed down the hallway, desperate for a moment of peace. The last thing you needed was this annoying, pale figure following you around and spouting off endless nonsense about time, existence, and whatever cosmic philosophy he was into today.

Of course, he wasn’t done. No, he didn’t understand the concept of space. He was right behind you, still standing as if there were no boundaries between worlds. You could practically feel him breathing down your neck as he leaned in, his voice cold and unnervingly close.

“You can’t feel it, can you?” He asked his words low, almost like a whisper in your ear. “You’re untouched by the flow of time like you’re standing between worlds. It’s fascinating. You should be afraid of me."

That was it. You’d had enough.

You stopped so suddenly that he almost walked into you. The Grim Reaper ghostly figure nearly collided with your back, but you didn’t even flinch. Instead, you pivoted on your heel with the kind of speed that made your coworkers worry if you were secretly a superhero. You crossed your arms and gave him a look—a look so cold, so done, that even your interns would reconsider their life choices if they saw it.

“Yeah, well, I’m not, okay?” You snapped, finally locking eyes with him. “I just need to get through my damn day without hearing your creepy monologue about the futility of human life, all right?”

You exhaled slowly and stood a little taller, letting the words hit him like a wave. "Listen here, Casper," you hissed, your voice sharp. "I have a very stressful job, an underpaid salary, and exactly four hours of sleep. I don’t have the time—or the patience—for your existential whining. So either haunt someone else or sit there and shut up.”

Grim blinked, the oddest expression crossing his face. 

How… how did you know his name?

For a moment, there was silence. He just stood there, staring at you with those piercing crimson eyes, like you had just solved a mystery he hadn’t even realized existed. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. It was as if he was trying to process what had just happened. Maybe he was looking at you differently now like he hadn’t quite figured you out. Was that… curiosity?

Then, with a slow, almost sinister chuckle, he tilted his head, his white hair flowing like a ghostly mane. The sound sent an involuntary shiver down your spine, but you stood firm.

“You’re different,” he said, his voice a little lower, almost in awe.

You were about to snap something sarcastic back when you realized the absurdity of the situation. You—stressed, underpaid, and half-delirious from lack of sleep—were standing face to face with a literal Grim Reaper, and he was the one awed by you?

A bitter laugh almost escaped you, but you swallowed it down, irritated beyond belief. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re different too,” you muttered, grabbing your half-empty, lukewarm cup of tea from the break room counter. 

You took another sip, feeling the sting of regret as the flavor barely registered on your tongue. “Definitely not what I signed up for today.”

Again, you were done with this. Absolutely, unequivocally done.

“Go away, Casper.” You were at your limit, your patience snapped into nothingness. His pale face was just too close—his crimson eyes staring at you with that unnerving mix of curiosity and amusement. You could feel his presence in every corner of the room like he was trying to worm his way into your very thoughts.

So you did what any person in your situation would do: you shoved him.

A simple push, just enough to send him stumbling back, and before he could catch himself, he fell into a rack of clothes. It was one of the designer gowns, a rich red that flowed like liquid, and the entire display tilted under his weight, sending a cascade of dresses crashing to the floor. The sudden noise was enough to startle your coworkers, heads swiveling as they watched the rack topple. But none of them saw the pale figure—just an empty rack of clothes spilling silk and fabric across the room.

You barely even glanced back as you walked away, your arms crossed tight, muttering under your breath.

“I’m not your plaything, Casper. Now get out of my face.”

Casper lay in the heap of tangled fabric, blinking in complete shock. His pale skin—almost glowing under the fluorescent lights—had flushed a deep red, a stark contrast against the rich tones of the gown still draped over his head. He lay there for a moment, completely disoriented.

No one—no one—had ever pushed him before. And yet, here he was, tangled in silks and stunned beyond belief.

For centuries, his presence had been feared, his touch the harbinger of death. When he stood near mortals, their very life force drained, absorbed by his touch like a dry sponge to water. No one touched him without losing something—some part of their essence, their time, their soul. 

But you? You pushed him. And nothing happened. You didn’t wither. You didn’t fall to the ground, gasping for breath as so many others had.

Instead, you just stood there, that familiar, irritated look on your face. As if it were a bother.

He slowly sat up, pulling himself free of the mess of clothing. His usual confidence was shattered, replaced by a rare kind of vulnerability, an unfamiliar emotion twisting in his chest. He stared at you as you continued to walk away, your steps slow and deliberate, as if nothing in the world had happened.

How was it possible?

A mortal—you—had touched him, and yet, you weren’t dead. Or at least, you weren’t acting like it.

His heart—if he could still call it that—pounded with a new intensity. He couldn’t understand it. He had never met anyone like you, never encountered a mortal who refused to be touched by him, never one who dismissed him so… casually.

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off the remnants of the clothes he’d knocked over, his pale cheeks still tinged red in a rare moment of fluster. He watched you, not moving, but he was already preparing for his next move.

Something about you intrigued him. You were far too interesting to just let go.

He took a step toward you but then stopped. His gaze fixed on the back of your head, your posture strong, as you walked away from him.

This... this was new.

Casper stood there for a long moment, uncertainty clinging to him like a ghost. Finally, his mouth curled into that familiar, eerie smile again. It was a slow, dangerous thing, full of intrigue.

You hadn’t just touched him. You haddefied him.

And that was something he hadn’t encountered in all his existence. Maybe, just maybe, this could be worth something after all.

Casper was… obsessed now. He had never encountered anything like you, and it gnawed at him, this unfamiliar sense of unresolved desire. You were not just some mortal, some fleeting soul to be reaped. No, you were a mystery—a puzzle that he couldn’t solve, and the very fact that you resisted him so effortlessly only deepened his fascination.

It wasn’t just the thrill of the chase that spurred him on. No. There was something else.

The high-ups, the ones who resided in the farthest reaches of the underworld, the ones who watched over him… they noticed.

A soul that couldn’t die? A soul that resisted the touch of death itself?

What did it mean? Was there something special about you?

Whispers spread like wildfire among the higher ranks. They didn’t understand it either, but they knew you were something worth having. Something that could change the rules. Something that could serve them—and maybe even him.

And so, Casper found himself following you like a shadow, lingering at your workplace, watching you from a distance when you left for the day, trailing you to the most mundane of places, his obsession only growing. 

His pale figure appeared in glimpses—his white hair a stark contrast against the everyday world. He wasn’t trying to hide anymore; he didn’t need to. His focus was entirely on you, his every move calculated.

You had to know he was there. 

You were far too perceptive to not notice the subtle shifts in the air, the flicker of his presence.

But he was clever. He was patient.

And he would get you to break.

The first time he cornered you after work, you were at the grocery store. It was a humdrum trip to stock up on essentials, the typical monotonous task that everyone in your position had to do. But not today.

No, today, Casper decided to make himself known.

You were scanning the aisles for something simple—maybe fruit, or a carton of milk—when you felt the unmistakable chill at your back. His presence.

"Hey," his voice was disturbingly casual, and when you turned, there he was, standing with his arms crossed, his usual eerie calm as ever. "Mind picking me up some original cup noodles and folded bread?"

You blinked, staring at him, incredulous. Of course, you had to question him. "What? Are you serious right now?" you asked, leaning against your cart. "Do you even eat?"

Casper tilted his head, the smile on his lips never wavering. "I do. Not like you. But still." He waved his hand absently as if it were the most normal request in the world. "Just a little snack, nothing too fancy."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes, your patience running thin. “You're dead, Casper. Why would you want cup noodles? And why would I go out of my way to get them for you?”

His response was a soft chuckle, cold and smooth. "Ah, but you see, the deal is this: I could give you something in exchange. Something you want. A little temptation, a trade. What’s your price?"

You glanced at the noodle aisle, ignoring him completely as you grabbed about 12-count cups of instant noodles for yourself. "Yeah, no. I’m good. You're not gonna tempt me with snacks."

Casper's eyes narrowed, a hint of frustration flickering behind his calm exterior. "What if I told you I could fix everything? The sleepless nights, the exhaustion, the stress. What if I could offer you peace?"

You tossed the noodles into your cart, uninterested. "I’m not looking for peace from a creepy grim reaper who can't take a hint."

Casper’s gaze grew darker. "You don’t know what I could give you. You don’t know how easy it would be to just—"

“Nope,” you interrupted, holding up a hand as if to stop him mid-sentence. You pulled out your phone, tapping away at a grocery list app to make it clear that he wasn’t worth your attention.

He let out an exasperated sigh, but his grin never faltered. “Still as stubborn as ever, huh?”

And just like that, you went back to your grocery shopping, effortlessly dodging his attempts to break through your calm.

The second time he tried was a little more… subtle. After your long shift, you decided to take a walk around the city to clear your mind. He appeared beside you on the sidewalk, as if he had been waiting, his steps soundless despite his form being right there.

“You know,” he started, his voice dripping with dark temptation, “I’ve been watching you. I could take away all your worries if only you’d trust me. Forget all this—your life, your struggles, the endless grind. Let me help you… Let me show you what I can offer.”

You didn’t even look up at him. “You keep offering me peace and I keep telling you I’m not interested.”

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. “But what if you don’t have a choice anymore?” he asked, his tone darker, a little more insistent now.

You stopped and finally glanced up at him, your eyes narrowed. “I have a choice, and I choose for you to get the hell out of my way.”

He blinked, taken aback, as you casually sidestepped him and kept walking, your footsteps unhurried. You could feel his presence behind you, following, watching, but it didn’t matter. You had dealt with worse than some grim reaper with a vendetta. 

Every time he tried, you outmaneuvered him with ease. Whether it was a carefully placed word, a choice to simply walk away, or the sharpness in your gaze that seemed to make him take a step back, you were always a step ahead. It was like a game, and with every move you made, he became more and more obsessed with you.

You were something impossible, and that was what gnawed at him the most.

The thrill of the chase, once so exhilarating, now felt hollow to him. He needed more. He needed to understand why you weren’t swayed by him. Why you couldn’t be broken. The problem was, he didn’t know how much you had already figured out about him—about death itself.

It started with something small. A quick moment when you were alone, a brief conversation when you thought no one was watching. He had asked you a question, one of those tricks to see if you would falter. Instead, your response had unsettled him.

“Do you ever think about what happens to you, after you die?”

You had looked at him like he was the mortal one. It wasn’t the question itself—it was the way you had said it, the way your eyes never wavered as you spoke.

Casper had chuckled, assuming you were making light of the topic. 

But then, he saw it.

The way your gaze turned distant. Like you had seen something that wasn’t there. Like you knew something. “I’ve faced death many times,” you said, your voice so steady, so unbothered, it sent a chill through his entire existence. “It’s not as dramatic as you might think. You’d be surprised at how many times I’ve died without anyone realizing it.”

The words hung in the air. You weren’t joking. You weren’t pretending.

You knew what it was like to face death. To die.

That was the moment that he realized. It wasn’t just his touch that you could withstand. You were something else entirely. You had crossed paths with death more times than he could count—and you had survived.

The very nature of that unnerved him. How was it possible? How could you speak of it so casually, as though death was an old acquaintance you had learned to live with?

But what really disturbed him was the way you spoke of things even he didn’t know.

For the time you mentioned how the veil between the worlds had thinned after a certain incident, how the balance of life and death had shifted, even if it had seemed insignificant at the time. He did not know of it—none of it had been in the records, nothing he had been told during his training. 

How could you know something like that? How did you see things he didn’t even see? There was something deeper inside you, something that made him uneasy. 

You were not just a mortal.

Months passed, and he could feel his obsession intensifying, his frustration mounting. Every time you shrugged him off, every time you saw through his tricks, it was like a blow to his existence. It should have been easy to claim you, right? Just like any other soul. But there was something about you that turned everything he knew upside down.

And then, he followed you home. He didn’t care if it was stalking anymore. He had to understand you. Had to know what made you tick.

He watched you walk through the familiar door of your loft apartment, so effortlessly. To him, it felt like watching a predator enter its den. Yet, you remained unshaken.

It was a strange place for someone like you—too lived-in to be a typical mortal apartment, too quiet to be a place where anyone truly rested. You didn’t invite him in, didn’t even acknowledge his presence when you entered. But he followed.

His steps were silent, as always. He floated behind you, not wanting to miss a single moment. You didn’t even glance back, so used to his silent following that you barely reacted anymore.

The apartment was minimalist, but it had personality. A few things caught his eye—the piles of books that leaned precariously against the walls, the odd plants that seemed to be thriving despite your apparent lack of interest in them, and the dim lighting casting long shadows.

You moved around the apartment with practiced ease, grabbing something from the fridge, putting it into the microwave, your thoughts clearly somewhere else. He stood there, arms folded, waiting for you to break the silence.

And when you finally did, it wasn’t the question he expected.

“What do you want from me?” Your voice was sharp, and for the first time since he met you, he could hear the edge of tiredness in it. It wasn’t the usual disinterest or mockery.

It was weariness.

“I told you,” he started, almost sounding desperate now. “I want your soul.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you glanced over at him, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in your eyes, something he couldn’t understand.

“But why?” Your voice was softer now, but still direct. “Why me? You’ve collected souls for how long, and you’ve never come across one like mine. Is that it? Am I some kind of… prize for you?”

He paused, thrown off by the unexpected vulnerability in your question.

“You know why,” he said, trying to regain his composure. “You’ve faced death, haven’t you? But you haven’t succumbed to it. You... you’re different. The high-ups... they’re curious. I’m curious.” He took a step closer, and this time, it wasn’t just about the soul. “I want to know why you can withstand it. Why you don’t die when you should.”

You didn’t look afraid. If anything, your eyes seemed almost… amused.

“Maybe I’m not meant to,” you said simply, taking a seat at your kitchen table and sipping your drink, casually uninterested in his presence. “Maybe I’ve seen things you can’t even begin to understand.”

Casper stood there for a moment, the realization dawning on him. He had always been the one in control, the one who made the rules. But now? It was clear. You were the one pulling the strings.

And it terrified him. Still, the obsession remained.

“I’m going to find out, whether you like it or not.” He vowed quietly, more to himself than to you.

You rolled your eyes at Casper’s words, his little declaration of trying to figure you out like you were some puzzle to be solved. Honestly, you had better things to do than entertain the idea of a grim reaper’s obsession.

Just as you were about to tell him to stop following you and to get out of your space, your phone rang. 

It was another assistant you worked across from.

You sighed, already knowing this wasn’t going to be good news.

“Hey, quick heads up—I’m sick and won’t be able to make it to the event tonight. You’re going to my place for our boss. Dress nice, okay? You’ll be meeting with some big names—the ones that fund our department. They’ll expect a professional impression,” the assistant said, her voice a bit muffled from the cold she had.

You stared blankly at your phone for a few seconds after the call ended. Great. Just what you needed tonight. A high-profile event, and you’d have to step in at the last minute. Your peaceful evening, which had already been non-existent thanks to your favorite grim reaper stalking you, was now thoroughly ruined.

You sighed heavily, letting the irritation bubble up. You didn’t need the stress. You didn’t need Casper clinging to you, constantly breathing down your neck, following you from work to the grocery store, practically watching you while you tried to relax. It was like he thought he could wear you down and force you to acknowledge him.

Well, he wasn’t going to win that easily.

You turned to your bedroom and started walking toward it. The sound of Casper’s soft footsteps followed you like a shadow. “Can you just go?” You snapped, not bothering to look back at him. “I need to get dressed. Your presence is… annoying.”

His voice echoed behind you as you stepped into your room, already mentally prepping yourself for the headache that would be this event. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean ‘not going anywhere’?”

“I’m staying right here,” he said, his tone almost smug.

Of course, he would. He was as stubborn as a brick wall, and clearly had no intention of leaving you alone. But the idea of him lurking around your personal space? That crossed a line.

You had an idea—a rather ridiculous one, but hey, it would work.

“Fine, then.” You said with a sly grin, turning around as you walked toward your closet. “You stay then, Grimmy. But just… watch.”

Casper’s ethereal form hovered near the doorway, a little too close for comfort, but his interest piqued. “Watch what?”

You didn’t answer, instead focusing on finding the outfit you were going to wear. Casper stayed glued to the spot, curious as you began to undress, unaware of what you were about to do.

You removed your blouse first, feeling his presence lingering at the edge of your vision. The air felt thick with his silent attention. You casually let your shirt fall to the floor, then reached for the next item, your back turned toward him as you continued your task.

You could practically hear his ghostly breath hitch when you glanced back over your shoulder at him, a playful glint in your eyes. 

“You like what you see, Grimmy?”

His body stiffened like he wasn’t sure how to react, but he didn’t move, still watching. His eyes, if you could even call them that, were practically burning holes into you.

You smirked, not bothering to hide your amusement as you casually slipped into the dress you’d chosen for the evening. “Don’t act so shy, Grim. I thought you liked souls.”

Casper’s reaction was almost comical, his form flickering as though struggling to maintain composure. “I’m not here for that!”

“Oh? Are you sure? Because I think you might be,” you teased, letting your hands linger over the fabric of the dress, turning slowly to face him. “You do know how to appreciate beauty, don’t you, Grimmy?”

Casper’s ghostly pale face had turned a noticeable shade of what could only be described as “flustered”—which was absurd. He was dead, for heaven’s sake. But there he was, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

Then, without another word, he vanished. Gone. Just like that. You blinked, a slight laugh escaping your lips. Well, that worked. 

You finished getting dressed, the ridiculousness of it all sinking in. Somehow, you had managed to shake off Casper for the night by using his own discomfort against him. He’d been so caught off guard that he hadn’t known how to react. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, feeling a small sense of victory. This night was going to be yours, even if it had started in chaos.

You grabbed your phone and checked the time—just enough time to grab your purse and head out. At least for the evening, you could pretend that everything was normal, and that meant no ghosts, no interruptions.

The moment you stepped out of your loft, you slipped into the role you had mastered: the calm, composed assistant who could handle anything, even the most unexpected of crises. 

Tonight was no different. Your boss had trusted you to step in for her at the event, which meant your ability to perform under pressure was being tested once again.

The venue was a grand, multi-story ballroom with vaulted ceilings and an ambiance that screamed wealth and prestige. Crystal chandeliers glimmered above, casting a warm glow over the sea of guests mingling below. You entered with a practiced grace, your heels clicking softly against the polished marble floors as you navigated through the crowd.

Your boss, the editor-in-chief of a well-known fashion magazine you worked at, maintains her usual level of poise. She greeted people, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, and making small talk while you stood beside her, quietly observing the whirlwind of conversation. 

As her assistant, you were in charge of handling all the logistics, ensuring the guests were taken care of and that everything ran smoothly. That meant taking note of important names and contacts, managing schedules, and keeping an eye out for any potential hiccups.

Tonight, you were the one making sure everything stayed on track. You took your place near the entrance, casually keeping tabs on the crowd as your boss moved through the room, chatting with potential investors and key figures in the fashion industry. 

Every so often, she would glance over at you for a quick update or a reminder about certain guests, and you would provide her with the information she needed, always two steps ahead.

You kept a mental checklist of the key players in the room: the head of the fashion department’s major sponsor, and the influencer known for setting trends in the digital world. Each person needed to be addressed properly, and each interaction carefully curated.

When your boss handed you a list of names to memorize last week, you took it without question, scanning over the details and committing them to memory. It was no longer a matter of whether you would succeed tonight; it was simply a question of how flawlessly you could execute everything. And you knew you’d do it with ease.

As the night wore on, you glided between conversations, keeping track of your boss’s needs, occasionally stepping in to provide information to the guests, and always maintaining that cool professionalism that made you stand out. 

At some point, you were asked to retrieve some drinks for your boss. 

You navigated the crowd without a second thought, moving efficiently between groups of people as you made your way to the back office. You could hear the hum of conversation as you passed, the occasional laugh, the clink of glasses, but you were focused. 

You made your way to the bar, your mind still buzzing from the whirlwind of the evening, but something felt… off. The familiar weight of being watched had slipped away, and it was strange. Normally, the pull of a presence, some ghost or spirit trailing behind you, would have been so ingrained in your routine that you’d hardly notice it. 

But tonight? It was like the feeling had vanished entirely.

It was unsettling. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. The eerie quiet made your thoughts drift back to your childhood—a time when seeing spirits was more of a curse than a gift. You remembered telling your parents about it, about the strange faces that would appear to you, whispering their names, hovering just out of sight. 

And their response? A quick trip to a mental institution at a young age. "You're imagining things," they’d said. "It's just your mind playing tricks."

You had hated it. 

Hated the way your parents treated your abilities as if they were a problem to be solved. And that hatred turned into bitterness. Ever since you’d learned to hide it—to pretend that you couldn’t see the spirits who followed you, pretending their whispers didn’t get under your skin.

You had learned to tune out the names that would sometimes float around the edges of your vision, names that would send a chill down your spine.

Death had always been a part of you, and you hated it. Hated how it was always there, how it clung to you like a shadow. You’d been forced into hiding your truth for years. And yet, here you were, working in fashion—a world so far removed from the grim reality of death that you could almost convince yourself that it didn’t exist.

But even this world was not free from its pull.

You looked around at the event, the glamour, the flashing lights, the elegant conversations, and you couldn’t help but feel slightly detached from it all. You loved fashion, no doubt about it. The creativity, the artistry—it had always been your escape. And even though the pay didn’t match your hard work, you had been content. 

At least you thought you were. 

But a part of you missed the thrill of the chase, the mystery—the way Casper had been, in his way, a strange, unwelcome source of entertainment. 

Yeah, he was annoying as hell. 

But if you were being honest, he had made things more… fun.

You took a deep breath, shook your head, and tried to push those thoughts out. You didn’t need to think about that little reaper. You just needed to focus on your life, and your dreams.

And then, as if the universe couldn’t let you have a moment’s peace, you turned the corner and ran smack into a man dressed entirely in black, with a red tie that mirrored the intensity of his eyes. His grip was firm as he caught you by the shoulders, steadying you as your balance faltered.

You blinked. You took a step back. No way.

There, standing in front of you, was none other than Casper—in human form?

His usual pale, translucent appearance was gone, replaced by a sharply dressed figure, his black suit crisp and immaculate. His red tie, sharp as his gaze, matched the color of his eyes—those eyes that gleamed with an unsettling amusement.

“Did you miss me?” he asked, his voice smooth and mocking as ever. The words slid off his tongue like a challenge, almost as if he were daring you to deny it.

You rolled your eyes, forcing yourself to recover from the shock. “What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, your annoyance rising instantly. The shock was wearing off, but the frustration remained. “I thought I told you to leave me alone.”

His grin widened, an almost smug look settling on his face as he tilted his head. “Well, I’ve been following you around long enough to realize something. You may not fear death, but there’s one thing I know for sure—you can’t escape it. So why bother running from me when you know it’s only a matter of time?”

You blinked again, incredulous. “Are you seriously trying to make a philosophical point right now?”

Casper shrugged, his hands still firmly on your shoulders as if anchoring you to this moment. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just here to remind you that I am the one who holds your fate.” His voice dropped slightly, a glint of something darker behind his words. “I don’t forget easily, you know.”

You felt the weight of his words settle in, but just as quickly, you pushed them aside. You were done with his games, done with the feeling that something or someone was always lurking. “If you're so hell-bent on being a problem, why don't you just leave me alone? I’m trying to have a normal night, for once.”

Casper raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his features. “Normal? Now that’s a word I never thought I’d hear from you.”

You sighed in exasperation. “Look, I’m really not in the mood for this. I’m here for work. Not whatever you’re trying to pull.”

He didn’t let go of you, though, his grip still firm. “Fine, but remember—death has a way of creeping in when you least expect it. And I’m still here. Watching. Waiting.”

You rolled your eyes again, pushing past him this time. “Yeah, yeah. Just... stay out of my way, okay? I've got a job to do.”

Casper didn’t follow you immediately. Instead, he stood there, his eyes flicking to you as you walked away. You could almost feel the weight of his gaze on your back as you made your way to the bar, shaking off his presence as best you could.

You were tired of this—tired of him. But deep down, some strange, unsettling part of you knew he wouldn’t leave until he got what he wanted.

With a sigh, you returned to your boss with the drinks, trying to keep a calm exterior. You handed her the glass, and she gave you a knowing look, a small smile curving her lips. "How’s your night going?" she asked, clearly not expecting much but offering the polite conversation anyway.

"Fine," you said, trying to keep your voice light. "Just ready to head--"

"I didn't ask for your life story." Your boss cuts you off.

Right, still a mean bitch, you followed your boss gaze and shifted across the room, scanning the crowd like she was looking for something—someone. You followed her line of sight, and for the briefest moment, your heart sank in your chest.

It was him.

Casper.

He was moving through the crowd, his pale skin glowing under the lights and his white hair catching the spotlight, almost unnatural in its radiance. And those red wine-colored eyes, always gleaming with a mischievous, almost predatory look. Of course, it had to be him.

You could feel the pit in your stomach grow. What the hell did he want now?

Before you could process it, your boss turned to you with that knowing smile again. "Do you know him? He’s heading this way."

You blinked, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling settling in your chest. "I… I think I’ve seen him around," you said, trying to keep your composure. But what the hell was he doing here?

Casper approached, his eyes locking onto yours as if he’d found the perfect prey. He was still dressed in that tailored black suit with the red tie, the sharp contrast of his appearance only making his otherworldly presence that much more noticeable. He didn’t even look like he belonged here, but there he was, standing in front of you.

Your boss, always the social butterfly, didn’t miss a beat. She extended her hand toward him with a bright, professional smile. “Good evening. It’s lovely to meet you. You’re so handsome.”

You felt a knot tighten in your stomach. You didn’t want to look, didn’t want to pay attention to the way she so easily interacted with him, the way she was completely unaware of the chaos that had been following you around.

But you couldn’t look away.

Casper gave her a smile that was all teeth. “Thank you, t’s a pleasure my name is… well, Casper,” he said smoothly, his voice like honey, deep and smooth, with a hint of mystery lacing every word. “I’ve heard a lot about you from your pretty assistant.”

“Oh really?” Your boss mumbled before looking at you.

Your eyes darted away, feeling the weight of the conversation that was unfolding around you. You weren’t quite sure what was happening, but you couldn’t deny that this was the last thing you wanted. You just wanted to get through the night without him stealing the spotlight.

“Casper,” your boss repeated, impressed, glancing at you as if waiting for some sort of confirmation. “So… which agencies you work at?”

"Agencies…?" Casper questioned, a little lost.

Oh no. Of course. How did you not see it before? The polished look, the charm, the smoothness to his every move—it was all so damn calculated. In your boss eyes, this wasn’t just some random guy trailing you like a ghost.

Casper has model features.

His facial features are close to the famous model standing, no less. You can already imagine his face in the glossy magazines scattered around the fashion industry. The sleek white hair, those eyes like liquid wine… the boyish charm that made him almost impossible to ignore.

"Aren’t you a model?" Your boss asked.

Casper’s smile widened, "Oh no I am not a model, but I sometimes do simple shoots when Halloween comes around,” he answered, his voice dripping with that signature smugness. 

Your boss’s eyes widened at his words. Impossible. Simple was an understatement. He definitely have the potential to become one of the it models, the ones with major campaigns and ad spreads. 

"I see," your boss said, her eyes practically sparkling as she examined Casper. "Well, I'm sure you're used to all the attention by now, but I must say, you're quite a striking presence, Casper." Her words were laced with a polite admiration that made you want to roll your eyes, but you restrained yourself, knowing better than to interrupt.

Casper gave another smile that seemed to gleam with just a hint of amusement, the edges of his mouth curling like he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Your boss glanced over at the growing crowd, spotting a few more important figures she needed to greet. "Well, I’ll leave you two to chat," she said, offering a gracious smile before turning to walk off. "Enjoy your night, but—" She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper just for you. 

"Give him our card. Get him on board as a main model for the department. If he says no..." She stares at you, looking at you up and down.

You knew that damn look, however still, your mouth almost opened to protest, to shake your head and tell her you weren’t about to turn Casper into some kind of marketing tool. But she was already walking away, leaving you standing there, feeling like a pawn in her strategic little game. 

The words died on your tongue. Fuck.

And just like that, your night—your whole world, really—had shifted. The man who had been haunting your every move for months, who had lurked in the shadows, was now casually interacting with your boss like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

And you? You were standing there, trying desperately to ignore the knot that had formed in your stomach, trying to pretend that you weren’t feeling the flicker of dread creeping up your spine.

Casper, of course, noticed. He always did. His gaze, sharp and calculating, met yours. It was like he could see right through you, dissecting the unease that you couldn’t hide. 

His voice, soft and almost teasing, cut through the air. "Did you think I was just an average looking grim reaper?" he asked, that ever-present edge of amusement in his tone, the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You should've known better."

You couldn’t help the exasperated sigh that escaped you. You rolled your eyes, trying to keep your irritation at bay. "No, I didn’t think you were just an average looking grim reaper," you said flatly, your voice tinged with annoyance. "But I definitely didn’t expect you to fit fucking model capabilities, especially to my damn boss."

Casper laughed, the sound rich and deep like he was enjoying the frustration he’d caused. He leaned in just slightly, enough to invade your space, but not enough to make you flinch. "Well, life—or rather, the afterlife—has a funny way of surprising you, doesn’t it?"

You fought the urge to smirk or, worse, to smack him. It wasn’t that you were scared of him—not anymore—but there was something about the way he existed that made your skin crawl in all the wrong ways. 

Everything about him was wrong in an almost alluring way—though you’d never dare admit it. He had become a constant, vexing presence in your life, and not even a career-defining event could grant you reprieve.

Worse still? You were already suspected you might never be free of him. Not after your boss all but sealed your fate—secure him, or lose everything. 

Now, you were playing this so-called ‘game’ on his terms, with his one outrageous demand: your soul. Right… he wanted your soul. But you? You had your sights set on something far more valuable—

Him.

Like might as well, he’s the one haunting you almost every day following you everywhere like a ghost with unfinished business. He practically owes you because your boss now wants him as a model only adds to the complexity. You were caught between your duty to your job and your growing, almost morbid fascination with the very reaper who’d been plaguing your life. 

It was almost insanely perfect, really. Like the gods curse you. 

You had to work with him, which meant you'd get more time to study him, and more chances to draw him into your orbit.

“Casper,” you said one evening as the two of you now stood near the bar at the event, his eyes glinting with an almost predatory curiosity as he watched you. "You know, I’ve been thinking. You’d be perfect for this project. The department would love you."

He cocked his head, clearly intrigued. “I thought I was just a ghost to you.”

You smiled, a little too sweetly. “I never said you were just a ghost. I’m just... very interested in how you can be so tangible and untouchable at the same time.” You tilted your head, leaning in ever so slightly. “You’ve got an aura. An energy that’s... rare. And I know people in the fashion industry love rare.”

He blinked at you, still unsure of what you were getting at. “So, you want me to become a model?”

You nodded, “Yes. My boss is already interested, and she’s the one who handles all the big connections. If you want to make a name for yourself, this is your chance.” 

Casper, for all his otherworldly knowledge, still couldn’t quite fathom how things worked in this world. He was too used to being the one who took, not gave. His eyes narrowed as if trying to gauge whether you were being honest or playing some game.

“You think I need your help to get noticed?” he asked, voice low and almost amused. But there was that glimmer of something—doubt, maybe?—flickering behind his gaze.

“Well,” you said, holding his gaze with unwavering confidence. “You can get noticed any company, sure. But this? This would be the perfect opportunity. I can guarantee you’ll get all the attention you want. And... you’ll get what you want, too.”

He seemed to weigh your words, his expression thoughtful. He hadn’t expected you to play into his desire for influence, for control. He hadn’t realized how much you were feeding into his need for validation—something he desperately craved but didn’t understand.

“All right, then,” he said after a moment, his tone almost too eager. “But you’ll have to promise me something in return.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh?”

His red eyes gleamed. “When done with this little ‘becoming a model’—you’ll give me your soul, right? After all, I’ll have given you what you need for your boss.” He smirked, clearly thinking he had you cornered.

You sighed, “We'll see,” you said, that familiar, dangerous smile of yours creeping onto your lips. “Maybe there’s something else you’ll want more than my soul.”

Casper blinked, clearly thrown by your words. “Like what…?”

You rolled your eyes, you were already moving on to the next part of your plan. In the back of your mind, you knew the final step was going to be the hardest, but seriously, this? 

You had to work with Casper—the Casper. 

Again, the one who’d been haunting you for months. The one who’d made your life a walking nightmare in every way possible. And now, thanks to your boss's questionable decision-making skills, you became his assistant.

Your job, as if the universe wasn’t already laughing in your face, was to make sure everything went perfectly for him—fix his hair, calm his ridiculously over-inflated ego, and handle all the tiny, soul-crushing details that kept his modeling career afloat. Because, of course, who better to trust with all that than someone who literally hates their life?

You could barely look at him without feeling the urge to strangle him—or worse, do something far more dangerous, like giving into the strange pull he had over you. From the moment you started working for him, your patience had been put through the wringer. It wasn’t just that he was difficult—no, that would’ve been manageable. 

It was the way he acted like you owed him something, like catering to his every whim was just an unspoken part of your job description. His arrogance knew no bounds, and every time he had to interact with someone—whether it was the stylist, the makeup artist, or literally anyone else—he made sure they knew how much of an inconvenience they were. A scoff here, an eye roll there. Like the whole world was wasting his precious time.

But nothing got under your skin more than his insistence that you had to be the one to do everything for him.

Today was a vampire-themed shoot that should’ve been straightforward. The concept was classic—dark, brooding, seductive. And Casper?

He was practically made for it. With his porcelain skin, blood-red eyes, and stark white hair, he already looked like he stepped out of a gothic novel. Under the dim studio lighting, he was equally ethereal and unnerving—the perfect blend of beauty and danger.

But, of course, things couldn’t be that easy.

First, he flat-out refused to let anyone else touch him. No stylists, no makeup artists—no one. And why? Because of his Probability Reaper abilities. As if one misplaced brush stroke or a stray hairpin would suddenly send someone to an early grave.

So, naturally, he demanded you do everything.

“Come here, you,” he said, his voice deep, almost a growl as he fixed his gaze on you. “I need the blood on my lips. Don’t just stand there. I’m waiting.”

You gritted your teeth, resisting the urge to tell him where he could shove his demands. You had work to do. "Fine," you muttered under your breath, moving toward him.

You could feel his eyes on you as you prepared the fake blood, the sticky red substance almost too realistic for comfort.

Your fingers brushed against his soft lips, and for a second, you almost forgot what you were doing. His eyes, as always, locked onto yours, and for a fleeting moment, you could see something in them—something dangerous. 

A hunger.

It was the same pull. The same unsettling feeling that had haunted you since the day you first met him. But now, in such close proximity, with his breath mixing with yours, you couldn’t ignore it. His stare burned into your skin like a brand, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You quickly finished the task, wiping your hands off with a towel, keeping your gaze away from him. The last thing you needed was to fall for whatever it was he was doing to you. You were already playing with fire. You didn't need to get burned.

Casper, however, was not deterred by your coolness. He leaned in, looking at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. "You know," he said, his voice low and teasing, "there’s something about the way you touch me... something different. Why is that?"

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he was. His lips—still stained with fake blood—were just a few inches away from yours. The faintest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I'm just doing my job," you replied, trying to keep your tone steady.

But it didn’t work. His smile only grew, and for a second, you could see that strange glint in his eyes—the same one you had seen in his otherworldly stare when he first encountered you. The one that made you think he was far more dangerous than any of the spirits you’d dealt with in your life.

“Mm,” he hummed, the sound vibrating in his chest as he stepped even closer. His breath was warm against your face, his presence suffocating in a way that you couldn't ignore. "I don’t believe you."

You straightened, quickly distancing yourself. “Just finish the damn shoot, Casper. That’s all I’m here for.”

Before you could take another breath, he moved.

One second, you were standing firm, refusing to let him pull you in. The next? His hands gripped your waist, and with a smooth, effortless motion, he pulled you down onto his lap.

A startled gasp left your lips, but before you could protest, Casper’s arms settled around you—firm but unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. His crimson eyes gleamed with quiet amusement as he looked up at you, his head tilted just slightly as if studying a particularly intriguing puzzle.

“You’re acting so different today,” he murmured, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “I can sense it. Why?”

You stiffened. Another question. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place, more binding than his actual hold on you. His grip wasn’t tight, wasn’t forceful—but it didn’t need to be. His presence alone was enough to escape feel pointless.

Your lips parted, but no words came. What could you even say? That you didn’t know why? That you didn’t want to know? That some part of you had already accepted whatever this was, even as you kept pretending to fight it?

Casper hummed, one hand lazily tracing patterns against your hip, his other resting at the small of your back. Not quite pulling you closer, not quite letting you go. 

Just holding you there, perfectly trapped.

"You don’t even realize it, do you?" His voice was almost amused, but there was something beneath it—something dangerous, something interesting.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, instinct screaming at you to push him away. 

You didn’t.

"I’m just here to do my job," you forced out, trying to sound firm, unaffected.

Casper’s smirk deepened, his head tilting even more like you’d just said something hilarious. "Job, huh?" His voice was silky smooth, laced with quiet mockery. "I think you’re much more than that, don’t you?"

Your heart pounded.

He was too close. Too steady. Too unbothered, like he had already figured something out that you hadn’t.

You grit your teeth, every fiber of your being screaming for control. You refused to let him drag you into this—to make you want whatever twisted game he was playing.

“Just finish your damn job, Casper,” you snapped, trying to shift your weight, to push away from him. But his hands—so annoyingly casual—didn’t let you move far.

“Am I stopping you?” he asked, all false innocence, all easy confidence. His grip didn’t tighten, didn’t turn forceful. But somehow, that made it worse.

"Yes," You glared at him. 

His smirk only widened. And then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in—just enough that you could feel his breath ghosting over your skin. “We’ll see how long you can keep up that act,” he murmured, his voice like silk over a blade.

You wrenched yourself away, standing up fast, putting space between you two before you could do something reckless—something stupid. But as you turned, forcing yourself to focus, to shove this encounter into the back of your mind, one unsettling thought refused to leave you.

Who was really haunting who?

Turns out it can. As more news hits you like a slap to the face, leaving behind a sting of disbelief.

Apparently, Casper’s modeling career—something you still found utterly ridiculous—required both you and your boss to be flown out with him for a series of shoots in another city. You barely had time to process the logistics of it all before your boss, looking far too smug about this, handed you your flight details with a cheery “Try not to kill each other.”

As if that was even an option.

The moment you boarded the plane, fate decided to drive the knife deeper.

Your assigned seat? Right next to Casper.

You shot a glare at your boss as she strolled past, completely unaffected by your suffering. She met your glare with a saccharine smile and an enthusiastic thumbs-up before settling into her own seat several rows ahead.

Traitor.

Casper, of course, looked completely unbothered, the very picture of laziness as he slumped into his seat. One leg stretched out in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted back like he was already seconds from slipping into a nap. If not for the way his white hair fell perfectly into place, he could’ve been mistaken for some overworked businessman instead of a supernatural menace in designer clothing.

You exhaled through your nose, scowling as you sank into your seat and buckled your belt. The flight hadn’t even taken off yet, and you were already bracing yourself for hours of pure torture.

The first stretch of the flight was silent. Almost too silent.

You weren’t sure if that was better or worse than his usual taunting. Normally, Casper never shut up, always had some smug remark, some sharp-edged teasing that made your patience fray like an overused thread. But right now? Right now, he was quiet.

And that was unsettling in itself.

Halfway through the flight, when the hum of the plane had lulled most passengers into a light doze, Casper cracked one eye open and glanced at you.

“You’re tense, mortal.” His voice was a low murmur, just enough to cut through the ambient noise.

You clenched your jaw. “And you’re breathing in my direction. We all have problems.”

Casper smirked, a lazy, knowing thing, but—for once—he didn’t push.

The moment you landed, exhaustion settled deep into your bones. You were already dreading the next few days—watching Casper glide through his modeling shoots like he owned the damn world, dealing with your boss’s usual demands, and trying not to lose your mind in the process. But just as you thought you could catch a moment of peace, your boss hit you with yet another bombshell.

“You and Casper are sharing a hotel room.”

You blinked at her, your brain stuttering to a halt. “…Come again?”

She sighed, rubbing her temples like she was already so over this conversation before it had even started. “Look, the agency only booked so many rooms. You’ll have separate bedrooms, and there’s a bathroom in between. You’ll live.”

You wanted to argue. Oh, you wanted to scream that you had already spent far too much time being haunted by this insufferable bastard. That you didn’t want to be anywhere near him, let alone sleeping under the same damn roof.

Instead, you swallowed the frustration in your throat, forced yourself to inhale slowly through your nose, and settled for a tight, clipped: “Okay.”

Not like you had a choice.

The hotel was sleek and modern, all glass and polished stone, the kind of place that oozed luxury in a way that made you instantly wary. As the car pulled up to the front entrance, your boss was already rattling off instructions, barely sparing you or Casper a glance as she rifled through her phone.

“All right,” she said, stepping onto the curb with the efficiency of someone who had a million things to do and no time to waste. “You’re also in charge of keeping an eye on Casper.”

You stiffened, already knowing exactly where this was going. “Excuse me?”

She finally looked up at you, arching a brow. “I need him to be well-rested and not a menace before the shoot. That’s your job now. Make sure he’s taken care of, make sure he’s on time, and for the love of all that is holy, make sure he doesn’t get arrested or something.”

You opened your mouth to argue but immediately shut it when she held up a hand. “Nope. Don’t wanna hear it. I have a million things to handle, and I need you to be the responsible one.” She paused, then gave you a flat look. “Which, let’s be honest, is a low-effort achievement compared to him.”

Next to you, Casper hummed in amusement. “I feel like that was an insult.”

“It was,” she replied without missing a beat.

Casper didn’t seem the least bit offended. In fact, he looked downright pleased with himself. You fought the urge to rub your temples, already feeling the tension knotting in your skull.

“And,” your boss continued, ignoring Casper entirely, “I need you to set my schedule for tomorrow’s shoot. I want everything organized before I wake up. Call time, location details, wardrobe check—everything. Understood?”

You sighed, already resigning yourself to your fate. “Yeah. Got it.”

“Good.” She shoved a keycard into your hand before giving Casper a sharp look. “And you. Try not to be difficult.”

Casper smirked, tilting his head like he was considering it. “No promises.”

Your boss exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose before muttering something under her breath about ‘getting paid way too little for this’— even though she clearly gets paid enough—and stalking off toward the lobby.

Which left you and Casper standing at the curb, luggage in tow, facing the inevitable. 

Casper turned to you, expression unreadable. “So. Roommates, huh?” 

You exhaled slowly, staring up at the towering hotel before you. “Kill me.”

Casper’s voice rang out behind you, amusement clear in his tone. “You know you can’t actually be killed, right?”

You didn’t even turn around to respond, just kept walking toward the entrance.

“You’re really getting into this whole ‘mortal’ act,” he continued, his footsteps echoing behind you. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

You shot him a glance over your shoulder, your patience already running thin. “I swear, Casper, if you don’t stop talking, I’m going to do something you won’t be able to come back from.”

He laughed, the sound of it too rich, too knowing. “That’s cute. But you forget—I’m already dead.”

“Lucky you,” you muttered, your tone dry. 

You and Casper stood in front of the shared hotel room, the silence between you two heavier than usual. You pushed the door open, the creaking sound echoing louder than necessary in the hallway. It was a strange kind of awkward tension, made worse by the fact that, well, you were stuck with him.

You sank into the couch, trying to distance yourself from his relentless, spectral presence. The exhaustion of the day—of the flight, the absurdity of it all—was settling deep into your bones, but you couldn’t relax. Not with him there. Not with that constant, oppressive, ghostly aura hanging over you like a storm cloud.

And then, of course, he had to go and speak.

“I need a bath,” Casper said casually, as if you didn’t have better things to do than cater to him.

You looked at him like he had just asked you to conjure up a hot tub out of thin air. “What?” you said, disbelief curling in your voice. 

He didn’t seem bothered by your reaction. His red eyes flickered with something approaching amusement, though it was tinged with that ever-present arrogance.

“Come on, mortal,” he said, that ghostly smirk creeping up on his face. “You’re my caretaker now. My personal attendant. Run me a bath.”

Your jaw tightened, and you just stared at him. No way. He’d lost his damn mind. What was this? Some twisted, afterlife spa day?

“You have got to be kidding me,” you muttered, your voice low with irritation. “What, you seriously expect me to run you a bath?” You shook your head, giving him a flat look. “I’m not about to sit here and wash the grime off a literal Grim Reaper.”

His gaze remained unwavering. “Do you... do you know who you're talking to right now?” he said, his voice dripping with an insufferable calmness. “I’m a reaper. You’re the mortal. That means you have to do these things.”

You felt your eye twitch in frustration. “Oh, I know exactly who you are, Grimmy,” you bit back. “You’re the one who’s been haunting me, stealing my soul, and generally making my life a living hell. And now you think I’m gonna be your personal attendant?” You scoffed, pushing yourself upright. “I’ve been through way too much dealing with you, and you want me to play your personal spa assistant? Not happening.”

Casper didn’t even flinch. If anything, he seemed completely unbothered, as if he was entitled to this. "You are the mortal here," he continued, unfazed. "It's your responsibility, like your boss said." He shot you that superior, ghostly smirk that was quickly becoming the bane of your existence.

Your patience? Gone. You stared at him, wide-eyed. "No. I'm really gonna need you to rethink that request, Grimmy," you said, your voice rising in irritation. "You're a reaper! You don’t need a bath! This isn’t some weird form of grim hygiene—what is this, an existential crisis?”

Casper didn’t look at you like you were crazy. In fact, he tilted his head slightly, his expression almost... annoyed. “Maybe it’s a reminder,” he murmured under his breath, as though he wasn’t entirely aware he was speaking out loud. 

“A reminder: the more you drag on giving me your soul, the more problems I’ll cause for you.”

You blinked, processing his words for a moment. Was he actually being serious? 

Ohhh that little shit…

“Well, I’m sorry, Casper,” you said, forcing a smile, “but this mortal is going to pass on the whole bath-running service.” You stood up, stretching, as if you were done with this conversation, mentally checking out. “You’re on your own for that one.”

Casper’s red eyes never left you, though his smirk faded just slightly, as if he couldn’t quite figure you out.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the point.

“Why do you fight me so much?” Casper’s voice cut through the silence, low and prying—way too calm for your liking. “Mortal women usually like me, fall over heels for me, but you don’t. It’s confusing.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you buried your face deeper into the couch pillow, letting out a long, exhausted sigh, like maybe—just maybe—you could breathe out all the frustration clinging to you.

But of course, he wasn’t done. Casper had a way of getting all weird and philosophical when you least had the patience for it.

“I’ve been thinking about it, you know… taking your soul. At this point, is it even worth it?” He paused, then kept going. “I mean, I’ve spent months following you around, became your boss’s model just to stay close, watched you. And now I’m wondering—what does taking your soul actually do for me? Will it fix whatever this thing is that I’m feeling? Or am I just throwing myself into something I can’t undo?”

You didn’t even bother lifting your head. The pillow smelled like expensive hotel fabric—clean, crisp, and utterly unhelpful. You stared at it, brain a mess of exhaustion and irritation, before mumbling,

“I don’t know, Casper. I really don’t.”

For a while, there was only the quiet hum of the air conditioner, Casper’s weight in the room pressing down on you like a physical force. You could feel him standing there, his presence looming like a shadow—waiting for some kind of profound answer, something deep and insightful that could resolve this bizarre conversation he was having with himself.

But you weren’t in the mood for any of it. You were too tired to be dragged into his metaphysical crisis. Too tired to get lost in the strange dark depths of his soul-stealing philosophy.

“I don’t want to be part of your existential crisis,” you groaned into the pillow, the words muffled by fabric. “I’m just trying to survive my days here, man. The job. The constant stuff. You’re the last thing I need to get tangled up in right now.”

You could feel his eyes on you then. It was that burning sensation on your back, like lasers boring into your skin. You didn’t need to look up to know that he was watching you closely, trying to read into your words, trying to figure out if you were being sarcastic or if there was something deeper beneath the surface.

But honestly? 

You couldn’t care less right now. 

The mental exhaustion was starting to hit, and all you wanted was some peace. His gaze was intense, unwavering, but still, you refused to meet it, your eyes still locked on the pillow. You could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he processed your response, the gears of his mysterious, otherworldly mind working overtime to make sense of you.

“Well,” he finally said, breaking the silence, his voice softer this time, “maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just... looking for something I can't have." There was a strange tone in his voice, almost as if he was talking to himself as much as he was talking to you. 

A little defeated, a little introspective.

Again, you didn’t say anything. Instead, you closed your eyes, hoping for sleep to come quickly, to shut out the weight of Casper’s presence and the endless swirl of thoughts he always left behind in his wake. Because no matter what he was trying to figure out about himself, you weren’t interested in being part of the puzzle.

And yet, deep down, you couldn’t help but wonder: what would he do if he actually figured himself out? Would he finally stop haunting you? Or would it just be another twist in this strange, never-ending game he was playing to claim your soul…?

You didn’t have the patience to unravel that mess. You had your own problems, after all. You were an adult—an assistant, no less. Work, deadlines, dealing with people who barely remembered your name, including your boss. 

Your life had become a monotonous grind of early mornings and late nights, filled with coffee-fueled exhaustion and half-hearted pleasantries. You kept your head down, you smiled when necessary, and you pretended that everything was fine.

Your world had been mundane. Easy. Quiet. Predictable.

And now? You had a Grim Reaper hovering over your shoulder, stuck in some kind of self-inflicted moral dilemma about whether or not he should rip your soul from your body. Like some whiny, undead philosopher who thought way too hard about his own existence.

The absurdity of it all weighed on you, pressing down like a heavy blanket of fatigue. A whole-ass harbinger of death, a supernatural entity, was following you around like a lost puppy, struggling with his own version of a midlife crisis. 

And somehow, somehow, you were the one stuck dealing with it.

It was ridiculous.

And then, out of nowhere, a song popped into your head—one that fit the mood a little too well.

All the people on the planet Working 9 to 5 just to stay alive How come?

The lyrics lingered in your mind, an unspoken anthem to the exhaustion of existence. Because wasn’t that all life was? A constant, never-ending loop of work and survival, of pretending everything was fine when it really, really wasn’t?

And now, even death itself was standing in your hotel room, trying to work through some kind of ghostly identity crisis. Without thinking, the words slipped out before you could stop them. 

“What goes up, ghost around…” You blinked.

Oh. Oh, no.

Did you—did you just make a pun about Casper?

Your lips parted slightly as the realization sank in, horror slowly creeping up your spine. This was it. You had officially lost your mind. The universe had thrown a scythe-wielding, existentially confused Grim Reaper into your life, and instead of screaming or running away, you were making stupid puns.

You were so done. Done with the constant noise in your head, the pressure, the irritation of dealing with someone who thought he could just waltz into your life like some smug, otherworldly nuisance. You were exhausted—physically, mentally, spiritually—and if you had to put up with his antics for one more second, you were going to start throwing things.

Yeah. No. You needed a bath.

You slowly get up and head straight for the bathroom. Casper, ever the uninvited, followed right behind. “Where are we going?” he asked, like he had any right to be included in this plan.

You didn’t even bother looking back. “I am going to take a bath. You are going to sit your ass somewhere else and leave me alone.”

Predictably, he ignored the very clear boundary you just set. “Oh, perfect, I need a bath, too.”

You stopped in your tracks in the bathroom doorway, slowly turning to face him. He looked entirely too pleased with himself, hands in his pockets, head tilted just enough to be infuriating. “Casper,” you said, voice dangerously calm.

“Yes?”

“Get. Out.”

His smirk twitched. “Now, hold on, why—”

Before he could even think about arguing, you grabbed the nearest object—a rolled-up towel—and launched it at him. He barely dodged, laughing like this was the funniest thing in the world, but you weren’t in the mood. You shoved him back. He barely stumbled—damn grim reflexes—but before he could retaliate, you slammed the bathroom door in his face and locked it for good measure.

A satisfied exhale left your lips. Peace. Finally.

You turned toward the tub, already feeling the tension in your body start to loosen at the thought of just sinking into hot water and pretending the world—and annoying grim reapers didn’t exist. You twisted the faucet on, letting the steam rise as the tub filled, the sound of water rushing over the porcelain drowning out any lingering frustration.

Shedding the rest of your clothes, you stepped in, the heat instantly soothing every worn-out nerve in your body. You let yourself sink lower, eyes slipping shut, breathing in the faint scent of whatever overpriced bath soak you grabbed last time you were at the store.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you were alone. No reapers. No stress. No existential crises. Just you, the water, and—

Knock knock.

Your head snapped toward the door, eyes narrowing. “…You’re not drowning, right?” Casper’s muffled voice called from the other side. “Because that would be kinda ironic.”

You groaned, sliding lower into the water until it covered your ears. You were never going to be rid of him, were you? However, then silence on the other side of the door stretched on. Five minutes passed.

Casper had finally given up. Good.

You exhaled slowly, leaning your head back against the edge of the tub, your brows furrowing as the stress still lingered—coiled deep in your muscles, settled in the pit of your stomach like a weight that wouldn’t budge.

Maybe… just maybe.

The water cradled you, heavy with warmth, lapping lazily against your skin as you sank deeper into the tub. You felt the heat seeped into your muscles, loosening the tightness coiled between your shoulders, and you let out a slow breath, your arms sliding around yourself in a loose embrace.

Your arms slid around yourself, fingers dragging slowly over your collarbones, down your shoulders. Damn, you were tense. ‘Like, why-are-my-muscles-made-of-concrete tense.’ But the heat was working its magic, loosening things up one knot at a time. You pressed your thumbs into the tight spots, hissing a little at the ache before it melted into something softer.

You lingered there for a moment, pressing into the knots along your neck, kneading with slow, deliberate circles until the tension began to unravel, the water was perfect—hot enough to turn your skin red, but not so scalding that it hurt. You sank deeper, letting it wrap around you like a lazy hug, the steam rising in little curls. 

Lavender, honey, whatever fancy shit was in this bath bomb—it smelled good, like one of those expensive spas you’d never actually pay to visit.

Legs propped up on the edge of the tub, you let one hand drift under the water, skimming over your stomach and your hips. The other lazily traced circles on your arm, catching droplets as they rolled down. Everything felt smoother in the water—your skin, your movements, even your thoughts, which were finally, finally shutting the hell up for once.

No grim reaper lurking like a weirdo. No stress tapping its fingers against your skull. Just you, the warmth, and the quiet slosh of water every time you shifted as one hand drifted down your arm, fingertips tracing the droplets clinging to your skin, while the other slipped beneath the surface, palm gliding over your stomach, lower, lower—until your fingers found the soft, slick heat between your thighs.

No rush. No urgency. 

Just the slow, experimental drag of your touch, tracing idle circles over your clit, already swollen with anticipation. The water made everything smoother, your fingers gliding effortlessly as you teased yourself, testing pressure speed—each movement sending little shocks of pleasure radiating outward.

Your breath hitched, lips parting as you arched slightly, the water lapping at your ribs. The warmth of the bath only heightened the sensation, your skin hypersensitive, every brush of your fingertips electric. You let yourself explore—gentle at first, then firmer, your hips shifting just enough to chase the friction.

A sigh escaped you, head tipping back against the rim of the tub, eyes fluttering shut, and let out a long breath. Fuck, when was the last time you just… existed like this? 

No overthinking, no distractions. Just your hands on your own skin, slow and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world.

You were so close to a stress-free moment—just you, the hot water, and your fingers working slow, teasing circles over your clit, already throbbing from the buildup. The bath made everything slick, and effortless, your touch gliding just right as you tested the pressure, the speed, biting your lip when a particularly good stroke sent a shiver up your spine.

Your breath hitched, hips lifting slightly, water sloshing as you arched two fingers inside you. Fuck, it felt good. The heat of the bath, the way your skin tingled, hypersensitive—every brush of your fingers sent little sparks racing through you. You let yourself get lost in it, touch growing firmer, more deliberate, chasing that sweet, mounting tension.

Then—of fucking course—your mouth betrayed you.

“Casper…” You moan. Fuck, Casper??

The absolute nerve of your subconscious to drag him into this. The guy who’d been stressing you out all damn day, and now here he was, lurking in the back of your mind like an uninvited guest. You groaned, half in frustration, half in reluctant amusement. Really? Now?

You tried to shake it off, fingers never stopping their rhythm, refusing to let him ruin this too. But the thought lingered, stubborn as hell, mixing with the pleasure in a way that was equal parts irritating and—okay, fine—kind of hot.

"Ugh, whatever," you muttered to no one, giving in just a little. If your brain wanted to play that game, fine. You’d let the frustration fuel you, turning the tension he’d caused into something better. Your strokes got sharper and needier, your free hand gripping the edge of the tub as you chased the release that had been just out of reach all day.

The way your body tensed and then melted beneath your touch, the steady rhythm of your fingers, deeper until your thighs trembled.

You took your time, dragging it out, letting the tension coil tighter with every deliberate stroke. Your breath hitched, coming faster now, lips parted as you sank deeper into the sensation. The warm water lapped at your skin, rippling with each subtle movement, muffling the quiet, needy sounds that slipped past your lips despite your best efforts.

And when it finally crashed over you—heat flooding through your limbs, pleasure cresting in slow, shuddering waves—you let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. Figures. Even in your own damn climax, he was still lingering in the back of your mind. 

That asshole.

“What are you doing, Mortal?”

You practically launched out of the tub.

Water sloshed violently over the edge as you jerked upright, your entire body going rigid with shock. Your heart nearly exploded in your chest as you snapped your head toward the source of the voice—only to see Casper, standing there like some smug little shit, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted in curiosity.

Oh, hell no. How did he get in here??

“WHAT THE FUCK—” You scrambled to grab the nearest thing—your damn loofah—hurling it at his face with as much force as you could muster. Casper barely flinched, the soft thing bouncing off his cheek like a tragic attempt at an attack.

He blinked. “Was that supposed to hurt?”

“YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN HERE!”

He looked genuinely confused. “But I live here.”

“But I’m in here,” you corrected, voice dripping with exasperation as you pulled your knees up to your chest, trying to salvage what little dignity you had left. “Big fucking difference.”

Casper’s gaze dragged down lazily, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. His lips parted slightly, his head tilting like he was putting together a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“I still don’t get it,” he admitted, his voice lower now. “I’ve seen mortals bathe before.”

“Oh my god—” You were going to die. Not from him taking your soul, not from some supernatural battle of wills—no, you were going to die from sheer secondhand embarrassment.

Casper took a slow step forward, and you held up a warning hand. “Do not come any closer.”

He stopped but didn’t look the least bit intimidated. In fact, he looked… intrigued. Like he was enjoying your frustration. Like he knew he had interrupted something and was now just here to be an absolute menace about it.

“You were making noises,” he pointed out, as if you weren’t already fully aware.

You clenched your jaw, your eye twitching. “I was relaxing.”

“Sounded more like suffering.”

“Oh my god...” You inhaled sharply through your nose, resisting the urge to drown yourself just to escape this absolute disaster of a moment. With all the strength of someone barely holding onto their last shred of sanity, you spoke through gritted teeth. 

“Casper. I swear to whatever god you believe in if you don’t get out of my bathroom in the next three seconds—”

Casper grinned, taking one step backward—which was not fast enough for your liking. “Or what? You’ll come after me?”

Oh, you hated him.

Casper stood there, the grimmest of grim reapers, with his white hair like fallen ash and those red-wine eyes gleaming with amusement. He was a nightmare in the flesh, a creature that should have inspired fear—should have made you tremble at the very thought of his existence.

Instead, he was standing in the bathroom, casually crumbling what little patience you had left invading your private time, looking at you like you were the strange one.

You wanted to scream. Oh, you wanted to scream.

Maybe throw something. Maybe rip your own hair out. Or better yet, maybe grab him by that infuriatingly perfect collar and shove him straight into the tub, hold him under until all his smug little comments bubbled into silence.

But you didn’t.

Because that would mean ruining your carefully put-together appearance. And worse? It would mean hurting your boss’s prized model—the one person you absolutely could not afford to lay a hand on unless you wanted to kiss your job goodbye.

So instead, you forced yourself to breathe. Slow. Controlled. Fingers tightening around the porcelain edges of the tub like they were the only thing anchoring you to sanity. “Casper,” you said, your voice dipping into something low and dangerous, like a warning before a storm.

“Hm?” That lazy, infuriating hum, like he hadn’t just walked in on you at your most vulnerable.

“Get. Out.”

He tilted his head, looking genuinely—genuinely—confused. “Why?”

You clenched your jaw so hard it could’ve cracked. “Because I am naked and bathing, and you are not supposed to be here.”

He considered that for a long moment. Then, his lips curled into something devious. “Technically, I am supposed to be here. You and I made a deal. I’m supposed to be haunting you for your soul.”

“Then haunt me in literally any other room.”

Casper sighed, dramatic and slow, as if you were the one being unreasonable. “Fine,” he relented, but then—then—he smirked. That smirk, the one that made you want to smack him upside the head. “But just so you know, you really should be quieter. You don’t want your neighbors thinking you’re being murdered in here.”

Fuck this. 

You were fuming, seething, gripping the edge of the tub like it was the only thing keeping you from losing your goddamn mind. Your eye twitched so violently that for a second, you swore the entire world flickered—as reality itself had short-circuited under the sheer weight of your frustration.

You had officially had enough.

With seething movements, you pushed yourself up from the bath, water cascading down your skin in slow, glistening trails. 

You grabbed the nearest towel, wrapping it around your body without a second thought, the fabric clinging to your damp form as you stepped out of the tub. You barely noticed the chill of the air against your skin. You barely cared.

Casper must have sensed the shift in the air because the moment your foot hit the tile with a sharp, wet slap, his smirk faltered. For the first time since he had started haunting your every waking moment, he looked genuinely unsettled.

His red eyes flickered—uncertainty, hesitation, maybe even a hint of fear. Good. Because you weren’t playing anymore. Before he could get another word in, you were moving. He took a cautious step back, but it was already too late.

Like a force of nature, you stormed toward him, towel clutched tightly around your body, water still dripping from your hair. Casper did the only thing his undead brain could think of—he ran.

Straight out of the bathroom. Oh, hell no.

You chased after him, barreling through the doorway, barely even aware of the way the hallway light flickered as you passed under it.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" you growled, the anger burning in your veins hotter than any embarrassment over your current state.

Casper yelped—yelped—as he sprinted down the hall, his long coat billowing behind him in his panic. For someone who literally dealt with death, he sure as hell was scared for his life.

"Now, now, let’s be rational about this!" he called over his shoulder, trying to sound composed, but his voice cracked at the end. Oh, he was scared.

"Rational?!" you scoffed, lunging forward. "You have been tormenting me for months, Casper! Months! And now you wanna talk about being rational?! Oh, no—you don’t get to run from me now!"

You saw the exact moment he realized he was cornered. 

Casper skidded to a halt at his bedroom door, scrambling to fling it open. But you were already there, shoving against it just as he tried to slam it in your face. 

His eyes were wide, his expression somewhere between shock and sheer terror. “You—you’re unhinged!" he accused, voice going slightly high-pitched.

"You made me this way!" you snapped back, shoving your way inside. He stumbled backward, eyes widening at you before—bam.

Your body crashed into his, sending him stumbling backward onto the bed. You followed without hesitation, climbing over him, straddling his waist, and pinning him beneath you with a force that had him momentarily stunned.

His body was solid beneath yours, colder than you expected due to the whole undead grim reaper thing. 

You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, his breathing steady but slightly uneven now, like he was processing what just happened.

For the first time, you saw something shift in his expression—not his usual smug amusement, not his lazy arrogance, but something else. Surprise and

Confusion.

His wine-red eyes flickered over your face, searching, calculating. “Well…” His voice was quieter now, almost thoughtful. “I can’t say I saw this coming.”

You leaned in, your face just inches from his, close enough to see the way his lips parted slightly, how his throat bobbed with a slow, almost instinctive swallow. “Good,” you murmured, your voice low, dangerous. “Then maybe, for once, you’ll shut up and listen.”

Casper blinked up at you, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, but his silence—for once—was enough.

“I’m sick and over with you haunting me,” you yelled, dripping with something almost cruel in its amusement. “You think you can just waltz into my life, make my every moment miserable, and I’m supposed to sit back and let you have my soul?” 

Casper wasn’t fully listening, like he could feel you—every inch of your body, barely covered by that frustratingly short towel, heat seeping through the thin fabric where it clung to your damp skin. It was a dangerous sight, teetering on the edge of revealing more than it should, and shit—why did a mortal have to be this pretty?

You tilted your head slightly, lips hovering just inches from his, teasing him with the ghost of a touch. “My soul isn’t for sale.”

His breath caught. His usual arrogance wavered, flickering into something less composed. For the first time, you had him unsure. His crimson eyes locked onto yours, and you could practically see the war raging behind them—frustration, fascination, something else he wouldn’t dare name.

“You make this so much harder than it needs to be,” he muttered, his voice laced with that same begrudging admiration, but there was something else, too—something red. His face, his ears, all betraying him as he took in the fire in your expression, the way you pressed against him, holding him down.

His breath hitched as you shifted, the pressure making his thoughts scatter.

“J-Just hand over your soul, and I-I’ll leave,” he stammered, but even he didn’t sound convinced anymore.

The stutter was so obvious; it was almost cute.

“No!” you shouted, your voice sharp with frustration, but that wasn’t even the worst part. The real problem? The unmistakable pressure beneath you. Shit. Right. 

You already knew.

A slow, wicked smile curled on your lips as realization settled in.

“You reap what you sow, Casper,” you whispered, your voice nothing but a slow, taunting caress against his skin. You felt the way his entire body tensed, his throat bobbing, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab you—to do something.

And then? He did move.

With a frustrated growl, he tried to shove you off, his hands gripping your hips, pushing at you in a way that was far too desperate, far too rigid. “G-Get off,” he snapped, his usual cocky arrogance cracking around the edges.

You didn’t budge. Instead, you pressed down just a little more, reveling in the way his breath hitched, the way his grip tightened just a little too much before he forced himself to let go.

“You’re really that eager to run now?” you murmured, tilting your head, watching the way his crimson eyes flickered between frustration and something he really didn’t want you to see.

“I’m not— I just—” His voice faltered, and that was enough to make you lean in closer, pressing your weight down just enough to make him shudder.

“You just what?” you teased, dragging the moment out, letting the heat between you thicken.

His fingers curled into fists, knuckles white. His lips parted, but whatever comeback he had died the second you moved against him, just barely, just enough to feel him really tense beneath you.

“Sh-Shut up,” he muttered, face turning a shade of red that had nothing to do with anger.

Oh, he was trying so hard to hold onto his composure. Trying so hard to shove you away without making it obvious why he needed you to move.

“And if you think I’m just going to hand over my soul…” You trailed off, letting the words dangle between you, thick with implication, like a loaded gun cocked and ready to fire.

Casper swallowed hard, his breath uneven, his self-control slipping—and for all the power he had, for all the ways he had haunted you, he was the one struggling now.

The tables had turned—now you wanted to see just how far you could push him. Because if he had spent all this time tormenting you, refusing to let you go…

Then surely, he must have realized by now—

You gonna haunted him right back.

You leaned down slowly, the space between you two shrinking, the anticipation thickening the air. Your breath mingled with his, a brief, almost electrifying moment before your lips finally met his in a kiss that was anything but gentle. 

It wasn’t soft—there was nothing delicate about it. 

Your lips pressed onto his with force, firm, almost demanding, as though you were claiming something that was yours to take. Casper’s body stiffened for a moment, caught off guard by the intensity, the possessiveness in your touch. You could feel his hesitation—his confusion. His breath hitched as you deepened the kiss, pressing yourself closer to him, your hand finding its way to his jaw, tilting his face to match the angle of yours.

His lips parted slightly under yours, and you took it as an invitation, pushing forward with more urgency, more need. His warmth was overwhelming, contrasting with the coldness of his existence. 

You felt him start to respond, slowly at first, tentative, like he was testing the waters. But the longer you kissed him, the more the tension between you snapped. He exhaled sharply, his fingers grazing the side of your neck as he finally gave in, his hand tangling in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss.

The shift was subtle, but you could feel it—the way he started to lean into you, his chest pressing against yours, his movements no longer hesitant but eager, almost desperate. 

It was a kiss that felt like something had broken between you two like a barrier had collapsed, and now there was only the fire between you. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that was unfamiliar, unexpected.

When the kiss finally broke, you both pulled back just enough to catch your breath, but neither of you fully separated. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed for a beat too long before slowly opening, still hazy, still lost in the aftermath of it all. 

You could feel his pulse under your fingertips, erratic, as if it wasn’t just his body reacting, but something deeper—something that couldn’t be ignored.

He didn’t say anything right away, the silence between you two heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. His voice, when it finally came, was low, almost a growl.

“W-Why did you do that…?” he asked, his words wrapped in uncertainty and desire as if he was finally understanding something about the mess between you two but still couldn’t quite make sense of it.

You didn’t answer.

Instead, your fingers lingered on his jaw, tracing the delicate curve of his face, feeling the soft, almost otherworldly smoothness of his skin under your touch. You watched him closely, the way his eyes fluttered shut as he tried to maintain his composure, his breath quickening the longer you stayed close. 

But it wasn’t just about that anymore—it wasn’t just about the arrogant, cocky Grim Reaper who had been haunting your thoughts for months. 

No, it was something far more complicated now.

You wanted him—all of him. 

Slowly, deliberately, you shifted, moving your lips from his to the delicate skin of his neck, your breath warm against him as you kissed the soft spot just below his jaw. The moment your lips made contact with his skin, you felt him tense, his body reacting to your touch in ways that made your pulse quicken. 

He let out a quiet gasp, his eyes snapping open as if he wasn’t expecting this. But you could feel it, the way his body betrayed him, how his pulse seemed to spike beneath your lips.

You couldn’t help but press closer, your lips moving along the smooth curve of his neck, slowly, teasingly. You felt him shiver under your touch, his breath hitching sharply. His skin was like silk, but it was warm, almost feverish beneath your lips. 

You traced the delicate line of his throat with your mouth, paying attention to the places that made him tremble, the faintest of whimpers escaping him. 

The deeper you kissed, the more you felt the tremor in his body, the way he couldn’t quite keep himself steady as your lips and teeth brushed against his sensitive skin.

And then, he couldn’t help it anymore—he let out a deep, strangled whine, a sound so raw, so desperate, it sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t the usual sharp, cocky tone he had when he spoke to you—it was something entirely different. His body arched onto yours, his breath coming in shallow gasps as if he was both resisting and wanting at the same time.

“W-What... what are you trying to do with me, mortal?” His voice was thick, almost breathless, the usual arrogance and bravado completely absent now. There was no defiance, no demand for power in his tone. Just confusion.

You paused for a brief second, but you continued your movements, pressing your lips further down his neck, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the heat of his skin against yours.

He whimpered again, louder this time, and the sound made something inside you stir—a dark satisfaction, a rush of power. He was so vulnerable under your touch, so... alive in a way you hadn’t anticipated. 

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes, but you kept your hand on his neck, feeling his pulse flutter under your fingertips. His eyes were wide, a mix of emotions swirling in them—confusion, want, fear. His breath was shallow, chest rising and falling erratically as if he wasn’t sure if he was even breathing properly anymore.

It wasn’t long before your kisses trailed down, slow and soft, your lips teasing a path along his now shirtless, impossibly pale chest. Damn, he really was ghostly white, but soft—way softer than someone who spent all their time being a cocky little shit should be. You couldn’t help yourself; you bit down lightly, just enough to make him jolt under you.

Casper let out this ridiculous, choked noise, half-whimper, half what the fuck was that?! and you grinned against his skin. Oh, this was going to be fun. “What—what are you—” he started, but you cut him off with another bite, right over his ribs this time. He actually squirmed beneath you, letting out the deepest whine you’d ever heard from him.

“Would you look at that,” you mused, pressing another kiss just below his collarbone, feeling his muscles tense under your lips. “The big, bad grim reaper’s ticklish.”

Casper’s eyes shot open, his whole face twisting between frustration and pure, unfiltered panic. “I am not—”

You kissed a little lower. He let out a soft gasp.

You snickered. “Ohhh, you so are.”

His hands twitched at his sides like he didn’t know if he should shove you away or pull you closer, and that alone made you even more entertained. 

Casper was losing his goddamn mind. You knew it. He knew it. Hell, even the goddamn shadows in the room probably knew it. And you? Oh, you were thriving.

See, for months now, this insufferable bastard had been haunting you—literally and figuratively. He followed you everywhere like a bad omen, made your life a constant, unending hell, toyed with your sanity like it was his favorite pastime, and worst of all?

He had the audacity to be hot while doing it.

You were fed up. You were horny. And since he was always around, lurking in your damn shadow, you never had a single moment alone to deal with it. No time to take the edge off. No privacy to just breathe without him hovering like he owned the air around you.

And if he was going to keep haunting you relentlessly, refusing to let you have a single second of peace? Because of that, you’d make sure he felt what it was like to be relentlessly pursued—to be hunted the way he had hunted you.

And judging by the way he was struggling beneath you, red-faced, flustered, trying so damn hard to pretend he wasn’t affected?

Oh, he was feeling it all right as your lips pressed slow, lazy kisses along his stomach, dragging out every moment just to watch him squirm. 

And oh, was he squirming. 

His fingers clenched the sheets so hard you thought they might rip. His breath hitched every time you so much as existed near him. His legs were tense, thighs trembling slightly like his entire undead body was screaming at him to do something. But he couldn’t.

Not with you looking down at him like that. Not with that smug little glint in your eye, knowing full well the power you held over him right now.

“Are you—” His voice cracked so hard you nearly laughed in his face. He swallowed, trying to gather what was left of his composure. “Are you actually trying to kill me right now? Because—because this feels like some kind of cruel revenge plot.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Me? Oh, Casper… why would I ever do something so cruel?”

Another kiss. Another sharp inhale. 

"You are,” he accused breathlessly, his crimson eyes burning into you. “You so are.”

You grinned. “Maybe I’m just trying to make you feel a little… haunted.”

His whole body shuddered. "That’s—That’s not funny."

“Oh, I think it’s hilarious.”

Casper groaned, tossing his head back against the pillow like he was physically suffering. “M-Mortal!” he sputtered, trying to sound authoritative but failing spectacularly. 

“You can’t just—You—You can’t have my soul!” 

Casper's breath hitched so hard you thought he might choke on it. His fingers curled tighter into the sheets, his entire body going stiff beneath you—frozen, like some helpless animal caught in the path of an oncoming storm.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing as you watched him squirm. “What do you mean, Casper?”

Your fingers ghosted over the waistband of his pants, playing with the button, teasing but never quite undoing it. His whole body twitched at the contact, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

“I-I mean…” he stammered, eyes darting anywhere but your face, ears tinged an adorable shade of pink. “My—My soul, mortal! That’s what I was talking about! Y-you can't have it! It's mine!”

You paused, blinking at him. And then it clicked.

Oh. Oh. Did he—? Had he been—? The realization hit you like a freight train, slamming full speed into your already frenzied brain. This whole time, when he'd been talking about souls, about taking yours, about you trying to take his… was he actually talking about—?

Honestly, you are a bit lost by his words… but you kept on the act! Your lips curled into a slow, wicked grin. “Oh, Casper…” you purred, pressing down just enough to make him gasp, your fingers still playing at his waistband.

“You’ve been talking about souls this whole time, and yet…” You sighed, “…it sounds like you’ve been asking for something else entirely.” 

His entire body jerked like you’d just electrocuted him. “I—I—” His voice cracked so hard you almost felt bad. Almost.

You pulled back slightly, tilting your head at him with mock concern. “Are you sure you meant your soul, Casper? Because…”

Your fingers gave the button of his pants the tiniest little tug. “…from the way you’re acting, it really seems like you meant something else.”

Casper wiggles beneath you then let out a strangled noise somewhere between a whimper and an offended squawk.

“M-MORTAL! I—THAT’S NOT—YOU’RE TWISTING MY WORDS!”

You laughed, soft and velvety, reveling in the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers dug into the sheets like they were the only thing tethering him to reality. His crimson eyes were wide, frantic, darting across your face as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist.

"Am I?" you murmured, letting the words drip from your lips like honey—sweet, slow, dangerous.

“Yes!” he blurted, but his voice wavered, cracking at the edges, betraying him in the most delicious way.

You tilted your head, fingers trailing ever so lightly down his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. His whole body was wound tight, like he was barely holding himself together. Like he didn’t trust himself to move.

“Then tell me,” you coaxed, your voice barely above a whisper, a soft, deliberate tease against the thick silence between you. “What is it, Casper?”

Nothing. No response. Just a tense, heavy pause. A second too long. A hesitation too thick.

And then—so quiet, so wrecked, like it had been dragged from the deepest part of him—

“…Because I think I want you as well, Mortal.”

Oh. Fuck. Like, deadass, that was kinda hot.

Your fingers stilled for just a second, then resumed their slow, torturous circles against his stomach, just barely skimming the skin. Featherlight. Just enough to tease. Just enough to torment.

“You don’t say,” you murmured, letting your nails graze lightly over his skin, watching the way his entire body twitched beneath you. “Such strong words, Casper.”

He sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, his back pressing deeper into the mattress as if he could somehow disappear into it—like it could save him from whatever this was.

But nothing was saving him now. Not from you. shit from me.

Not as the towel around you slipped, the fabric pooling onto the bed like a ghost of hesitation you no longer had.

You could feel the tension coiled in his body, every muscle taut beneath your touch, strung tight between restraint and ruin. His skin burned under your fingertips, feverish, as if he were caught in some exquisite purgatory—unsure whether to arch into your mouth or wrench himself away before he shattered completely.

“W-where will it be?” His voice was raw, stripped down to something fractured and wanting, each word a ragged breath torn from his chest.

You smiled—slow, deliberate, cruel in its sweetness—letting your lips ghost over the frantic pulse at his throat. 

“My tongue?” you murmured, the words dripping like honey, thick and syrupy with promise. You let them linger, let them sink into his skin, let him feel them. “Is that what you want, Casper? My wicked tongue on you?” His cock twitched against your lips, already glistening at the tip—pale, flushed, aching for you. You could see the pulse of his heartbeat in it, the way his entire body trembled with the effort of holding back.

A shudder wracked through him, violent and helpless. His fingers twisted in the sheets, white-knuckled, like a man clinging to the last fraying thread of his control. 

You exhaled, slow and warm, just to watch him squirm.

Then—finally—you pressed a single, lingering kiss to the head, tasting the salt-slick precome beading there. His hips jerked, a choked gasp tearing from his throat, but you held him down with one firm hand on his stomach, fingers splayed possessively over his trembling abdomen.

"Stay still."

A command, not a request.

You took him into your mouth with agonizing slowness, letting your tongue swirl lazily around the crown before sinking deeper, inch by torturous inch. His breath hitched, his fingers knotting in your hair—not pushing, just clinging, as if you were the only thing keeping him from drowning.

You hollowed your cheeks, dragging your lips up in a slow, filthy glide before plunging back down, savoring the way his thighs tensed, the way his stomach quivered under your palm. 

Every movement was deliberate, calculated to unravel him—the flick of your tongue along the underside, the teasing scrape of teeth, the way you pulled off just to watch him whimper before swallowing him down again.

His voice was shattered, raw with desperation. "F-fuck—please—"

You hummed around him, the vibration wringing a broken moan from his lips. His grip tightened in your hair, his hips lifting in tiny, involuntary thrusts, but you controlled the pace, keeping it slow, maddening, until every ragged breath he took was your name.

My god—how you loved this—loved the way he unraveled, the way his breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, the way his hips jerked instinctively toward your mouth, betraying him entirely.

You dragged your nails down the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, feather-light, just enough to make him jolt, to pull another broken sound from his lips. His entire body was a live wire, every nerve alight, every tremor yours to command.

When you finally felt him tense, his whole body bowing off the bed, you locked your eyes with his—holding his gaze as you took him deep, deeper, until his release spilled hot and bitter down your throat.

And even then, you didn’t let go.

You milked him through it, lips sealed tight until he was shaking, oversensitive, gasping your name like a prayer. Only then did you pull away, licking your lips with slow, deliberate satisfaction.  

"Good little reaper."  

The words dripped from your tongue like silk, and just as you watched the shiver roll through him, an idea slithered into your mind—dark, tempting, irresistible.  

Your smirk widened. “Oh… wait,” you purred, voice teasing, wicked. 

“Grimmy, I have a surprise for you.”

Casper swallowed hard, his crimson eyes flickering with something caught between intrigue and apprehension. His hands twitched where they gripped the sheets, like he couldn't decide if he should push you away or pull you closer.

You smirked, trailing your fingers lazily down his chest before slipping away entirely, stepping back just enough to let the anticipation thicken between you. Slowly, deliberately, you turned, making sure he caught the full, teasing sway of your movements as you sauntered over to your suitcase in the hallway.

His breathing was uneven. He was watching you, waiting, completely caught in your spell. "You've been keeping secrets from me, mortal?" he murmured, his voice rough, strained.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, fingers toying with the zipper of your bag. "Oh, I was saving this for myself," you admitted, drawing out each word like honey, "but now? I think I need it right now."

You unzipped the suitcase slowly—so slowly it was almost maddening. The faint rasp of the metal teeth parting filled the dimly lit room, a whisper of sound against the thick silence. Casper tensed.

His haunted lungs hitched.

"You know," you mused, lifting out the little package you had tucked away, letting the low lamp light catch on the edges, "if you're onto me, that means I'm onto you, too."

A confession. A threat. A promise.

Casper's grip on the sheets tightened. "What… What are you planning?"

You turned fully now, holding the item in your hands, watching as his eyes darkened, his throat bobbing with an anxious swallow.

And with a wicked smile, you took a slow step toward the bed.

"Why don’t you let me show you, little reaper?"

It wasn’t long before you watched him, the way his body betrays every flicker of need: the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the restless curl of his fingers into the sheets, the way his throat works as he swallows hard, waiting.

Your hands glide over him, slow and deliberate, fingertips tracing the dip of his spine, the curve of his hip, the softness of his inner thigh—just to hear his breath catch.

Then, with a quiet, knowing hum, you press against him from behind, your body flush against his, the heat of your skin searing through the space between you. 

The weight of your body against his back makes him shudder, and you smile, dragging your lips along the slope of his shoulder.

"Shh," you murmur, voice honey-thick, "I’ve got you."

Your fingers trail down the trembling plane of his thighs, circling the base of his cock with a teasing, featherlight touch. He shudders beneath you, breath hitching—already so close to unraveling, and you’ve barely begun.

You reach for your toy, covered in your slick, warmed between your thighs before you guide it to him, pressing in with a slow, relentless push—just enough to make his back arch, just enough to pull a low, his back arching as choked gasp spills from his lips.

"There you go," you croon, your free hand stroking him in time with each shallow thrust, your grip just tight enough to make his hips jerk. "Such a good little reaper, haunting me, trying to steal my soul." 

You click your tongue, amused. "But you’re the one who’s trapped now, aren’t you?" You pause, letting him feel every inch, letting him burn with it. 

“P-please ugh!” His fingers claw at the sheets, knuckles white, and you lean down, catching his earlobe between your teeth before whispering, "Tell me, Casper—do wraiths beg?"

Then your fingers find his, threading through them, palm to palm, your grip tight enough to ground him, to remind him—you’re here, you’re his, even as you take him apart.

And then you move.

A slow, deep roll from your hands, the drag of the toy inside him deliberate, maddening. His breath comes in ragged bursts, his fingers tightening around yours like a lifeline. 

You thrust deeper, your hand working him faster now, twisting just the way he likes, and his answer comes in a broken moan, his body tightening around the toy as pleasure coils hot and desperate in his gut.

"That’s it," you purr, your breath hot against his skin. "Let me see you come undone. Let me watch you forget you ever wanted to haunt anyone but me."

His hips stutter, his cock pulsing in your hand as he spills over your fingers with a ragged cry, his body clenching around the toy in helpless, shuddering waves.

"It’s where you and I be." You started

A confession. A threat. A promise.

Your free hand skates up his chest, mapping the flutter of his heartbeat, the hitch of his ribs as he gasps. You can feel the way his body clenches around the toy, the way he trembles beneath you, caught between surrender and desperate, clawing need.

“If I’m on to you…" you whisper, your breath hot against his skin, pulling back just enough to catch his gaze—God, those eyes—deep red and drowning, pupils blown, lashes fluttering like he’s already lost to the tide of you.

"...then you’re on to me." A sharp inhale. A fractured moan. His lips part, trembling—wordless, aching, yours.

Your pace shifts—still deep, still relentless, but rougher now, each thrust punching a ragged sound from his throat. His fingers cling to yours, his body arching into every movement, every stroke, every touch like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

And oh, the sounds he makes—soft whimpers, breathless pleas, the way his voice breaks when you angle just right—it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

"Me... on to you." Your voice is a velvet snare, wrapping around him like smoke—dark, intoxicating, inescapable.

Casper arches beneath you, his body strung tight, every muscle trembling as you drive into him with slow, merciless precision. His fingers claw at the sheets, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.

"P-please—" he chokes out, his voice wrecked, desperate. "Let me—fuck, I need—"

You tighten your grip on his hips, nails biting into his skin just enough to make him whimper. "Need what?" you purr, dragging your lips along the shell of his ear. "Say it."

He shudders, his cock twitching against his stomach, already slick with pre-come. "Need to come," he rasps. "Please—please—"

You slow your thrusts to a torturous grind, savoring the way his body clenches around you, greedy and aching. “Aww, and what do I get?" you murmur, your breath hot against his throat.

His answer comes in a rush, raw and unguarded—

"My soul. My fucking—everything—just yours, only yours—"

Your hips stutter at that, just for a second. His soul? A reaper offering up the one thing he shouldn’t—couldn’t—give away. Your fingers slide up his chest, pressing over the frantic beat of his heart. "Careful," you warn, your voice rough. “…You don’t know what you’re asking for."

"I do," he gasps, writhing beneath you.

"I want it—want you to own me, ruin me, fucking keep me—just—ah!—promise you won’t take it. Promise you’ll leave it in me... so I can always be yours."

Your breath catches. Fuck.

"I'm on to you," you growl, sinking your teeth into his shoulder as you snap your hips forward, hard enough to punch a broken cry from his lips. "And you’re on to me."

Then you finally—finally—let him come.

His whole body seizes, back bowing off the bed as he spills over your fist with a shattered moan, his release hot and slick between your fingers. You don’t stop, fucking him through it, dragging out every last spasm until he’s sobbing, oversensitive and shaking.

When he’s limp beneath you, breathless and dazed, you lean down, lips brushing his ear. "Next time you try to steal my soul," you murmur, "make sure it's someone mine."

A weak, breathless laugh escapes him. 

"Too late," he slurs, already half-gone. “I already have.”

You stare at him—really stare—before a slow, possessive smile curls into your mouth. “We’ll see…” you whisper, sealing the vow with a kiss pressed to his sweat-damp skin.

𝑒𝓍𝓉𝓇𝒶 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓌: heheheheheh 🤭

The next day, the studio was bathed in artificial light, soft flashes illuminating the minimalist set—a white backdrop, an expensive chaise, and the ever-irritated grim reaper standing awkwardly in the middle of it all. The entire team moved like clockwork around him, adjusting lights, fixing props, and directing him to pose.

But Casper?

Casper refused to sit down. Not once.

Not even when the photographer, sighed dramatically and gestured toward the antique chair, "All right, Casper, just take a seat and—"

"No."

The team collectively blinked. The photographer looked ready to throw his clipboard across the room.

“Casper, darling, please,” the director whined, exasperated, “I promise it won’t kill you—”

Casper shot the man a look so venomous that it could have rotted a bouquet of flowers on the spot. Still, he did not sit.

Instead, he remained standing, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, the weight never settling. Every so often, his fingers twitched, like he was debating if it was worth committing homicide in front of an audience.

And you?

You were having the time of your life.

It was everything you could do not to burst into laughter as you lounged off to the side, sipping on an overpriced iced tea like you weren’t the reason for his predicament. “Casper, oh my, are you okay?” your boss finally asked, tilting her head, eyes narrowing slightly at the his suspicious behavior.

Casper tensed. His glare flickered toward you, burning and accusing, as if daring you to say something.

You met his gaze head-on. 

Then, with all the innocence of a saint, you shrugged.

“Beats me,” you mused, sipping your drink, barely holding back a smirk.

Casper's fingers twitched violently.

You were the reason he couldn’t sit. You. 

The reason he stood like he had a permanent problem. The reason he looked like he was seriously reconsidering his entire existence.

Casper exhaled sharply, silently cursing your entire bloodline, before begrudgingly suffering through the rest of the shoot. By the time it wrapped up, he was the first to disappear, slipping away the moment the cameras stopped flashing.  

You found him soon after, tucked away at the back of the dressing room. The space was lined with racks of designer clothes, mirrors catching glimpses of his reflection at every angle—but despite all that, your attention never wavered.  

The only thing that mattered was him.

Casper sat near the vanity, arms crossed, eyes still smoldering from earlier.

You, on the other hand, were having fun. While the others took their break, you stayed behind, deciding it would be an excellent opportunity to mess with him further.

And somehow, that led to you dressing him for another shoot.

“Why am I letting you do this?” he grumbled as you straightened his collar, adjusting the fit of the sleek black suit you had thrown onto him. 

“Because you have no choice,” you mused, hands lingering just a little longer than necessary, smoothing the fabric over his chest. “And because, deep down, you love it.”

Casper scoffed. “I loathe it.”

"Aww, you hurt because I fucked you with my dildo, right?" Your voice dripped with mock sympathy, babying him, laced with the kind of teasing cruelty that made his spine stiffen. You dragged a finger down the sweat-slick plane of his back, feeling the way his muscles tensed under your touch. "Poor Grimmy. So ruined by me."

Casper’s breath hitched, his fingers digging into his clothing like he was trying to tear them apart. "Shut up," he growled, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him, a face fully red.

You laughed, low and wicked, "And here I though you loved it," you purred, relishing the way his body shuddered beneath you. "You fucking nutted everywhere... like some desperate little thing."

His reaction was instant—a sharp inhale, a flash of crimson in his darkened gaze as he twisted to glare at you. 

"You said you wouldn’t say that out loud!”

"Did I?" You blinked, all false innocence, before grinning like the devil you were. "Oops."

His fingers twitched. Then again. Closer. Tighter. Oh?

You watched, amused, as his control frayed at the edges, his jaw clenched so tight you could almost hear his teeth grinding. For a second, you wondered if he’d actually do it—if those long, pale fingers would finally snap around your throat in retaliation.

And then—

He moved.

Casper had you pinned against the wall, his body caging you in, his eyes burning like hellfire. "This ends tonight," he snarled, gripping your chin hard enough to bruise, forcing your gaze up to his.

"I’m taking your soul, mortal."

You blinked. Then—you smiled.

"Oh, Grimmy..."

Before he could react, you struck.

A twist of your wrist, a shift of your weight, and suddenly he was the one pressed against the wall, your body flush against his, your knee sliding between his thighs just to hear the way his breath stuttered.

The dim light carved shadows across his face, highlighting the way his lips parted—in shock, in fury, in something far more dangerous. His chest rose and fell beneath your palm, his heartbeat a frantic, uneven rhythm against your fingertips.

You leaned in, close enough that your lips brushed his as you spoke.

"You can’t take my soul, Casper."

"Because I already took yours."

His breath stopped. For a single, suspended moment, the world held still. His crimson eyes widened, his body rigid against yours, his mind scrambling to process the words—to deny them. "You—" His voice was rough, raw, ruined.

You pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him with a smirk.

"Shhh," you cooed, tilting your head like he was some misbehaving little pet. “I mean you gave it to me, willing in fact.”

He jerked his face away, his jaw clenched tight, but you didn’t miss the way his pulse jumped beneath your touch. "U-Uh I mean—Like, How?" he demanded, voice low, trembling with something between fury and fascination. "You're a mortal, a human—"

You tsked, tracing a slow, deliberate path down his throat, feeling the way his Adam’s apple bobbed under your fingertips.

"Now, now," you murmured, your smile all teeth. "A person like me never reveals their secrets."

His entire body shuddered, his control unraveling thread by thread, his fingers flexing like he didn’t know whether to push you away or drag you closer.

Fuck, he was beautiful like this.

The so-called Grim Reaper, known to be the terror of the underworld—reduced to this. To being yours.

You leaned in, your lips a breath away from his, your voice a whisper.

"You should be thanking me," you murmured, your hand sliding lower, teasing, taunting. "Not every reaper gets the privilege of being claimed."

His breath hitched, rough as a serrated edge. "Claimed—?"

"Mhm." Your lips brushed his jaw, slow, deliberate, savoring his pulse beneath your mouth. "The underworld gifted me something special..." Your fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his pants, smirking as his hips jerked, and his teeth gritted against a moan.

"A little grim reaper to keep all for myself."

And then—his control shattered.

With a snarl, he grabbed your wrists, slamming you back against the wall. His body pinned yours, every hard line of him a brand, a conquest, a promise. His eyes burned like hellfire, lips parted around ragged breaths, chest heaving with the weight of something feral, something hungry.

And then he kissed you. 

His mouth crashed against yours, such as teeth and tongue, and desperate. You gasped, and he swallowed the sound like a sinner taking communion, his grip on your wrists tightening to the brink of pain. 

There was like no gentleness here, no hesitation—like damnnn you really dragged out of him.

You laughed into his mouth, "I know if I'm haunting you…" You pulled back just enough to watch his lashes flutter, to see the way his lips chased yours, already addicted. Your breath mingled, hot, and shared, the space between you thick with the scent of sweat and sin.

And as his groan vibrated against your lips, as his hands slid from your wrists to your waist, dragging you impossibly closer. Then, with a smirk, you kissed him again—slow this time, deliberate, a velvet stroke of the tongue that had him shuddering...

"…You must be haunting me."

[mcyt-halloween]

Welcome to a RETURNING mcytbIr event!

Hello! Do you love secret Santas and love Halloween? Well, then this is the event for you. I recommend following this blog for updates!

This event is open to all mcyt groups: DSMP, Hermitcraft, QSMP, anything!

YOU CAN SIGN UP HERE!! more information will be under the cut!

Rules:

• DMS OPEN (check if you can DM me from one of your blogs, if you can’t, then you CANNOT participate)

• Follow the dates below

• @ your recipient, this blog, and tag #mcythalloween2024 when you post your gift according to the dates. • If you are posting a fic, please tag it as #mcythalloween2024 (among your other tags!). It will be added into a collection!

• Nothing NSFW

Dates:

• September 23, Form submissions close

• September 30st, All recipient's submissions go out to their givers

• October 27th, Posting gifts opens

• October 31st, Deadline for posting (if you have not received your gift by then, please contact me)

Gift options:

• Drawing (Finished)

• Writing (1k+)

• Stimboard/moodboard (2+ sets)

• Web weaving (10+ images)

• Playlist (1+ hour)

If at any point, you think you may not be able to complete your assignment on time, please contact me so I can find a gifter to replace you asap. DM me if there are ANY issues at all.

SIGN UP HERE!!

[glowettee]

healing from academic perfectionism

by mindy @glowettee

let's talk about something that affects sooo many of us in school - the exhausting cycle of perfectionism. here's how to actually work through it while maintaining your academic success 🤍

understanding your perfectionism type:

the all-or-nothing scholar

signs: abandoning tasks that aren't perfect

impact: incomplete assignments pile up

solution: create "good enough" standards for each task

practice: deliberately submit b+ work sometimes

reflection: track how "imperfect" work still succeeds

the endless editor

signs: revising until exhaustion

impact: never feeling finished

solution: set concrete editing limits

practice: use time boundaries for revisions

reflection: note when extra editing didn't change grades

the preparation procrastinator

signs: over-preparing but never starting

impact: delayed work and missed deadlines

solution: create starting rituals

practice: begin with imperfect outlines

reflection: document when "unprepared" work succeeded

practical steps for recovery:

(don't mind the formatting <3)

grade requirement analysis

calculate minimum grades needed

identify where perfection isn't necessary

create realistic grade goals

develop subject-specific standards

track effort vs. grade correlation

time management reality

set maximum study times

include mandatory breaks

create firm stopping points

establish "good enough" timeframes

practice leaving work unfinished

submission strategies

develop personal rubrics

create completion checklists

establish revision limits

set realistic quality standards

practice timely submission

perfection pressure release

identify trigger assignments

create comfort with b+ work

develop release statements

practice "done is better than perfect"

celebrate imperfect submissions

sustainable study practices

implement 80/20 rule

create efficiency metrics

develop quality guidelines

establish effort limits

maintain energy balance

daily implementation:

morning:

set realistic daily goals

identify perfection triggers

establish time boundaries

create completion criteria

prepare acceptance statements

during work:

use timer limits

implement stopping points

practice leaving rough drafts

accept good enough

maintain progress over perfection

evening:

evaluate effort balance

celebrate task completion

acknowledge progress

release perfectionist thoughts

plan next day's boundaries

practical exercises:

the b+ experiment

choose one assignment monthly

deliberately aim for b+ quality

track actual vs. expected grades

note emotional responses

document learning outcomes

time boundary practice

set firm time limits

stop when timer ends

submit work as is

track grade results

build trust in efficiency

imperfection tolerance

start assignments roughly

resist immediate editing

maintain forward momentum

accept messy progress

focus on completion

measuring progress:

keep a recovery tracker:

time spent on assignments

stress levels during work

grade outcomes

emotional responses

energy preservation

weekly check-in questions:

did i maintain reasonable hours?

where did i release perfectionism?

how did i handle imperfect work?

what boundaries did i maintain?

where can i ease standards?

tip: you can maintain excellent grades without sacrificing your wellbeing to perfectionism 🤍

xo mindy

p.s. your worth as a student isn't measured by perfect scores, but by your growth and learning.

[heegyukeluv]

love-battery (lhs) - req

pairing: heeseung x afab!reader

synopsis: Heeseung always would make you feel recharged just by being around. And you did the same to him.

my's note: hi hello here's a very fluff cute little thing! it's a request (thank you for requesting <3), so i hope you like it!!!! (have to say that when i chose the name of this fic, the jinyoung's song with similar name started to play on my head non-stop help)

warnings: skinship, established relationship, fluff, pet names, explicit language (i can't help myself. i'll always use at least one 'fuck' lol).

request: clingy gf with heeseung and it’s super cute and they’re in love, she really just misses him (here!)

wc: 3k

NOT PROOFREAD.

Even with your boyfriend’s tight schedule and the fact you both lived quite far from each other, you and Heeseung always managed ways to meet up and hang out for at least an hour or so – enough to work as a full recharge for Heeseung.

However, for the last whole month you only saw Heeseung three times. You were used to seeing him almost every day, either by going to his and staying for a bit or he coming to yours for the same reason, and it was pissing you off how annoying adult life was being so far, unabling you to do your daily basis chores, let alone drive to Heeseung’s studio to be with him.

Heeseung normally had a tough routine as a producer by spending long hours in his studio, staying up all night working on his music and constantly dealing with tight deadlines. Your favorite hobby was to grab a coffee and some snacks to surprise him by showing up unexpectedly; and of course, to sit on his lap while he kept doing his things. 

But now you were the one fighting against time, as you had to deal with your last year in college, struggling with your final project and with your respective project partners – who would have thought that working with people would lead you to be that stressed, huh?

Your life was a total mess at this point, your sleep schedule chaotic, your body aching, begging for a pause to get some proper rest, but you really couldn’t give yourself that luxury; all the submission dates getting closer and closer making you go crazy in desperation.

And on top of that, you haven’t seen your boyfriend, the main source of your happiness, in almost two weeks.

“This is so frustrating, Hee,” you said with a realistic sad tone, when you decided to ignore the blank page on your laptop waiting for a new plot to pop up in your mind, and give your love life a little more attention, calling Heeseung. “It’s almost like the world doesn't want us to be together.”

“Don’t say such things, my love. Not even as kidding,” he interrupted you to say with a gentle voice. “We’re going to figure out something, yeah?”

“I’m sorry, Hee. But– I’m dealing with a bunch of stupid assignments with stupid deadlines in this stupid degree I chose, and you’ve told me early this week that you were pretty chill with your work. But I didn’t even have time to invite you over the days you said you’re free! Not to mention that if you were here I’d be paying more attention to you and getting fucked with my project.”

“Y/N–”

“And when I’m free you’re the one swamped with work! And, please, I’m not blaming you, babe, please don’t take it the wrong way. I love you and I love that you can work with the thing you’re passionate about. I’m just… Frustrated,” you unloaded with a long sigh, voice trembling a bit since your feelings were, also, a mess and your heart aching. “And I miss you so much. I wish we lived a bit closer, so we could meet more often in moments like this.”

You heard Heeseung soft breathing through the phone. He decided to let you vent instead of cutting you off, because he, more than anyone, knew how overwhelmed you felt whenever you had to deal with submission dates and projects. It was your third project in your whole degree, this one being the most important one, and Heeseung saw you in shambles during your working time in the smaller ones, fully understanding how hard it has been with this final one.

“I’m sorry you’re having to go through all of this, pretty girl,” you could feel the comfort in his tender, sweet tone. You wiped out a single tear that tried to escape your eyes, curving yourself into a little ball on your couch. “But you don’t have to do this alone, my love,” you heard a weird noise through his phone, very similar to a door unlocking. Your door unlocking. You frowned. “Don’t freak out, bae. I’m entering your apartment right now.”

Your heart dropped in your chest. “What?” You whispered in disbelief, your phone falling off from your hand, your eyes widening as you watched your boyfriend walk through the front door, smiling big and bright at you.

His dark red hair was attractively messy because of the motorcycle helmet. He also carried a big backpack on his back and a plastic bag with the logo of your favorite food place.

“You’re kidding me,” your voice was barely a whisper at this point, your lips curving into a smile that grew bigger and bigger, still finding it hard to believe that the man talking to you on your phone was now in front of you. Your beloved boyfriend was now in front of you. “Lee fucking Heeseung!” You almost squealed, walking in his direction right after he put his helmet and his backpack on the ground, to jump on his open arms which were waiting to embrace you in a tight hug.

Your legs instantly wrapped around his waist and your arms on his shoulders, his firm hands gripping on your thighs to hold you close and steady as you buried your face on his neck, inhaling his scent as if it was your favorite drug. You heard Heeseung chuckling at your reaction and you finally noticed how fast your heart was beating, everything feeling unreal. All the frustration you felt waving off your body quickly.

“Hi, baby,” Heeseung said in an affectionate way, with you still hidden on the curve of his neck, making him let out a small laugh at your adorableness. He missed you so much.

Your fingers tangled in his soft hair, pulling him into yourself as if you could become one before you started to kiss every piece of his exposed skin, from his jawline to close to his ear, to his cheek, the tip of his nose and finally his glistening, dreamy lips.

Heeseung let out a contented sigh when he felt your sweet taste, walking carefully through the living room so he could sit on the couch with you on his lap, the contact never breaking. He deepened the kiss by slightly brushing his tongue on your bottom lip, electricity running all over his body once you let him in to feel him closer, so intimately; his hands sneaked into your shirt, caressing the bare skin of your waist just because he needed to touch, to feel you more.

“I missed you so much, my love,” you whispered when you parted away to catch your breath, pecking his lip countless times as you said “Missed. You. So. Much. Oh. My. God,” and the last one lasted a bit longer, making Heeseung giggle and kiss you properly one more time. 

“I missed you too, pretty.”

Heeseung was looking at you with so much love, his eyes sparkling in joy for finally having you that close, touching, kissing you. He caressed your cheek while his gaze wandered all your face features, as if he was trying to memorize every one of them, completely endeared by your beauty.

Heeseung looked at you as if he just discovered what love is. 

You weren’t different, though. Your soft touch on his strands of hair, scratching slightly as your contemplated every piece of your very good-looking boyfriend, not holding yourself when your fingers started gently to trace his face; his big deer eyes now turned into little crescents, his pretty nose that you loved to kiss, the little charming mole on his forehead, and his so, so attractive lips adorning the most beautiful smile you ever had the chance to see. You were so in love.

Heeseung felt like he could stare at you all day and he would never feel tired, actually to have you close always worked as a battery recharge. And for you, Heeseung did the same, making all your bad feelings wash away easily because you had him, and you knew you could rely on him.

Ironically, the sound of your laptop on the coffee table indicating that its battery was running out, pulled you both out of your little love bubble, startling you slightly. The reality check hit you with full force, and the bottom of your stomach sank immediately.

You gulped, looking at Heeseung with a hint of sadness before you sighed and said, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m super happy you’re here, but I–”

“You have things to do, I know,” Heeseung cut you off mid-sentence. His kind voice, the small peck on your cheek, and his cute smile making you shiver and melt. “But don’t worry about me, okay? You do your things, I’ll be around for whenever you finish, and then we can cuddle,” he said simply, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“You’re staying?” You questioned with eyes sparkling in confusion. “I don’t want you to mess up your sche–”

Heeseung now stopped your talking with a sweet kiss, and then another, and another, and one more just in case. “I’m staying, baby,” he chuckled at your tilted head, expressing that you were very much confused. “As I said before, I’m pretty chill this week,” he explained with a warm smile, mirroring yours. “Anything I have to do, I can do from my computer or phone, so I’m all yours this weekend, my love.”

Heeseung fell even deeply for you when he saw your eyes shining like you received the best news of your life. And for you, you actually did. To have your boyfriend for a whole weekend after days without being able to see each other, you truly thought you were dreaming. 

So to have Heeseung feeding you while your hands worked on your writing was definitely something that you hadn’t planned for your friday. He was openly giving his opinion as well after you cutely asked him to, paying attention to every detail you shared with him about the plot you were working on. 

“So your idea is that after he leaves the house, you give an extra zoom on the door knob because someone is going to open, even though the house is supposed to be empty?”

“Yes! And then it’s revealed to be actually his ‘dead’ twin!” You explained excitedly, noticing Heeseung gazing very passionately at you. You blushed, feeling suddenly too aware, because your story now has been read by someone other than you. “I– I know it’s kinda simple and boring, but I mean– I got the approval to keep working on it, so…” You shrugged, trying to act cool, but your pout was showing how insecure you actually felt.

“It’s not simple or anything bad, my love,” Heeseung couldn’t resist the urge of kissing your small pout as he reassured you. “It’s impressive how your creative mind works, I’m really proud,” he said with his voice filled with sincerity.

You gave him a shy smile before going back to writing, heart beating fast with his genuine words.

Heeseung never left your side. You needed him around you every single second, not only to compensate for the days you were apart, but because Heeseung was really your source of energy. So to write on your computer while having his fingers intertwined with yours became a natural activity during the moments you were working on your project. You could feel Heeseung’s love stare at your face during those moments, completely in love by your focused expression. 

Sometimes he would leave your touch to reply to some of his co-workers on his phone, giving them the attention they needed, but in the meantime his head would be resting on your shoulder, completely addicted to your touch and to having you close – his hair tickling your neck making you lose focus for a few minutes.  

You both wanted and needed each other with the same intensity. Heeseung always loved your clinginess, emphasizing how lovable you looked with your pouty face whenever he had to leave the bed to go to the bathroom or grab some food in the kitchen and “leave you to die alone”, like you normally would say in a very dramatic way. Especially because he himself was pretty clingy too, holding you in a tight back hug whenever you had to go back home after visiting him at his studio, refusing to let you leave his side.

To move in together was a big dream. However Heeseung always talked with you about finishing your studies first before committing your relationship on that instance, so you could have your freedom without him disrupting your focus; he also knew that he wasn’t ready to have you so close for that long, afraid of scaring you off by how much he would be around you, maybe losing his own concentration on his work. 

And this behavior was being shown at that moment, by you doing the lunch and him hugging you from behind.

“I have to be honest, I don’t really see this as ‘helping’, Hee,” you said with a playful chuckle, not really bothered by his big hands resting on your hips as well as his chin on your shoulder while you did all the work. He was clinging like a koala, making it challenging to move around the kitchen.

“What do you mean? I’m clearly helping you,” he said with a babyish voice, making you giggle. You could tell he was pouting too. “What if you get hurt? I have to be close, y’know? To save you from danger.”

You laughed hard, throwing your head behind and profusely resting it on his chest. “The danger?”

“Yeah, the knife and fire and stuff…” He explained like it was obvious.

You turned down the heat on the stove, moving away from it so you could face your boyfriend, just to meet his big, adorable eyes looking at you with a dramatically pleading expression. “You’re right,” you said softly, cupping his cheeks and planting a kiss on his lips. “Thank you for protecting me from the dangers of my kitchen,” you added a hint of sarcasm to your very affectionate tone, without holding your smile when he nodded proudly, before pulling you closer to kiss you properly as now your self-proclaimed hero. 

After you finished cooking – with Heeseung’s help, of course –, you both shared the meal, doing constant “love shots” but with your food, just so you could feel each other’s touch.

Heeseung didn’t let you go back to work on your project when you finished eating, saying you needed a bit of resting time with him. And how could you oppose such truthful words? 

So you spend quite a long time of your Saturday afternoon embraced in Heeseung’s arms and scent all over you, making it difficult to choose anything different from being on the bed cuddling him. 

After changing positions many times, you now were on top of Heeseung, face buried on his neck while he hummed some random song, hands gently caressing your back and scalp, making you wonder if taking a quick nap at that moment would mess up too much with your project work.

As if a sense of responsibility hit you, remembering all your deadlines and especially that you had to finish at least the plot writing by Monday – in two days –, you forced yourself to try to move away. Your body refused, though.

“I should go,” you said, muffed into his skin.

“Yeah, you should…” Heeseung added, not moving an inch to help you with that. In fact, he held you closer. Your warm body against his own helping him to relax. 

“Like, reeeally gotta go…” You didn’t move as well, trailing kisses all over his neck as you refused to get up.

“Definitely you do…” His voice was a bit raspy in a sweet, tender way that made it even harder for you to leave. He was about to fall asleep.

You sighed, “I missed being like this with you.” You lifted your head just enough to see his serene expression; eyes closed, lips slightly parted and a calm breathing. You almost cried with the fact that you truly needed to go back to your life instead of staying there with Heeseung. 

Your hands caressed his face with all the care in the world, making him open his eyes, “I missed it too, pretty. I miss you every moment I’m without you, actually.”

You noticed a soft flush  on Heeseung cheeks and giggled at the sight of your ‘so cool’ boyfriend blushing in front of you. 

You always appreciated how Heeseung was not only a good listener to your worries and maybe overwhelming thoughts, but also unafraid to show you his most sensitive and vulnerable side in order to make you comfortable on doing the same. You cherished his presence in your life with all you had, not being scared of loving him so openly, because he did the same for you. 

“I love you,” you whispered, leaning in to tease a kiss. He smiled against your lips, closing his eyes again.

“I love you too, my love,” he murmured, mirroring your tone and capturing your bottom lip with his own, to pull you near and finally kiss you. 

You decided to stay for a bit longer, because Heeseung’s hands roaming your body with such care and tenderness, his sweet mouth working on yours, and his loving whispers against your skin were too irresistible.

The best excuse you found for yourself was that you were revitalizing so you could work better, your creativity would flow easily and you would finish it in no time.

And, well, he would be around you anyway, because he just couldn’t never get enough of your pretty face, or your joyful presence, or your addicting warm touches.

After all, Heeseung always worked as a recharger to your love battery, and for him, you were no different.

[mcyt-valentines]

MCYT Valentines is BACK!!!

Welcome!! Are you a fan of secret santas? Been looking for something to do this February? Well, this is the place for you!!

All MCYT groups are welcome; Life Series, Dream SMP, Lifesteal, QSMP, etc !!!

You can sign up by here, check under for more information!!

Rules:

Please keep your DMs open!! We can't contact you otherwise

Follow the dates below!!

Tag your recipient, this blog, and use the #mcyt-valentines when posting!!

No NSFW content

Dates:

February 6th, Form submissions close

February 9th, Assignments delivered

February 23rd, Posting gifts open!!

February 27th, Deadline for posting; please contact me if you haven't received your gift by then!!

Types of gifts:

Drawing (Finished)

Writing (1k+)

Stimboard/Moodboard (2+ Sets)

Web weaving (10+ images)

Playlist (1+ Hour)

Fake candy cards (4+ images)

If you don't think you'll be able to finish your gift on time, contact me immediately so I can set up a pinch hitter. DM me if there's any issues at all!!

[roosterforme]

How You Play the Game Part 1 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: When Bradley wins a box seat ticket for the first game of the World Series final, he doesn't think his day could get any better. But when he's given a seat in the press box by mistake, he meets a gorgeous sports writer from New York. And he has one of the best nights of his life.

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, and smut (18+)

Length: 6300 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x female reader

Check out my masterlist for more! How You Play the Game masterlist. Banner by @thedroneranger

Bradley was half asleep, sipping on his coffee while he drove to North Island from his house in the soft pre dawn light. He really hated these early training days that started at six o'clock and didn't end until after dinnertime. He'd be in the air all day, and then he'd probably be too tired to stay awake to watch game one of the World Series. 

Everyone on base was excited that the Padres were playing the Angels. A Southern California showdown for the ages. Tickets to game one in San Diego were selling for almost a thousand dollars per seat, but the sports radio host Bradley was listening to was giving them away.

Bradley yawned as the host asked, "Who was the first major league baseball player to pitch a ball over 100 miles per hour?"

"That's easy," Bradley mumbled. "Nolan Ryan." And then he realized that it was 5:30 in the morning and perhaps nobody else who was listening knew that fact. "Huh," he grunted, reaching for his phone at a red light. He dialed the number and was shocked when he got through to the host. 

"Good morning, caller! What's your name? Where are you from?"

"I'm Bradley. From Coronado."

"Do you have an answer for me, Bradley? Which major league player was the first to pitch over 100 miles per hour?"

"That would be Nolan Ryan."

"You sound confident in your baseball knowledge," the host replied. "Double or nothing? I'll upgrade your ticket to a seat in a box suite if you can tell me which team Ryan was pitching against."

Bradley smiled to himself as he pictured the boxes of his dad's old baseball cards that he still had in his garage. "He was pitching against the Chicago White Sox."

And just like that, Bradley was the proud owner of a suite ticket for game one of the World Series at Petco Park later that night. 

---------------------------

Your flight from New York to San Diego had been delayed so many times, you were a little surprised you managed to get to your hotel in your rental car and then make it to the game on time. At least you'd been able to start writing your article on the flight. Unless the game went into extra innings, you should be able to finish by your midnight deadline. Because if there was one thing the New York Times didn't mess around with, it was the hard cutoff for your submissions. 

As you made your way to the media entrance at Petco Park, you pulled out your lanyard with your credentials and looped it around your neck. As soon as someone learned that you were a sports writer for the most prestigious newspaper in the country, they were either impressed or they did a double take. You were a freshly thirty year old female with a ten year career in sports journalism, and you didn't take shit from any guys about it. 

In fact, you loved it when men tried to one up you. Because they never could. You knew more than they did about sports, you were an amazing writer, and you found pleasure in shutting them down. Preferably in front of their friends. And then they would inevitably try to ask you out. And you would shut that down, too. It was a game that you were very good at now. 

As you were scanned into the ballpark by a security officer, you quickly made your way up to your assigned press box. You expected the heavy hitters to be there. And of course you'd be the youngest, and probably one of just a few women in attendance. As you climbed the narrow stairs and swiped your badge one last time, you opened the door and strolled past a table filled with food and drinks. And then you saw them: Carl from ESPN, Jack from The Chicago Tribune, Harold from the Los Angeles Times, and Quincy from the Philadelphia Inquirer. You would keep your guard up, because it was just a matter of time before one of them made some sort of comment about your ability to do your job. 

The room was already filling up as you claimed a spot on one of the narrow counters where you could set up your computer and get to work. You removed your lanyard and tossed it next to your stuff, and then you waved to Raya from MSN Sports, the only other female in the room. When you turned to grab a drink and some food, you noticed the flash of a handsome face and a mustache. And then you stifled a scream as you saw and felt a plastic cup of cold beer meet your chest before soaking the front of you completely. 

"Oh, fuck!" came the deep, raspy voice of the most handsome man you could remember seeing in recent history as he stared at your chest. You supposed it was a fair trade, because you couldn't look away from his face no matter what you did. He was hot; all tan skin, brown eyes, and wavy, brown hair. And the blush that crept in and colored his cheeks made him look boyish as he glanced up to meet your eyes. "I'm so sorry!"

When he swallowed hard, and his eyes drifted down to your chest again, you looked down as well. Great. Your light blue lace bra was plainly visible through your white blouse, and the beer was even dripping onto your jeans and your new, white Chucks. 

You just shook your head and shrugged. "It's okay. Shit happens. But why did you bring a beer in here?" you asked. But he still looked so embarrassed and flustered, you decided to mess with him. "Who do you write for? I'll send them my laundry bill."

"Write?" he asked, and yep, that was confirmation that he had the sexiest voice you had ever heard. 

"Yeah," you said, feeling a little flustered yourself as you reached for some napkins to dab your shirt dry. "Tampa Bay Times? Boston Globe? Oh Lord, don't tell me you're from Barstool Sports. I don't recognize you, and I'm pretty sure I'd remember you." That was a lie; you would definitely have remembered him.

"No," he said, watching your every move. "I don't write."

You laughed as his gaze flicked up from your chest to your eyes when you looked up at him. "That explains the alcohol, then. But why are you in the press box? Did you get lost up here?"

He smirked at that. "No. I won a radio contest and got a seat in a box suite. But somehow my ticket got mixed up, and they sent me a media pass instead."

"Really?" you asked, eyeing him up and down now. "I had to pay for a four year journalism degree for my media pass, and you're going to tell me I could have just listened to the radio?"

His laugh was infectious and his smile made you a little giddy as he held out his hand to you. "I'm Bradley. I don't think I could manage to write an article about sports, even if I was getting paid to do it. You must be very talented." You preened a bit at his words as you shook his hand. "And I'm really sorry about the beer," he added, gesturing to your shirt. "I'd offer to get you a drink or dinner, but the food in here is free, and you're actually working. So, I'll just stand here like an idiot and keep shaking your hand and apologizing until you tell me your name and tell me to stop. I'm really sorry about your shirt." He was still shaking your hand, and now you couldn't stop smiling.

You told him your first name and then you said, "You can stop shaking my hand now, Bradley." 

"Let me grab you some water?" he asked, and when you nodded, he turned toward the bar in the far corner. And you took in his tall frame, broad shoulders and massive biceps which were highlighted by his Padres shirt. 

"Oh no," you whispered to yourself, still mindlessly dabbing your wet blouse with some napkins.

--------------------------

Bradley turned toward you with two water bottles, and thankfully this time he managed to keep the drinks in his hands. You were so fucking cute, and your wet shirt was doing crazy things to him. He couldn't stop smiling, and when you looked up at him and cautiously accepted your drink, you were smiling too. 

"Thanks for not drenching me again," you said, tapping your drink to his. And then Bradley heard an older guy call your name, and you turned in his direction. 

"Nice shirt," he shouted so everyone was suddenly looking your way. "That how you plan on getting an exclusive with one of the players? Sex sells now? I thought this was about the game."

Bradley was appalled that another journalist was talking to you like that, but before he could say that your wet shirt was actually his fault, you were shouting back at the guy.

"Harold, you couldn't even drag your sorry, old ass down to the field fast enough to get an exclusive with the mascot. I don't know how you're not retired or dead yet. Didn't you cover the 1922 World Series?"

Bradley watched Harold purse his lips at you before he turned away and took a seat. And when Bradley glanced down at you as you sipped your water, you looked completely unfazed. And he was ridiculously turned on.

"Damn, nobody should be messing with you," he said, thoroughly impressed. "You're an Ace."

You just rolled your eyes, but you looked very pleased by his words. He already knew he wanted to talk to you all night, but now you were setting your drink down next to your computer and opening it as you sat. "This is a boys club. Just a dick measuring contest. I can't let up for a second or I'll get steamrolled."

Bradley let his eyes dip down to your damp shirt as he asked, "I don't want to commit another beer related crime. You seem to know how this press box stuff works. Mind if I sit with you?"

"Not at all," you told him as you licked your lips. "As long as you don't spill anything else on me."

Bradley eased himself down on the stool next to yours, and his knee brushed your thigh. He watched you filling out a baseball stat sheet while you opened up a document on your computer. 

"So what was the trivia question?" you asked as you sipped your water again.

"Trivia question?" he murmured, watching your lips wrap around the rim of the bottle before you took a drink. 

"Yeah, isn't that how you won the pass? For the box seat? Even though you're slumming it with the journalists now?"

"I wouldn't call this slumming it," he said, eyeing your pretty face. "But yeah, they asked who was the first pitcher to throw a ball over 100 miles per hour."

"Oh. Nolan Ryan. Angels versus the White Sox. Nice," you said as you smiled at him. Fuck. You liked sports. You wrote about sports. You were gorgeous, and you knew more about sports than he did. Bradley let his mind drift to peeling off your damp, white shirt and licking the taste of beer off your chest while you moaned baseball stats and ran your fingers through his hair. He could definitely get into that. He briefly wondered if you were going to be at the next game here on Sunday.

And then you were keeping the game stats in your notebook at the same time you typed up notes, and Bradley realized he had missed the first few pitches. "Oof, that was a sloppy curveball," you muttered as you peered down at the field before checking the overhead screen. "He's supposed to be their Ace."

"Nah, you're the Ace," Bradley said, and you turned to grin at him as your fingers brushed against his. There was not a lot of room at this little countertop, and when you tried to nudge his arm out of the way, he wrapped it around the back of your stool. 

"How am I supposed to keep my stats with you taking up so much space?" you asked, but your tone sounded playful, and you leaned a little closer to him. "You're massive."

Those words spoken in your voice had his cock stirring. "Yeah well, not a lot I can do about that, Ace."

That grin was back as you tapped the end of your pencil against your lips, and his gaze followed the motion. "So what do you do, Bradley? I'm going to guess you're not a waiter since you can't walk without spilling drinks. And you're definitely not a writer."

"I'm a pilot. A naval aviator," he told you softly, running his thumb along your back and watching you bite your lip. 

"Fascinating," you told him before returning your attention back to the game and scribbling down the pitch count. And that's when Bradley's gaze landed on your badge which was sitting next to your computer. 

He recognized your full name immediately. "Holy shit. You write for the New York Times."

"Yeah," you replied, turning to look at him before pulling your lip between your teeth again.

"Ace. I recognize your name. You're the best sports writer in the country."

Bradley was blushing, he knew he must be, but your bright smile was focused on him, and he couldn't keep his fingertips from drawing lazy shapes along your back where his hand rested. 

"You know me?"

He nodded and raised an eyebrow at you. "You're famous. I read your articles all the time. I downloaded the New Your Times app solely for you."

When you laughed and gently bit the eraser end of your pencil, Bradley groaned. "You're funny," you told him.

"You're gorgeous." The words were out his mouth before he could stop himself. He thought about apologizing, but then you leaned in a little closer and ran your pencil eraser up his thigh along his jeans.

"Stop distracting me," you whispered, kissing his cheek before returning your attention to your computer. Your lips had brushed the end of his mustache, and he could still feel the soft sensation there as you gazed at him from the corner of your eyes. This was going to be a long night for Bradley.

--------------------------

Bradley had called you gorgeous. He was playful, and he kept a smile on your lips. When he made a comment about the Angels' catcher, you told him, "You're completely right. I'm adding that to my piece." And he blushed that deep shade of pink again. 

"Damn, Ace. I'll be thinking about your voice when I read your article tomorrow morning." 

"Mm," you hummed, marking down another strikeout. "It would be fun to read it to you. I think you'd blush. The whole time." 

His lips were parted, and he looked a little surprised. "It would be the filthiest of dirty talk," he muttered, and when you giggled, he grinned. 

You had to bite your lip against the desire to kiss his cheek again. "World Series articles and pitching stats? That's what's gonna do it for you, Bradley?"

"Shit, how dirty can you make those pitching stats?" he whispered, thumb still skimming along the back of your shirt.

"You'd be surprised," you told him, shooting him an innocent look as he nodded at you.

"I'm sure I would."

The more you scribbled down in your notebook as the game progressed, the closer Bradley got to you. His big palm was warm on your back and you found yourself leaning into him more and more. By the eighth inning, his leg was pressed up against yours and he just kept getting closer. 

"Ace, you're killing me," he murmured, taking your pencil and erasing the sloppy note you had written about the Padres relief pitcher. "Let me help."

You laughed as he rewrote your note very neatly followed by what you assumed was his phone number. Oh, he was a bold one. Very handsome, very funny and very bold. 

Without a word, he handed your pencil back to you. "What am I supposed to do with that?" you asked, tapping his phone number with the pencil.

His breath was warm on your cheek as he said, "Save it in your phone. Call it. Text it. Let it know when you're in San Diego. I don't know, Ace. I just like you."

Your lips parted right as the Padres catcher hit a home run, and as everyone else in the ballpark erupted in cheers or groans, Bradley pressed his lips softly to yours. And then you tossed your pencil aside and ran your hand up along his neck. His lips were soft, but damn, his mustache was rough and you liked it. 

You pulled back a few inches. "And if I text you, you're going to write back?" you asked. 

"Immediately," he promised. 

"Well then maybe I'll save your number."

He groaned softly as you marked down the home run. "Are you covering game two on Sunday?" he asked as the ninth inning started.

"I'm covering every game," you told him, letting your hand rest on his thigh. The soft noise he made had you scraping your fingernails softly along his jeans as he watched your hand instead of the game. "I'll be back and forth between San Diego and Los Angeles for the next two weeks or so, if they go to seven games. Which, in my professional opinion, they will." 

After your fingers grazed his zipper, you watched his head tip back, the veins in his neck working as he swallowed. You were pretty turned on now, too. And the way he was responding to you was making things worse by the minute. 

"I'm gonna have to drop a grand on a ticket to see you back here on Sunday, aren't I?" he asked as you shrugged and ran your finger along his belt loop. Then you released him and turned back to type a few sentences for your article. 

"Listen," you told him without looking at him. "There's no guarantee I'm even going to let you have my number, so I wouldn't worry about that just yet."

He was quiet for a beat as you typed away, and then he said, "How about you let me buy you a drink for real? Right after the game tonight?"

"I have a deadline to meet," you told him, and he looked disappointed as he nodded. "But my article is almost done. And my hotel is right across the street. We could go to the bar there?"

"Absolutely," he murmured, his fingers still at your back. "Anywhere you want."

As soon as the game ended with a Padres victory, you tossed your computer and notebook into your bag, and you were on your feet next to Bradley. "Let's get out of here." 

You took his big hand in yours, glancing up at him occasionally as you tried to beat most of the crowd to the exit. And each time, he was looking back at you, smiling. You led him across the parking lot, and your hotel was in sight when you pushed him up against the brick wall outside of the ballpark. Bradley welcomed your body against his, and he looked at you like he couldn't believe this was happening just before you kissed him.

It was dark over here, even the streetlights were dim. His hands were on your back as your fingers tangled in his hair, and you were rubbing yourself gently against him. 

"Ace," he grunted against your lips. "You gotta let me buy you that drink." 

You could feel him growing harder for you as you kissed him and tasted his tongue. Suddenly the hotel bar was the farthest thing from your mind. It had been replaced by thoughts of your hotel room bed instead. 

"Come on, Bradley," you whispered, linking your fingers with his and leading him further down the sidewalk. He went with you willingly, leaning down to kiss your cheek and your neck as you waited in a crowd of people for the light to change at the crosswalk. 

"You smell good. Like the beer I spilled on you," he groaned, holding you close. The movement of his lips had his mustache prickling your neck. You wanted to feel it on all your sensitive skin. You wanted to see if you could make him blush in bed. 

You and he stumbled across the street and into the hotel lobby where you eyed the bar as he wrapped his big hand around your waist. You looked up at him and asked, "Wanna skip the bar and go up to my room? Find out if I taste good like the beer, too?" 

The sound of Bradley's groan as his hand slid down to your butt had you pressing yourself against his thigh. "Lead the way, Ace."

--------------------------

The elevator ride to the top floor was filled with the sound of kissing as well as the little gasping noises you made. Your hands were at the fly of his jeans as he pushed you back against the wall and devoured your mouth. Bradley was so hard and ready for you, he was honestly surprised. He just met you. This was not a usual occurrence for him. 

"Bradley," you moaned, unbuttoning his jeans as the elevator jolted to a stop. You abandoned his jeans for his hand and pulled him down the hallway, running toward your room and laughing. You stopped in front of one of the doors and started to dig in your bag.

He stood behind you and ran his lips along your neck as you gasped for him. You were so responsive, stroking something deep down inside of Bradley every time you reacted to him. He wrapped his hands around to the front of your jeans and started to play with your button as well. When his fingers met the soft skin of your belly, your head tipped back against him. 

"I can't find my room key," you moaned as he ran his hands up inside your shirt. He watched as you gripped the bag with both hands and let your eyes drift closed. 

"You're not really trying very hard, Baby," he said with a smirk. He couldn't believe you right now. So pretty and so lost to his touch. He was throbbing and aching for you, too. 

"Because you're teasing me!" you complained with a laugh. But then you turned in his arms, and suddenly Bradley's hands were on your bare back. Your eyes were wide, bag clutched between your body and his. "This is... not something that I usually do. Especially not when I'm on the job." Your voice was soft, and as you nervously bit your lip, Bradley leaned down to kiss your cheek.

"Same, Ace," he promised with a smirk. "In fact, I've never had a woman seduce me this quickly before. You're irresistible."

Your laughter was the best thing he had ever heard. "I thought I was the one being seduced here?"

"No," he said, reaching into your bag and plucking out the key. "You're in charge." He handed it to you, and you wrapped your fingers around the back of his neck and kissed him hard before you turned and unlocked the door with your other hand. You pulled Bradley with you as you stumbled backwards into the dark room. 

As you searched blindly for the light switch, you pushed Bradley against the wall. You had your fingers in the hair at the back of his head and your tongue was in his mouth as you located the switch.

"That's better," you mumbled breathlessly as you turned on the light, and Bradley pulled away from you a few inches. 

"You're fucking gorgeous," he whispered as he tightened his right arm around your waist. He wasn't being shy about how hard he was for you, and you weren't being shy either. You whimpered as you rubbed yourself gently against him, and he ran his thumb along your cheek and down to your lips. "I haven't been this turned on in so long."

Then Bradley watched you reach down and pull off your white shirt in one smooth motion, leaving you in that sinful looking blue bra before him. You were stroking him through his jeans with your right hand when you whispered, "I thought you were going to taste me, Bradley." Your eyes were wide and innocent looking as you challenged him. 

He nodded slowly. "I wanna taste you everywhere." Then he scooped you up as you laughed, and he carried you to the king sized bed as you wrapped your arms around his neck. "You gonna let me do that?"

"Yes," you whispered right next to his ear, and Bradley eased you down onto the bed with his body weight on top of you. As you started tugging on his Padres shirt, he managed to remove his shoes before reaching down both of your calves and yanking yours off. He tossed them blindly behind himself, wincing as he hit the wall with both of them. 

But you just laughed and pulled his tee shirt up, leaving him in his white tank. You were holding his shirt in your hand as he pressed his lips to yours. "You taste so good here," he whispered, running his tongue along your bottom lip as you wrapped your leg around his hip. Then he kissed your chest before licking a stripe across the top of your lace bra as you bucked your core against him. "Fuck," he groaned. He licked and sucked on the top of your right tit. "Your skin tastes like that spilled beer. I love it on you."

"Well then, you better clean me up with your tongue, since it's your fault in the first place." You tipped your head back, and arched your back off the bed, and Bradley followed your lead, letting his big hands find the clasp of your bra. You moaned softly as he unhooked it and moved his fingers around to ease the fabric away from your body.

"God damn," he groaned before taking your nipple between his lips. Your fingers were tight in his hair as he sucked on you, rubbing the rough pad of his thumb against your other breast.

"Bradley!" you cried out when he rubbed his mustache across your nipple. He was dying to fuck you, but you were letting him tease the hell out of you, and he was loving this.

"You like that?" he asked, enjoying all the cues you were giving him. He couldn't stop grinning as you whimpered a soft little yes before pulling his undershirt off. 

When you ran your fingers through his chest hair and down his abs, Bradley swallowed hard. Because you didn't stop there. You reached right for his unbuttoned jeans and eased his zipper down. He held himself over you, looking down into your needy eyes as you ran your fingers along the elastic of his underwear before delving inside. You licked your pouty lips before you wrapped your hand around his cock, and then you closed the distance up to his lips with the softest, sweetest kiss. You stroked him slowly while barely brushing your lips against his, and it was driving him absolutely insane.

"Ace," he grunted, and you squeezed your hand around his cock and giggled while he moaned for you. Then you gasped and let go of him. "What's wrong?" he asked, immediately pulling himself away from you while he panted.

Your eyes looked concerned, so he put a little more distance between your bodies. "I don't have any condoms," you whispered as you eased your hand away from him.

Bradley pressed his lips to your forehead. "I think I have one in my wallet. It's new."

"Oh," you gasped. "Should have known," you told him. "You're pretty gorgeous, too."

Bradley wanted to ease your mind, let you know that he didn't hook up with a lot of women anymore. He wanted to tell you that the condom was there for just a special occasion like this one. He wanted to explain to you that the last few he'd had in his wallet had been sacrificed to Jake when he'd been in a pinch at the bar.

But you were easing him onto his back, and he supposed it probably wouldn't make much of a difference. It wasn't like you were going to want more from him than just tonight. Besides, he hadn't had anything that wasn't casual in a very long time. 

You were on top of him now, straddling his waist in your unbuttoned jeans, and you were reaching for both of his hands. And when you had your fingers laced with his and pinned his hands over his head, Bradley closed his eyes and enjoyed your touch. Your lips were soft on his face and your thumbs were stroking along his palms in a way that was not only turning him on more, but also providing him with some comfort. 

When you whispered his name, he opened his eyes and he felt surprised by the realization that he only met you tonight. 

"Maybe you should get that condom ready?" you asked softly, rolling your hips against Bradley's torso.

"Yeah," he grunted. And then you were easing down his body, taking his jeans and underwear with you. Bradley propped himself up on one elbow as his cock sprang free. You made eye contact with him, lips parted on a soft whimper. 

"Bradley," you sighed, tugging his jeans, underwear and socks completely off. 

Before you tossed everything aside, he mumbled, "Grab my wallet, Baby." Your eyes met his with so much need before you focused on taking the leather out of the pocket of his jeans, it had him reaching for you. 

You shoved it into his hand before you scrambled back up his body and brushed your fingers through his hair, kissing his lips like he was every goddamn thing you wanted.

Bradley removed the condom and tossed his wallet onto the floor. Then he had you underneath him again. You still smelled like the spilled beer as he kissed his way along your chest, and you were trying to wriggle out of your jeans. "I can take care of that," he whispered, pressing the condom into your hand. Then he had every scrap of fabric removed from your body, and he didn't know if he could handle how perfect you really were. "Ace," he groaned when you eased your feet up his biceps and let your ankles rest on his shoulders. 

Bradley's lips found the inside of your right thigh as if he was drawn to you like a magnet. Your eyes were half lidded, and you had one hand in his hair and one on your tits. How was he going to recover from this?

"Let me taste you," he begged, and when you nodded, his lips were on your pussy immediately. He groaned, already addicted to the way you tasted here too. He kissed along your slit and buried his nose against your clit.

"Oh!" you gasped, tightening your grip on his hair and spreading your legs wider for him. Bradley's cock was throbbing against the bedding as he slid his tongue up through your soaking wet pussy until his lips were wrapped around your clit.

"Yesss," you hissed, gently riding his face as you whispered his name. And with each stroke of his tongue, you got a little louder, your fingers pulled his hair a little more. Oh, he was so fucking turned on for you, he wasn't sure he'd last more than a minute once he had that condom on.

"Bradley!" you gasped, pressing your heel into his back while he sucked on your clit. "Put the condom on."

It took him a little bit to get his lips away from your pussy, because he really wanted to get you off with his mouth. But then he rationalized that you wanted him to get you off with his dick instead, and that sounded perfect, too.

"Okay," he panted, brushing his wet mustache against your belly as you opened the condom for him. He rolled it on and kissed your lips as he pressed himself to your core. Now you were holding him in place by his hair as you returned his kisses, softly moaning into his mouth as he pressed his tip into you. You felt warm and tight and perfect, and as you took every inch of him, he stroked his thumb along your cheek.

"Oh god," you whimpered, frantically kissing him and licking his mustache. Your voice was coming in little gasps, and he loved the sound of it.

Bradley withdrew and thrust back inside you, and you rolled your hips with his. "You gotta tell me what you like, Ace. I want to make you feel good."

He watched your eyes go a little wider before you reached for his hand. When you took his index and middle fingers between your lips and started sucking on him while he fucked you, he groaned. "Baby. God that feels fucking great. But don't make me cum yet."

With a soft whimper, you swirled your tongue along his fingers before popping them out of your mouth and guiding his hand down between your bodies to your clit. Bradley had to suck in a deep breath and think about one of his superior officers leading a boring lecture to keep himself in check. He never felt close to the edge this fast, but as he ran his wet fingers along your clit and fucked you into the bed, he knew he could cum if he let himself. 

"Bradley," you whispered, and he buried his face against your neck. "Harder."

He bit his lip and fucked you harder while you whined his name, and he kept his fingers on your clit, trying to work you up. He needed to get you off. He absolutely needed to do this. Because he was hoping you'd call him or text him. He wanted you to save his number and use it. He was already dying for more. 

"Ace," he groaned, pressing his lips to your neck as your fingers drifted down his shoulders to his back. 

You moaned, "I like it when you call me that," so Bradley pressed the nickname against your lips with his until you were gasping and clenching around him. When you came for him, you took his fingers from your clit and laced your hand with his as his movements grew more erratic. 

He was saying something as he came inside you, but he wasn't exactly sure what. And you were looking up at him with a soft, fucked out smile and pushing his hair away from his forehead with your warm hand. And then you let him collapse on top of you while he was still buried inside you, and you ran your fingers back through his hair. 

Bradley settled his cheek against your chest and let himself enjoy the feel of your breathing evening out after your orgasm. You were still making soft sounds as you rubbed your calf along his leg. He could have stayed just like this all night. You felt that good. 

Just as he looked up at you, about to ask if there was any way you'd want to see him again this weekend, you laughed softly. 

"Wow. That was fun."

Fun. He wanted to be more than a fun time. "And good, I hope?" he asked softly. 

"More than good," you whispered, laughing again. "Amazing." 

Bradley smiled at you, and he knew he was blushing. "Yeah. Amazing is the right word for it."

And you were smiling so much, Bradley laughed as you tried to hide behind your hand. He leaned in and kissed your wrist. "Ace, I-"

Bradley jerked away from you as an alarm went off somewhere in the room. When you sat up, he gently eased himself out of you with a grunt.

"That's my thirty minute warning," you told him, scrambling out of bed. "I need to finish my article and submit it."

"Oh," he said, watching you bend to locate your phone. "Right."

You looked at him and licked your lips nervously as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. And then you bent to start retrieving your clothing, and Bradley's heart sank as he stood as well. Wordlessly, he went into the bathroom to take care of the condom and wash his hands, and when he came back out, you were dressed in your underwear and the white shirt he had messed up.

"I guess," he whispered, pulling on his own underwear, "I should go then."

You pressed your lips together and nodded slightly. "I guess so."

"Okay," he said, quickly getting himself dressed in everything except his Padres tee. He just held that while he looked at you. "You have my number."

"I do," you whispered. 

"You can use it," he told you with a smile, and you leaned in to kiss his cheek. And then your lips were on his. And then your fingers were in his hair again. 

You moaned and then pulled away from him, and Bradley forced himself to walk backwards to the door, not wanting to take his eyes off you. 

"Bye, Bradley."

He didn't want to say goodbye to you, so he said, "See ya, Ace," and then he was out in the hallway with the door closing behind him.

-----------------------------------

Oh, Bradley! I love Ace, and I hope you do, too! Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 2

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@chassy21

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@desert-fern

[theterrorfebruaryflash]

Happening now: The Terror February Flash 2025!

The Terror February Flash is an annual fest celebrating our cold boys via fic, art, vids, and other forms of fannish expression.

Why February? Because Something Something Valentine's Day. Why Flash? Because this is a low-pressure, almost-anything-goes prompt meme with a short creation period.

This is mostly a P!atC Server Event, where we will rejoice and squee about each work coming in during February, but anyone with an AO3 account can participate. We'll also post a masterlist to Tumblr at the end of the event.

Schedule for 2025:

Sign-ups and prompt posts: Jan 28 - Feb 6 Prompt claims and creation period: Feb 6 - Feb 28 Works can be posted to the collection any time during the creation period.

Prompts and fills can be posted anonymously if desired.

FAQ

Is this a fic exchange?

No. February Flash is a prompt meme, that means participants will not get matched one-on-one and assigned to a gift recipient as is the case in exchanges. So no one is guaranteed a "gift", but there's also much less pressure on participants. Members sign up and post prompts until the defined deadline (see the schedule). Prompts can be claimed by anyone who has an account on the AO3, and the resulting fanworks need to be posted to the collection any time during the creation phase according to schedule. If you need more detailed information on how a prompt meme works (e.g. how to edit your prompts, where to find your claimed prompts etc), please see this section in the AO3 FAQ.

Do I need to be signed up to claim & fill a prompt? What if I missed the sign-up phase?

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Can I crosspost my fic/art/vid/etc. to Tumblr/Bluesky/Twitter?

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Rules

1. February Flash is an event for adults as some prompts or fanworks might be mature or explicit. By taking part you confirm that you are 18 or older.

2. The focus of your work must be on the show The Terror, season 1. AUs, RPF, and crossovers with other fandoms are allowed.

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4. All genres welcome, including darker subjects if the prompter asks for them (as long as DNWs are respected). Use the AO3 warnings if applicable.

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[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Submission

Photography Professor!Fem!Reader x subby!student!Wanda

Word count: 1,060

Warnings: student teacher relationship, established relationship, W submits to R

Her eyes watched you from afar twice a week. Green emeralds trained on you as you walked back and forth talking about various photography methods. Today was specifically about filling a frame and how to do so properly. 

As you continued to impart your knowledge on framing techniques, you couldn't help but notice how Wanda's dedication shone through her unwavering focus. Her presence in the classroom was a testament to her commitment to the craft. Her every movement calculated and deliberate, as if each second spent in your lecture, was a precious opportunity not to be squandered.

You knew some of these students were taking this class as an art elective, but  this semester you had a good amount of actual photography majors one of them being Wanda Maximoff whose eyes don’t leave you the entire three hours of your lecture.

During the breaks, while other students dispersed, Wanda remained rooted in her seat, her gaze fixed on you with an intensity that bordered on fascination. It wasn't just admiration; there was something deeper in those emerald eyes, a hunger for knowledge, perhaps, or maybe a recognition of a kindred spirit in the realm of photography. 

You looked through your papers and notes while snacking on something that required one hand. Today, you had a small bag of popcorn, and you noticed she had some apple slices today, which made you smile. She was behaving and listened to you when you told her that she should have healthier snacks during classes. 

As it came up to the last hour of class, you began talking about a photo contest that everyone was welcome to enter into. You always loved contests and competitions. You especially loved seeing everyone’s submissions and the different approaches they would each take to different competitions.

“Alright class I think I’ve kept you waiting long enough. I’ll be passing out flyers for you to look over. The deadline is next Friday for the Fine Art Photography Competition. So, if you wish to participate, please hand in your photo to me before then, and if you’re picked, we will be going to Germany on an all expense paid trip. Your photo to be displayed for art critics and lovers alike to take notice of you. If you are chosen for some of you, this could be your big break into the art world.” You tell them, your heels clicking as you walk back and forth, your dark grey cardigan flowing behind you. 

“Is there any specific theme we need to work with?” One of your students, Jean Gray, asked with a raised hand. 

“No, so please, I implore you to work with your strong suits if you want to enter. The sky is the limit on this. Your eye and imagination are what will hold you back, but I believe in all of you.” You told them confidently and finished up answering any other questions before dismissing them for the day. “I will see you all on Tuesday. Have a good weekend, everyone.” 

They all filed out as you sat back at your desk, pushing your glasses up on top of your head as you look at the papers on your desk, reading through the students latest works and quizzes from Tuesday that needed to be done by next Tuesday along with ones needed tomorrow for your Monday, Wednesday, Friday classes. You hear a pair of boots walking towards you. You don’t have to look up to know who is standing in front of you,

“Yes Wanda can I help you?” You say keeping your gaze on the papers in front of you, marking them as you go and looking at the photographs that go with the assignments. Grading art, even after going through getting your Master of Fine Arts and teaching for a few years now, grading artwork wasn’t always so easy.

“Ms. Y/L/N...” You flick your eyes up just enough to see she’s playing with the hem of her skirt, pulling it up ever so slightly as she does so. You take your eyes off her thighs that you just want to bury your face in. You know better, though; not here, never here. Now she’s pulling her sleeves over her hands as she begins. “I...I want to enter the competition, but...” Her words trail off as you finally huff out, tearing your eyes away from your paperwork.

“Wanda. Words. Use them.” You say a little frustrated with her. You see her bite her lip, and for you that’s strike three of her anxious habits. “Come here.” You command, moving yourself back from the desk, turning your chair to the side so she can stand in front of you, which she does without need for more words. “Kneel.” You tell her, and she does so. You smile at her easy submission to you. She had always been so pliable for you. “There now that you’re where you belong. Do you feel better?” You ask, tilting her chin up so her eyes meet with your own.

“Yes.” She smiles up at you, you can see how she’s calmed just from the small form of dominance over her, sometime it was all she needed for her head to clear up and the thoughts to quiet down even if it’s only for a little bit.

“Good now, what is it about the photo competition that’s bothering you so much, sweet girl?” You ask, running your fingers through her hair as she sets her chin against your thighs. She gently tilts her head so she can look up at you.

“Well my specialty like yours is boudoir photography. Is it okay to submit something like that?” You smirk, continuing to run your fingers through her hair, letting your nails scratch gently at her scalp. She closes her eyes for a moment, enjoying the feeling.

“Yes just not too risky, okay, pretty girl? Also, the picture better not be of you. Your body is my eyes only.” You tell her, and she smiles with a nod. “I need to get back to these papers and you,” You boop her nose, “need to get to your next class so off you go little one. I’ll see you tonight.” She smiles, getting up. You pull her back in for a chaste kiss before letting her head off with the promise of seeing you later.

[loaksky]

no thoughts other than professor!abby / coworker!abby and the holiday stocking ! this is like 80 percent backstory bc who am i to not blabber about my new favorite trope...full length fic abt them in the works oops! not proofread + no warnings other than language!

tlou masterlist | main masterlist

⋆.ೃ࿔ first let’s set the scene by establishing that abby’s probably a tenure-track professor in a hyper specific literature study or maybe cross-teaches a course or two in the women and gender studies department. you’re a new educator probably teaching english 101?

⋆.ೃ࿔ abby first sees you at the faculty meeting for her department during the late summer and is immediately enamored.

⋆.ೃ࿔ by some stroke of luck, she finds that she’s been assigned to your neighboring office and her final lecture is held in the hall across from yours.

⋆.ೃ࿔ abby’s usually pretty good about the timing of her lectures and she ends up finishing 10-15 minutes early every session. so sometimes she hears the tail end of your lessons and can’t help but think you’re so fucking brilliant.

⋆.ೃ࿔ the students are taken by you too, usually not paying any mind to professors that teach lower level classes, but you’re animated and hands-on, and abby realizes that maybe she should take a page from your book.

⋆.ೃ࿔ literally can’t work up the courage to say anything to you first and is so surprised when she’s having an internal warfare one day while she’s locking up the lecture hall and you slink past her.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “have a good weekend dr. anderson!”

⋆.ೃ࿔ nearly short circuits because how in the fuck do you know her name? (hint hint: you haven’t been able to get a grip after seeing her in the same faculty meeting she’d basically fallen head over heels for you at).

⋆.ೃ࿔ for the life of her, can’t get her shit together over the weekend. is so scatterbrained because the hot new professor knows her name?? practically spirals because that means that she’s been perceived and she has no idea if it’s a good or bad thing because what do you think of her ???

⋆.ೃ࿔ runs into you bright and early monday morning as she’s about to duck into her office and she wants to make a beeline for the safety of her ergonomic chair, but you look a little frazzled and she’s speaking before she can stop herself.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “everything alright?” she asks as you miss the slot for the keyhole a few times and blow out a shaky sigh.

⋆.ೃ࿔ notices you’re carrying a fuckton of things and is wordlessly grabbing your stack of folders and taking your heavy knapsack from you as you finally get the key in the keyhole.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “thank you so much,” you say, voice thick with unshed tears. “i just, fuck, shit, sorry, that wasn’t professional—”

⋆.ೃ࿔ and she could melt because you’re so cute.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “i don’t think i saved the form for midterm grades on my laptop and the battery just crapped out on me, and i’m pretty sure i just missed the deadline and—”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “hey, breathe, breathe,” abby says gently, hands involuntarily smoothing over your shoulders. “you’re okay, it’s okay. shit happens.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “god, i’m such a idiot.” you scrub your hands down your face. “the upper level professors were right, i do suck—”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “whoa, whoa,” abby calls out sternly, expression horrified. “who said that?”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “it’s not important,” you whisper, blowing out another breath and squeezing your eyes shut as you shake your hands to try to calm yourself. “they’re not wrong.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “who.” and abby is no longer asking, arms bulging in her oxford shirt as she crosses her arms over her chest and stares down at you.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “dr. paige and mr. ruiz,” you say quietly, fidgeting under such a steely gaze.

⋆.ೃ࿔ abby just makes a noise in her throat, uncrosses her arms and tilts her head towards your desktop computer.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “if you were working on the submission form on your faculty account, it automatically syncs to the cloud both on and offline,” she says. “there’s usually a grace period until the final scheduled lecture for the day which is in...” she glances at her wrist watch, “in about an hour.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ you’re rounding your desk, practically throwing yourself in your chair as you boot up the computer and log into your faculty portal. your cheeks are flushed warm and eyes wide as your gaze flits across the screen.

⋆.ೃ࿔ you deflate in relief after a few clicks to find that professor anderson’s absolutely correct, and there’s the form in all it’s glory, cursor blinking and ready to be completed and submitted.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “holy shit, thank you so much,” you whisper.

⋆.ೃ࿔ when you look up, she’s already stormed halfway out of your office.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “dr. paige and i would just like to extend a sincere apology for our words regarding your tenure here,” mr. ruiz says after they corner you in the staffroom a few mornings later.

⋆.ೃ࿔ your eyebrows are knitting together momentarily before it dawns on you like a splash of cold water.

⋆.ೃ࿔ it explains why professor anderson had been in such a hurry to leave your office after assisting you a few mornings ago.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “s’okay,” you shrug.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “it’s really not,” dr. paige says. “it was immature and uncalled for to make such comments, and such shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ a sudden movement outside of the window catches your eye, and you’re grinning when you see the familiar flash of dirty blonde.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “really, it’s no hard feelings,” you assure them. “now if you’ll excuse me.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ you’re breaking away from them to duck out of the staffroom and surprise surprise, abigail anderson is standing a few metres from the door, arms crossed over her chest.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “are you eavesdropping dr. anderson?” you tease.

⋆.ೃ࿔ she doesn’t even bother to hide it, answering with a firm and resounding, “yes.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ that earns a full-bellied laugh out of you and she realizes that she’s so fucking whipped.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “you’re a wonderful professor,” abby assures you. “your students love you and you’ve already accomplished such great things in the department.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ you can’t help but flush and an awkward but cute silence dawns the two of you after you murmur a quiet “thank you”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “where’s your next session?” dr. anderson breaks the ice. “i’ll walk you.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ the two of you end up getting a lot closer over the rest of the semester and abby starts to get a little frustrated with herself for waiting for so long to actually talk to you.

⋆.ೃ࿔ because you’re practically perfect; so sweet, insanely intelligent, and it’s just the icing on top that you’re probably one of the prettiest girls she’s ever seen and you’ve got an equally pretty ass to match (abby is an ass girl IDC !)

⋆.ೃ࿔ heart is in shambles because you’ve learned how she likes her coffee and frequently bring her one first thing before your string of lectures start.

⋆.ೃ࿔ also, more often than not, the two of you are spending lunch hours together whether you’re grabbing a quick bite from one of the dining halls, splurging a little to eat lunch at an actual establishment, or killing time at the nearby bookstore a few blocks from the campus center.

⋆.ೃ࿔ long story short, you and abby have been spending so much time together and she knows she really likes you, but she can’t find it in herself to say anything because she doesn’t wanna scare you off with such a strong bout of emotions.

⋆.ೃ࿔ but literally everyone sees it! and it’s not necessarily that you’re oblivious, but abby’s accomplished, a really well-loved professor by both the department and her students, and even if there isn’t a ring on her finger, you’re convinced that abby’s got to have someone special in her life...it’s literally you.

⋆.ೃ࿔ even the students see it! dr. anderson’s been lagging recently during her last time slot and it doesn’t take long for a few students who love her especially so to see the way it takes her a little while longer to pack up and how she lingers out in the hall as your class ends!

⋆.ೃ࿔ “have a good weekend dr. anderson!” her last two students chime as they part ways with her. one of them glances over his shoulder and sees you filing out with a group of students from the adjacent classroom. “good luck.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ and abby’s beet fucking red when you finally lock up and ask her what that was about.

⋆.ೃ࿔ fast forward to now, it’s the final week before students are set to go home for the holidays and she’s a little down in the dumps because not only will she not get to see you for almost a month, but she’s usually alone this time of year and it’s agonizing to think that maybe you’ll be going home to someone else.

⋆.ೃ࿔ unbeknownst to her, you’ve been really nervous because maybe you’d overheard her talking to an adjunct professor, owen, about how she’d never gotten a personalized stocking made for her in response to seeing the one hanging on his shelf that his wife and kid had made for him this year, and perhaps you’d watched a couple youtube videos on stocking decorating and went out to buy the supplies right after.

⋆.ೃ࿔ admittedly, the last few days, the two of you are distant, her because she’s sad, and you because you’re probably spending every waking moment trying to think of ways to make the stocking perfect and you’re so in your head that you don’t even notice her change in demeanor.

⋆.ೃ࿔ and you try to make it perfect, really want abby to love her gift, so you fiddle around with it until the last possible moment.

⋆.ೃ࿔ you’re also nervous as fuck as you peer over your shoulder thursday afternoon, hoping dr. anderson doesn’t catch you in the act of staging her gift because frankly you’re too shy to give it to her.

⋆.ೃ࿔ even though you and dr. anderson are on great terms, she’s still so intimidating and you don’t trust yourself to make an ass of yourself, so you relay your message through a pretty piece of cardstock and tuck it into the bag before you’re scurrying off for the end of the semester.

⋆.ೃ࿔ finally, it’s the final day that campus will be open and abby’s trudging up to her office, only really intending to gather the last of what she’ll need since the buildings will be locked throughout the duration of holiday break, but she’s stopped dead in her tracks when she sees the sizable gift bag hanging on her doorknob.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “what that—”

⋆.ೃ࿔ she’s carefully moving around the tissue paper and her heart catches in her throat when she sees a blue stocking bulging with different treats and even a book! with her name carefully stitched on the band.

⋆.ೃ࿔ her first knee jerk reaction is that maybe owen pitied her and made her one, but a matching blue envelope catches her eye and she’s fishing it out of the bag.

⋆.ೃ࿔ recognizes your handwriting from the whiteboards when she’s stealing peeks into your classroom.

⋆.ೃ࿔ cheeks are flaming and stomach is tying in knots as she reads your note.

⋆.ೃ࿔ Firstly, I’m really disappointed I couldn’t deliver this to you in person, but my flight leaves for home on Friday... :( Nonetheless, you’ve been such a wonderful office neighbor and even more wonderful colleague. I truly can’t string together an adequate way to express how grateful I am to work alongside someone as kind and thoughtful as you, Dr. Anderson. You’ve quickly become such a dear friend and I hope you have a wonderful holiday! See you next year! ˆ<3

⋆.ೃ࿔ the fucking heart...the fucking heart!!! literally it’s all abby can fixate on before she realizes that there’s an ass of things tucked in the stocking and not only did you take the time to handstitch onto the fabric, but you took the time to gather things she didn’t even realize you knew she liked.

⋆.ೃ࿔ is unlocking her office so that she can pour the contents of the stocking onto her desk and she nearly dissipates into a pile of goo right then and there because there’s a few packs of her favorite gum (wintergreen), a set of her absolute favorite ballpoint pens (because gel pens are too runny for her liking), a giftcard to her usual coffee shop (“since I won’t be there to bring you your order” according to the note scrawled on the holder), a thick pair of argyle socks in her favorite colorway, and finally, there’s an annotated version of this is how you lose the time war.

⋆.ೃ࿔ and it has to mean something; your book choice and how you raved about it weeks prior during an excursion with abby to the public library, and you’d pulled the copy off the shelf and asked her if she’d read it.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “no,” she answered simply. “never caught my eye.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “you should read it,” you’d said quietly. “their love was beautiful.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ and she’d never admit it, but she’d checked it out the following morning and blew through the book so fast, heart pounding in her chest as she realized that it was about two women in love. and, god, this has to mean something, she’d continue to agonize, even until this current moment.

⋆.ೃ࿔ and here an annotated version sits, your thoughts and inner feelings inking the pages. it makrs abby bubble with equal parts hope and sadness. sadness because it seems like way too long until she’ll see you again, and hope because maybe this means something more for the two of you in the future.

⋆.ೃ࿔ who knows, really. but abby’s certain that this holiday will feel a little less lonelier with her heart a lot more fuller.

neng © 2023

[yurionice-secretsanta]

Welcome to the Yuri!!! on Ice Secret Santa 2024 edition! This upcoming Holiday season you can join the YOI Secret Santa gift exchange, to make Christmas a little extra special for all your following YOI fans! It will of course results in a lot of wonderful new YOI stories, art and other creations that’ll will enrich the fandom even more ;)

SIGN UPS ARE NOW OPEN!

How it works:

You MUST have a Tumblr or AO3

Sign up with what you want to make ( e.g. fic or fanvideo)

Also list what you’d like to receive (e.g. gifsets, drawings)

Add which characters and pairings you like to receive (e.g. Victuuri, Otayuri)

List some of your likes (e.g. Soulmate AU, Fantasy AU)

List which dislikes and you don’t want to receive or make (e.g. Daddy kink, Angst)

Sign ups are done via a google form

SIGN UP DEADLINE: Friday NOVEMBER 8TH After that assignments will be send out to everyone by email on November 9th/10th, and then you’ll have around three weeks to make gifts for the person assigned to you ^_^

»» Read the guidelines here ««

»» Sign Up here! ««

GIFT SUBMISSION DEADLINE: SUNDAY DECEMBER 1TH (no specific time, just submit on that Sunday or any day prior to that!)

On Christmas Eve/Day (24th/25th) all the gifts will be posted for everyone! Then on the 28th and after you’re are of course free to post the gifts you made to your own Tumblr or any other site ^_^

If you still have questions, don’t hesitate to send an ask!

So what are you waiting for? Sign up now!

Also please help signal boost this post, by re-blogging it, would be much appreciated <3

[incognit0slut]

You got me lookin through my music like a mad man! But I wanted to send in a request and say congrats on 3k!!🥳 the song I was hoping to get was “Girls Need Love” by Summer Walker, I was thinkin along the lines of BAU reader just been stressedddd and she just needs to relax and simply let Spencer be a munch🤭

Regardless if you do the request or not, you are an amazing writer and all your works SLAY! Thank you for writing for us!🫶🏾

thank you for the request lovely🤍

Song: girls need love - Summer walker warnings: cunnilingus, semi-public

“…submission, domination, arched back, deep stroke…”

You had never been this stressed before. You could sense the weight of deadlines pressing down on you, the tension mounting with each passing moment, especially when you started to feel that dull ache behind your eyes. You winced at the pain, instinctively reaching up to rub at your temples.

"Hey," a worried voice called beside you. "You okay?"

The concerned voice cut through the haze of your stressed thoughts, and you turned to see Spencer—your coworker, friend, and teammate—walking up to you. Although outside the confines of the office, he was more than just a professional ally. He was your sweet, caring boyfriend who always had a way of observing you even when you both were busy with your assignments.

A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you met his concerned gaze. "Hi," you replied, your voice betraying a hint of fatigue. "Just a bit of a headache."

His expression remained skeptical, and he placed a hand on your shoulder. "You sure? You don't look so good."

"It's just work stress, you know how it is." Then your eyes settled on the documents stacked on your desk. "Why is it more stressful doing all these paperworks than actually catching the bad guys?"

He studied you for a moment. As your boyfriend, he had a keen awareness of the subtle shifts in your mood, even amidst the chaos of work. "Let me guess," he said with a frown. "You've been at it for hours."

A sheepish smile played on your lips. "Guilty as charged."

He shook his head disapprovingly but remained silent. The hand on your shoulder pressed your tensed muscle gently and you relaxed into his touch, sighing out a relief. "That... that feels good."

He continued to massage you, his fingers gliding up your shoulder blades. You relished the pressure of his hand on you and you let out another sigh, but this time, it sounded more breathless than you intended to.

You didn't mean to. Maybe it was the way his big hand moved gracefully along your shoulders, kneading into your sore muscles with the right amount of pressure. Maybe it was the way his fingers gently eased out those tough knots twisted on your back, relieving your throbbing headache. Whatever it was, it managed to make you sigh in a satisfaction; a soft, breathless moan slipping out between your parted lips.

It was quiet for a moment between you as the noise hung in the air, your face suddenly going a bright red as you realized how inappropriate it sounded. You shouldn't be making bedroom noises at your workplace with your boyfriend's hands on you, even if the touch was innocent. You quickly shook your head.

"Sorry, I—"

"You know what else would make you feel good?" He suddenly asked. "Make you feel better?"

Your breath hitched as you stared at him, noticing the way he was looking down at you. You knew that look. It was all too familiar. It was the same expression he had whenever you were pressed against him, very much naked, all sweaty and desperate as you begged for him to please you.

"Spence," you pressed, eyes going around the room. Thankfully everyone seemed to be too busy to notice the subtle innuendo. "We're at work."

You felt his thumb gently graze the exposed skin of your neck. "Come on," he muttered, his voice loud enough for you to hear but low enough not to gain attention from others. "You need a break."

Your skin prickled at the weight of his stare. Heat quickly traveled along your body as he assessed you, and you instinctively squeezed your thighs together, feeling that familiar coil between your legs. It was so wrong, and highly inappropriate to even imagine doing something intimate in public, but it was hard to ignore the waves of desire washing over you.

That was how you found yourself nodding your head involuntarily as if you were under a spell.

"Meet me at that unused room down the hallway. Third door to your right," he said, nodding his head toward the secluded area away from the bullpen. "You know where that is, right?"

You silently nodded again and watched as he stepped back, turned on his heel, and disappeared out of the room. Adrenaline rushed into your system as you waited for another five minutes before rising from your seat, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. 

You casually greeted people as you passed by. You even weaved yourself from a frantic Penelope trying to find her glasses, escaped from Hotch who wanted to know how your report was going, and freed yourself from Rossi who suggested another cookout at his place this weekend.

You quickened your steps when you finally stepped into the hallway, your eyes piercing on a specific door. You looked around to check if the coast was clear before pushing it, taking a hesitant step forward—only for an arm to circle your waist, pulling you inside as you heard the door clicking softly behind you.

"Spence, we shouldn't—"

"Shh," he whispered. "Let me help you relax."

You looked up at him looming over you. In a haze of uncertainty, you found yourself drawn in by the glimmer in his eyes, the reassuring smile on his lips, and the unwavering focus of his gaze. The familiar scent of his soap enveloped you, pulling you closer to him. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, close enough to lose yourself in the depth of his gaze. And then, almost like an instinct, your lips finally met his.

As you tasted him, you felt your worries start to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his hands gripping your waist. He held you in place as he explored your mouth with his tongue, and you melted right in his arms, giving everything he asked for.

A whimper escaped your lips as his kisses descended from your mouth, tracing a path along your jaw until they rested against the delicate skin of your neck.

Your body froze for a while. There was a split-second realization of the risk of being caught, but it was swiftly drowned out by the overwhelming ache of desire coursing through your body. Fingers trembling, you tightened your grip on him, and your heart quickened its pace.

"Come here," he urged you, grabbing you by the hand before placing you at the center of the room. Your senses finally came together as your eyes scanned the place. An empty, unoccupied room with nothing but empty boxes and a worn-out desk shoved against the wall. You focused your attention back to him when you felt his fingers move over your pants, sliding them down your legs along with your panties.

"I can't believe we're doing this," you murmured, your mind turning hazy when you felt the cold air hit your skin. "Did you lock the door?"

A low chuckle escaped him. "Yes," he assured you before pressing his lips on yours again. "Now stop thinking so much."

His hands grabbed onto your waist before he lifted you, placing you on the desk almost forcefully, earning a squeal from you.

"Slow down!" You half whispered, half screamed.

"Can't," he began, fingers gripping your thighs. "I can't leave my girlfriend all stressed out."

The fear of getting caught still weighed on your mind, but with your throbbing pussy dripping in anticipation, the worries diminished faster than they could build. You clutched onto his shoulders when you felt him pushing your legs apart. 

“Spread your legs, baby.” His deep, needy voice sent a surge of warmth straight between your thighs. An ache settled in your core, feeling his lips back on your body once again for a moment between words. “Let me taste you.”

Another surge of heat made you tremble from the dark desire in his voice. You finally caved in, following his instructions with an eager whimper. You part your thighs, putting your dripping cunt on display for him as he gently laid you across the desk. 

His eyes couldn’t help but rest on the sight before him, taking note of your swollen, aroused lips and how wet you already were. It didn't take long for him to sink on his knees, settling between the warmth between your legs.

The minute his tongue touched you, you were already a whining mess. Your head began to spin, pleasure taking over your body as he teased up and down your slit, dipping inside of your dripping entrance for a moment before returning to tease your swollen, aching clit. 

His hands wrapped around your thighs while his tongue continued to explore you. You bucked your hips closer to him, your hands frantically searching for something to anchor yourself before you buried them in his thick hair. When he sucked onto your clit hungrily, you tugged on the strands, receiving a deep, rough yet excited groan from him.

The sensation filled your body until you were whimpering for more. “Please...”

The urgency in your tone mixed with the breathless way you begged him earned a hand between your thighs, positioning a finger at your entrance. Then he slowly pushed his finger, sending your head tilting back with a gasp, legs tightening around him. You exhaled his name, not being able to find the words as he pushed another finger into you, and you tugged on his hair with desperation.

Spencer smiled across your wet skin. He loved the way you reacted to his touch. He loved the taste of you, your juices against his tongue, painting his skin with your pleasure. He loved getting to finally please you. He loved hearing the sinful sound you make, the breathless moans coming out of your lips caused by him.

He loved the way your legs shook around his head, your hips bucking closer towards his mouth as you sought for more. He also loved how tight you held the strands of his hair between your fingers.

He loved it all, making it clear as his tongue sped up, circling your clit even faster as he thrust his two fingers deeper inside your soaked, clenched walls. 

“Please,” you cried out. "I-I'm so close."

All he could do was groan against your flesh. With a few more thrusts of his fingers and a few more laps around your clit, you were finally reaching your high, feeling the warmth form between your legs.

Your back arched off the desk while you gripped his hair even tighter. You called out his name, again and again between desperate moans and whimpers, legs tightening around his head as you rode out the bliss until the wave of pleasure washed over you, causing you to grow weak. 

But he didn’t pull away, continuing to gather up every drop of your slick essence, overwhelming you further as he curled his fingers deeper inside you. You wailed, moaning him to stop as he kept on pushing your limits.

His touches persisted until the sensations became almost overwhelmingly intense, leaving you far too sensitive for any further stimulation. You were out of breath. Your body felt weak. You also felt a heady mixture of euphoria and exhaustion as you gently pushed him away. 

You gasped, slowly breathing in and out as you finally peeked over at him, noticing him standing at his full height as he wiped away the remnants of your orgasm on his mouth. 

“Do you feel better now?” He chuckled in a hushed tone, leaning forward to pull into a sitting position. All you could do was grin happily and nod your head. 

"Yeah," you admitted with a soft laugh. "Thanks to you."

But as you got off the desk, attempting to stand on weak legs, you stumbled forward, and his hand shot up instinctively to steady you. You let out a groan. "I might not have a migraine anymore but apparently you lost my ability to walk."

His eyes sparkled with amusement. "Do you want me to carry you?"

"And create a commotion?" You considered the suggestion with a mock-serious expression. "I think I'll pass."

But as you both came back into the bullpen, your face flushed and his hair sticking out in different directions, it was inevitable that a commotion would take place. Especially when Morgan watched the two of you with clear amusement while Emily wrinkled her nose, assessing you both with judgmental eyes. "This place needs to be sterilized now."

You feigned innocence, rushing back to your desk as heat crept up your face, hoping your unit chief wouldn't hear anything about your reckless rendezvous.

*

a/n: I don't think I'll be tagging people in these answers unless it's a longer fic like my usual one-shots.

[levihanweek]

Hello! We are waking up with a bang

Back to our usual Secret Santa exchange! Let’s goo—

How the gift exchange works:

You will be assigned a partner to give your gift to (it doesn’t have to be christmas themed) thus they'll become your giftee.

Your identity will remain secret until the publishing date, so please make sure your inbox and IM are open so we’ll be able to communicate with you in case your giftee needs to contact you.

Info about the gifting:

All forms of works are accepted! These include but are not limited to: fanart, fanfiction, edits/graphics, gifs/animations, manga colorings, playlists, aesthetics, AMVs/videos, etc.

‎Reposting/copying/using another person’s work, and any A I generated works are NOT allowed. We won’t reblog any submissions that you did not make personally or any work that is offensive/discriminatory in any way.

‎Please be sure to tag accordingly if your work contains blood/gore/mature content.

‎For this event, we set minimum requirements for the gifts. We’d appreciate that you try your best to make your work meet the following guidelines:

↳art: draw at least a fairly detailed and colored bust-sized drawing or a b/w well detailed one

↳fic: 1.5-2k words across any genre

↳gfx/gif/edit: 2 big/complex images or 4 simple/small images for the photoset

↳misc: (the above are common gift types for exchange events, but if you plan on making something else and would like to know a minimum requirement for that medium/gift type or if you just have some doubts in general, feel free to ask us. We’ll be happy to help!)

Take these as a potential reference. You’re not obliged to but remember that someone else may be working hard on your gift, so it’s only appropiate to put some love into your piece as well (:

Timeline:

November 25 | Sign-ups will be closed by midnight EST. Be sure to fill up THIS FORM if you want to participate. Might close earlier or later depending on the speed/amount of the sign-ups.

November 26-27 | The mod will inform participants about their giftee and their respective wishlist.

December 14 | The mod will check in on each of the participants’ progress

‎December 25 | Time to post your gifts! If you publish your work here in tumblr, tag @ this blog's and your giftee's username, also include #levihan secret santa 2024 in the first five tags so we can be able to find it. We’ll be reblogging your works on this blog.

If you publish your work on instagram, tag @ale.man.art and your giftee's username, also include #levihansecretsanta2024. The posts will be shared and sent to people.

The date might be extended a day or two but it will depend on the progress of your works.

AN IMPORTANT PSA: If you feel like you cannot meet the deadline or want to drop out halfway, please message us ASAP and we will sort it out. We’d rather you be honest with us if you can’t meet the deadline than be a no-show on the day of.