#checked and was like that cannot be right

[rottingpink]

gameplay

cw: p! link below, established relationship, teasing, doggy, unprotected sex, sex in someone else's bed, breeding, overstim, messy sex, degradation, mean bf, smut, mdni

summary: this is what happens when you tease your man too much in your cute little nightdress

he watches you intently from his spot across from you at the patio table as you bounce one of your friend's babies on your lap. the hand holding his red solo cup squeezes around the plastic in an attempt to lower the urge to snatch you up. you keep giving him that innocent smile in your form fitting dress, looking like the picture of domesticity and a wet dream of his come to life.

he shifts in his chair, cup warping beneath his grip, jaw tight as he drags his gaze slowly down the line of your thighs, then back up to your tits, which keep bouncing just a little with the soft motion of your body while you entertain the child. "you seem to know what you're doing." he grunts.

you have that one look on your face you always get when you're teasing him. you hand off the baby to one of your friends so the poor thing isn't involved in the intense stare-off you and him have going on, and you grin, leaning forward and tipping your head to the side, fluttering your lashes at him. "yeah, it feels natural, hm? bet i'll be real good at it when you put a baby in me."

he shifts in his seat and spreads his knees further like it'll calm the way his cock is hard and pushing against the zipper of his jeans. you haven’t touched him once and his cock is already uncomfortably swollen just from watching you be sweet to everyone else in. "don't talk like that." he says sternly, unable to handle your dirty talk while in public.

"your face is warm, are you alright?" you smile innocently, your big eyes sparkling sweetly. you tug your hair up off your neck with a soft, whining sigh and his breathing picks up sharply. you did that on purpose. it's not far off from the sounds you make when he's balls deep in you, which doesn't help his situation. " 'm fine, baby. 's just hot outside."

he wonders if he made the right choice to come. he was debating dragging you back to bed and away from the car the second you chose that sundress, form fitting and showing a questionable amount of cleavage for a barbeque in your backyard where you'd intended for your man to meet some of your friends and their husbands; a group date, if you will. now, you've stood up and started moving around the barbeque, and he feels like he's being tormented on purpose. the way you stretch when you reach for the cooler, arms overhead, back arching, your dress straining against your ass.

he hasn't spoken in a while now, to any of your friends. he just nods or shakes his head or clears his throat any time he's addressed, because he cannot think right now. you keep drifting past him like you're checking on something, brushing your fingers along his shoulder, placing a very calculated kiss right to his sweet spot; the area right under his ear.

you keep pretending not to notice how wrecked he looks as his jaw keeps flexing, throat working every time he swallows, like he's physically trying to restrain himself. he watches your ass bounce and hips sway when you walk. "oh fuck me," he mutters low to no one in particular. he catches your arm the next time you walk past him, dragging you close to him so he can lean forward and whisper in your ear. "you like being a fuckin' menace, huh?"

and you do, that's what makes this so fun for you. you keep doing that little pout, bottom lip soft and pushed out, head tilted like you're confused when you're really not. he grunts, hand coming up to wrap gently but very firmly around the base of your throat, thumb just under your jaw as he tilts your head up, and his voice lowers. "you keep lookin' at me like that. walkin' around like that. can't you sit still?"

you blink up at him with a little grin. "i thought you said it was hot outside, baby. 'm just trying to keep cool." he scowls at your bullshitting and squeezes your neck.

"yeah? y'wanna see how cool i can be when i stretch out your sloppy lil' pussy?" your breath catches in shock at his tone, but your cunt gives a doll throb nevertheless. he continues, clearly fed up with your antics, leaning in so his mouth brushes against your cheek.

instead of backing down, you just reach down and take his hand off your throat, kiss the inside of his wrist before glancing around, voice sweet and breathless. "stop being so needy, babe. i'm sure you can behave yourself for a few more hours." you say, your voice soft and patronizing.

he's furious. his eyes rake over you, slowly, hand moving to the small of your back, holding you closer to him now. "i'm sick of you being such a little brat, y'hear me? do you wanna be punished?"

you scoff, and pull back just enough to give him a smug grin. "mm, you're so dramatic," you murmur like it's cute and he isn't five seconds from fucking you on the grass like a wild animal. "chill out. 'm gonna go get a popsicle. i'll grab one too so your mouth has something to do other than talking."

he stares after you, stunned while you walk away with your hips swaying. his cock is throbbing, nearly painful in his jeans now, the cotton of his boxers chafing into skin in the worst way possible. he would get up after you, but his cock is so fucking swollen that he cannot get up without causing a scene, and you know it.

he watches as you pull open the cooler lid, lean all the way over to dig through it, your dress riding up just enough to send another wave of fury through his bloodstream, before you pull out a popsicle and rip it open with your teeth, lips closing around it. your man exhales through his nose, pushing his hand over his lap in an attempt to hide his problem, watching you lick and suck and slobber onto that popsicle like it's his cock. not helping. "she can't be fuckin' serious..." he mumbles, his pulse spiking. his gaze focuses on you, lashes flickering as he tries to prevent the stupid glassy eyed expression he gets whenever he looks at you.

damn him for having such a big crush on his girlfriend.

you stroll back to him, still licking at your popsicle, and lower yourself onto his lap, right onto his cock. and with how thin your dress is, he can easily feel your plump pussy lips and clothed folds against his jeans. you're... not even wearing panties.

you know there’s nowhere else for you to sit, and he knows you timed it like that on purpose. you wriggle like you're just getting comfortable onto his cock, and the noise he makes in response is feral. his hands fly to your waist on instinct, and his whole body jerks under you, hips twitching up against your bare cunt even though he's doing everything he can to hold still. he squeezes you, hard. "you. you've got five seconds to get off me."

you giggle and roll your hips instead so your pussy grinds down on his bulge, and he groans, squeezing you tighter and putting his face in your neck. he needs you to stay still before he creams himself, but you're a fucking brat with no self restraint. "don't think i will," you hum petulantly, reaching up to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. "you're so comfy."

his hand comes under your shirt to squeeze at your flesh, he's so swollen and pent up that he's started leaking steadily now, his body begging for release. you won't sit still either, continuously grinding on him as he moans into you skin, biting into your throat to muffle his noises. "mmngh... 'm gonna fucking ruin you, you goddamn brat," you smile in response, all saccharine and smug. "in front of my friends, baby? don't think so."

he lifts his head slowly. "say one more fuckin' thing. go ahead. see what happens."

"you're hard as a rock, baby." is the last teasing remark you make before he gets up, dead silent, and yanks you up with him, his hand sliding around your waist. you stumble a bit in your sandals, but he catches you with no effort, one strong arm across your back to hold you close enough to him that his soiled pants and erection aren't visible. his free hand squeezes your upper arm firm enough for you to know he's done with your shit.

-

"baby, fuck! slow d-down, mmmh, oh my god,"

he's got you down on a bed in one of the rooms upstairs, the music coming from the speakers down at the barbeque the two of you abandoned now faded and replaced by the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears. you're laying down with him plowing into you from behind so roughly your vision is swimming, and one of his huge hands is splayed on the back of your neck to keep you down while the other squeezes your hips. he's grunting and panting harshly behind you, eyes blazing with anger.

"slow down?" he spits, voice rough as he bends down to talk against your ear. his chest is heaving, sweat sticking to his chest as he ruts into you from behind uncoordinatedly, thrusts hard and sloppy and inconsistent like he's lost the ability to pace himself. "you want slow now? after all that bullshit downstairs? after grinding on my fuckin' cock in front of everyone like a needy little slut?"

his hips snap forward hard and you cry out as he starts fucking his cock deep inside you, your walls stretched out around his cock close to unbearably. his hand at your neck doesn't let up either, making it impossible to lift your head and do anything but take his cock in your soaked, puffy little pussy. he keeps you pinned down like you're a wild, untamable animal. "told you not to fuckin' play with me." his voice is low now, rasping through clenched teeth, "i told you to sit your pretty little ass still, but no. and now look where you are, hm? getting fucked like a whore."

he pounds into you, his bulbous head swollen and pressing down heavily at your sweet spot, too much, too long. you're seeing stars each time he bottoms out and kisses the gooey spot in you so rough that you scream, and tighten up so much that it feels like you're milking his cock. you try to squirm and lift yourself up a little to get away from the overwhelming amount of pleasure just for a second, but he slams in harder, shoves you back down, and you whine loudly, legs quivering weakly.

"couldn't help yourself, huh?" he growls, dragging his hand down your spine to slap your ass, hard, making you jolt and clench. "wanted to make me mad. wanted to see what i'd do if you were a little slut in front of everyone." your mouth hangs open as you pant and drool, fingers clawing at the sheets for something to hold. "baby fuuuuuck, please! i didn't-"

"don't fucking lie to me." he says quietly, his thrusts now quicker and rougher, his heavily balls slapping against your ass while he grinds deep inside you. you sob, twisting under him. "yes, yes, baby, i swear fuck, i'm mngh, sorry, 'm sorry,"

his cock twitches and throbs inside you with enjoyment at your pitiful sounds, and he thrusts into you from behind hard enough to watch your ass bounce and jiggle. you try to fuck yourself back on his cock to try and guide the pace or maybe encourage him to let you do the work but he squeezes the back of your neck in warning and pushes down on your back so you can't move anymore. you mewl pitifully, unable to gain any control. his length, thick and veined with a curve that hooks inside you at the perfect angle to kiss your cervix and your g-spot in every thrust, scrapes at your walls mercilessly. he's pounding you as a punishment.

"sh-shit... yeah?" he breathes, voice shaking slightly. "you're sorry now? while you're soaking my cock like this? fuckin' pathetic, baby, you're not sorry at all." he slams forward again, hard enough to make your whole body jolt, and you fist at the blankets for dear life, getting fucked into oblivion while your pussy clenches around him weakly. he hisses through his teeth, cock grinding down into the slick mess between your thighs deeply.

his hips buck sharply, cutting himself off with a guttural moan as he fucks into you so rough and uncoordinated that you feel like he wants his cock molded into the shape of your cunt. "bet you were wet the second we got here," he growls, leaning down to lick at your shoulders and bite your throat, laying on you from behind so you're now in prone bone, the new position making you both moan loud as his cock shoves into you impossibly deeper. one hand is sliding fingers into your mouth so you slobber around his fingers, while the other holds your wrist down. "oh fuck, baby... this pussy's so fuckin' good... fuck..."

you're sobbing now, the overwhelming fullness, the tight stretch, the pounding driving your brain to mush. "please," you whimper, barely able to speak around your cries. "i-i can't... too much, it's too..."

"shhh" he snarls, tugging your hair back a little so you're forced to arch for him, your hole spread for him. his cock shoves so deep inside you, and your walls pulse and flutter around him as the buildup of your orgasm coils up in your tummy. "you wanted this," he murmurs. "y' fuckin' asked for it. grinding on me, teasing me, sittin' on my lap with that messy little cunt, this is what you get."

he rams into you harder, strokes mean, and your slick makes filthy squelching noises with each sloppy, animalistic thrust. his cock drags against every soft, sensitive spot inside you like his cock knows instinctively exactly where to hit to make your toes curl. he pushes into you harder, putting just enough of his weight on you to be shy of smothering. "baby, i c-can't, 'm gonna cum," you sob, your voice wrecked and desperate, your voice is slurred and muffled around his fingers pressing down onto your toungue.

"yeah?" he pants into your skin, slotting hot, open mouthed kisses to your shoulders and throat. "you gonna cream on my cock like a good little girl? gonna soak me while everyone outside's thinkin' you're sweet and innocent? fine, nasty lil' thing. cum on my cock." he then turns your head, taking his fingers out of your mouth so he can kiss you deeply, his tongue immediately connecting with yours to kiss you filthily and messily, capturing your moans with his mouth.

you come apart by screaming into his mouth, your body clenching and trembling as the orgasm rips through you, your cunt squeezing him in pulses so tight he chokes on a loud groan. his hips jerk up ino you as he fucks you through your orgasm, thrusts sloppy and urgent. he pulls back from your mouth a little, licking your swollen lips and tugging your hair to make eye contact. "look at me. 'm gonna fuckin' breed you, baby. gonna stuff this messy lil' pussy full and make it mine."

you're still cumming, overstimulated and sobbing into the sheets when he slams in one last time with a ragged growl and spills inside you, his cream hot and coming out in languid, thick splurts. you feel every twitch and pulse of his cock as he empties himself into you, his whole body shuddering above you while he groans loud and unashamed.

he doesn't pull out right away, just stays buried deep, breathing ragged against your skin with his hands coming around to squeeze your breasts under you to ground himself. he exhales shakily and presses chaste little kisses to your shoulder, cock still rock hard inside you. he absently ruts into you, laving his tongue over your sweat slicked skin while you twitch under him weakly. some of his cum leaks out of you, but his fat cock keeps most of it stuffed inside. he pinches your swollen nipples and moans against your neck. "fuck, this perfect fuckin' pussy, baby. wanna go for one more?"

[studioeisa]

routine romance ☕ seungcheol x reader.

you have a routine. a foolproof, tried and tested daily schedule. when the hell did choi seungcheol become part of it?

☕ pairing. talent recruiter!seungcheol x freelancer!reader. ☕ word count. 11.8k. ☕ genres. alternate universe: non-idol. romance, friendship, humor. ☕ includes. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity; implied smut. reader is a freelancer, seungcheol is a corporate slave, strangers to friends to lovers, slowburn, coffee shop romance, meet ugly, feelings realization/denial. reader has a nut allergy (this is relevant, i swear), lee felix as a plot device. ☕ notes. this is part of the that’s showbiz, baby! collaboration. this is one of the two fics i have for the collaboration, and, admittedly, i expected it to be much shorter. alas, i cannot physically shut up about choi seungcheol in a suit. all my love to the amazing writers of tsb, but especially my co-host tara, who saw me come up with the concept for this in one deranged sitting.

That guy who’s always in a suit is in your seat.

Technically, it’s not your seat. The Greeting Committee doesn’t have assigned tables. There’s no velvet rope or brass plaque with your name on it. But it’s understood. Window seat, second table from the left. Just enough sunlight to toast your forearms but not blind you. Outlet within reach. Smells like cinnamon in the mornings and espresso in the afternoons. 

Your seat. Spiritually.

And now he’s in it. Again.

You pause by the pastry case, pretending to consider a scone. It buys you time to glare at him with a level of passive aggression only caffeine deprivation can power. He doesn’t notice. He’s on the phone, murmuring something about image rights and venue capacity, wrist flicking as he gestures to someone who isn’t there. 

The barista, Felix, catches your eye. Offers a sympathetic shrug. This is the third time this week.

You settle at the small table near the bathroom. It wobbles. It always wobbles. You shove a napkin under the leg and mutter a curse that sounds polite. .

Seungcheol. That’s the name of the notorious seat-stealer. 

You learned his name from one of his calls, spoken with the clipped efficiency of someone used to being listened to. “Yes, this is Choi Seungcheol from Carat Company. Let me loop you in.” He says it like he’s not just looping someone in, but reeling them from the goddamn abyss. Like he’s personally saving the entertainment industry one Bluetooth earpiece at a time.

He always wears a suit. Not the stiff kind. Tailored, navy or charcoal, with subtle check patterns. The kind that whispers rather than shouts. The kind that makes you sit up straighter just being near it.

He orders an Americano. Never anything sweet. You know this because you’re close enough to hear him order, not because you’re listening. You’re not listening. You just… absorb things. By proximity.

He types like he means it. Fingers flying, brow furrowed. You once watched him for a full minute before realizing your tea had gone cold.

You don’t like him.

You don’t like that he’s taken your seat, your sunlight, your outlet. You don’t like that he seems to be having Important Conversations while you’re over here editing product descriptions for cat backpacks. You’re just about to settle for your second-best seat when disaster strikes.

Correction: Seungcheol strikes.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Physically. With coffee.

It happens fast. One second, you’re adjusting your chair, the next, you feel a splat of lukewarm liquid soaking through the shoulder of your sweater. Your body jerks. Your mouth opens. Nothing elegant comes out.

“What the ever-loving fuck—” 

Seungcheol freezes. His cup is a crumpled paper carcass in his hand. The coffee is mostly on you, some on the floor, a tragic few drops clinging to his knuckles like guilt.

“I—oh no. No, no, no, I am so sorry,” he says, setting the mangled cup down like it might still be saved. “Are you okay? Did I burn you?”

There’s coffee dripping from your hair. “It’s fine,” you say, in the voice of someone who is not fine.

He winces. “That sounded like a lie.”

You glance down at your sweater. It was oatmeal-colored. Now it looks like oat milk with trauma. “I mean, no third-degree burns,” you say, standing. You shake your arm out. It flings a splatter onto a nearby bookshelf. “Just first-degree humiliation.”

He grabs a stack of napkins from the counter and starts dabbing at your sleeve with the gentleness of someone defusing a bomb.

“You really don’t have to—” you’re saying, but Seungcheol is relentless. 

“No, I do. I definitely do,” he blabbers, all that usual composure gone like the coffee he’s unceremoniously splashed you with. “I’ve basically assaulted you with caffeine. This is… wow. This is not how I usually network.”

You blink at him. “Network?”

He goes still. “That was a joke. I’m joking. This is a joke. I mean, the situation, not your… sweater.” 

You raise an eyebrow.

He flushes. A subtle pink, but obvious. He has the decency to look horrified at himself. “Oh my God. I mean, your sweater was nice. It is nice. I’m just going to stop talking.”

“That would be nice,” you say curtly, and then immediately feel bad about it.

Because he looks sheepish now. His shoulders have gone all slopey. He holds out the last dry napkin like a peace offering. You take it.

Felix, equal parts amused and exasperated, leans over the counter. “Do we need the mop again?”

“I deserve the mop,” Seungcheol mutters underneath his breath.

It’s set in stone. You really, really don’t like him. 

To your surprise, he keeps coming back.

Seungcheol, that is. The man who ruined your sweater and your dignity in one well-aimed Americano.

He returns to The Greeting Committee like nothing happened. Only now, he avoids the window seat. In fact, he avoids your whole half of the café. Sits near the potted ficus, headphones in, coffee clutched like a holy artifact.

You’d almost feel bad if it weren’t kind of funny.

There’s a silent detente. You don’t glare at him anymore. He doesn’t knock beverages into your lap. You coexist. Cautiously. Like squirrels.

Until, one Tuesday, it happens.

You’re halfway through an editing gig that involves correcting SEO tags for eco-friendly deodorant when Felix  appears with a pastry on a plate and a too-big smile. “From your secret admirer,” he says, setting it down with a flourish.

You eye the pastry warily. It’s round. Golden. Gleaming with honey. A little too perfect. “Is this a trick?” you ask.

“It’s from the Suit,” Felix stage-whispers, as if Seungcheol is in witness protection and not six feet away, pretending not to watch. You glance over. Seungcheol immediately looks down at his phone.

Felix nudges the plate closer. “He said you looked like you needed something sweet.”

Your eyebrows do something complicated. You pick up the pastry. It smells good. Really good.

You take a bite. It takes three seconds.

One to register the taste. Two to realize there are slivers of almond inside. Three to remember, with crystal clarity, what it was like to be poked and prodded as a child so your allergies could be found out. “Oh no,” you say around a mouthful of the croissant. 

“Oh no, it’s the best croissant ever—right?” Felix beams. 

You cough. “Not exactly.” 

And then all hell breaks loose.

Seungcheol’s chair scrapes violently against the floor. He’s by your side in less time than it takes your throat to tighten. You don’t realize you’ve dropped the pastry, that your face is turning that brilliant shade of anaphylactic pink. Felix is already halfway to the back counter, yelling something about the EpiPen he keeps near the register just in case.

“Breathe slowly,” Seungcheol says frantically, crouching beside you. “Wait, no, don’t breathe slowly. Or do? Should you breathe faster?”

You wheeze out something that sounds suspiciously like I am going to fucking kill you. 

Your attempted murderer looks stricken. His tie is slightly askew again, like stress physically unravels him. “I didn’t know,” he says. “I swear. Almonds. Why is it always almonds?”

Felix returns with the EpiPen like a knight with a sword. You brace for it. Seungcheol turns paler than the foam on his usual coffee. After the injection, after the flurry, after the adrenaline kicks in and your lungs start acting like lungs again, you sit back against the chair, heart thudding against your ribs.

Seungcheol hovers beside you, holding a water bottle. You would jokingly ask if that, too, had some slow-moving poison, if Seungcheol didn’t look sufficiently spooked.  “You good?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod, sipping the proffered water. “Yeah. Could’ve used a warning. Or a label. Or maybe a pastry without biological warfare.”

His laugh is helpless. “I was trying to be nice.”

“You nearly killed me.”

“But nicely.”

Felix, wiping the counter, calls over, “On the bright side, at least he didn’t spill the water on you!”

You and Seungcheol both groan.

You return two days later with a tight throat and a new sweater. Dark green. Nut-proof in spirit, if not in textile.

The Greeting Committee is half full. Quiet, save for milk steaming and a playlist that leans too hard on acoustic covers. You pick your seat—the window, as always. Felix waves with both hands, sheepish. You wave back with one, cautious.

Seungcheol is already there.

This time, he’s at the counter, pacing lightly, muttering to himself while staring at the pastry display. He points at something. Felix nods with visible hesitation. There’s a to-go box involved. A whisper. A squint. This feels... coordinated. Conspiratorial.

You brace.

When he approaches, he holds out the box like it might explode.

“Hi,” he says, tentative. “I come in peace.”

You stare at the box.

“It’s carrot cake,” he adds quickly. “I checked. Three times. No nuts. No hidden almonds. No sabotage. I even made Felix read me the ingredients out loud.”

“Did he cry?”

“A little.”

You gesture for the box. Open it. The slice is thick, aggressively frosted, and improbably orange. It smells safe. “Carrot cake,” you repeat.

“I Googled ‘pastries least likely to kill someone with allergies.’ That was top three.”

“That explains the pacing.”

He sighs, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Look, I swear I’m not usually this... destructive.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Mmm.” 

“I mean it. I’m a functioning adult. I have a job. A dry cleaner. A filing system.”

“A coffee-related injury and a near-death croissant would suggest otherwise."

“Okay. Fair,” he huffs. “Look, maybe this is just… the universe telling me to leave you alone.”

You stare at him blankly, as if trying to agree with the universe’s supposed assessment. He shrugs and keeps talking—does this man ever shut up?—trying for breezy. Failing. “I mean, clearly, we can’t exist in the same proximity without one of us needing medical attention or therapy.” 

That gets you. A laugh slips out, involuntary. Quick and warm. You try to catch it, but it’s too late.

He freezes. It happens so fast you almost miss it. His whole face softening. Like the sound surprised him. Like he hadn't planned for the possibility of your amusement.

He looks at you, dazed. Eyes a little wide. Mouth a little open. Like you’ve told him a secret without speaking. “That was a laugh,” he says with the sort of reverence that belongs in cathedrals instead of this overpriced coffee shop.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. You pick up your fork. Take a cautious bite of the cake.

Safe.

He watches like he’s waiting for a verdict from a judge on Culinary Class Words. You chew. Swallow. Say, “This might be your least disastrous attempt yet.”

His grin breaks, full and boyish. The sun cracking through storm clouds. “So you’re saying there’s hope for attempt four,” he breathes. 

“I’m saying,” you huff, “don’t push it.” 

You look out the window to hide the smile threatening to fill your face.

Seungcheol stays looking at you.

You have a routine. Five days a week. Headphones in. Laptop open. Coffee always lukewarm by the time you remember it.

Seungcheol, meanwhile, has a rhythm. Three days if the stars align. Never the same ones. He’s a Monday-Wednesday guy. Then a Thursday-Saturday surprise. He shows up like a plot twist, wearing button-downs and the kind of watch that says my meetings run looong.

You’ve learned to expect him, even if you don't expect anything from him.

The greetings are polite now. Nods. Small smiles. He no longer treats your existence like a delicate diplomatic situation. You no longer imagine stapling his tie to the table.

Progress.

Some days he takes calls near the door, pacing like he’s afraid someone will steal the air. Other times, he just stares at his screen, typing fast, deleting faster. Once, you caught him playing Wordle with the focus of a man solving a hostage crisis.

You don’t talk. Not really. But you know when he’s had a rough day—he stirs his coffee too hard and forgets to say thank you to Felix. And you know when he’s having a good one, because he hums under his breath, terribly off-key.

One rainy afternoon, everything else is full. You’re already settled in. Window seat. Usual latte. Document open. Rain tapping the glass in a rhythm that matches your brain.

Seungcheol stands in the middle of The Greeting Committee like a man who’s lost his passport. Scans the tables. Sees you.

You raise an eyebrow. He approaches, cautious. Like he thinks you might hiss.

“Hey. Uh.” He gestures vaguely at the table. “Can I—?”

You glance around. Nothing else is open. Sighing, you give a jerky nod of acquiescence. He exhales and slides into the chair across from you.

There’s a moment. Awkward. Familiar. Like two commuters who ride the same bus but never speak. He sets down his drink. The usual plain Americano—probably scalding, probably vindictive. You go back to your screen. He goes back to pretending not to watch you type.

Five minutes in, you sigh. He looks up from his company-issued MacBook. “Something wrong?”

“Just this client,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. “Wants a brand voice that’s ‘youthful but ancient, fresh but nostalgic.’ Like a time-traveling Gen Z monk.”

He chokes on his drink. You glance at him, and he stumbles to explain, “Yeah. Just picturing a TikTok monk explaining skincare with Gregorian chants.”

You snort. It feels dangerous, this sharing. Even in passing. You type. He sips.

Time passes. The rain doesn’t. At some point, Felix drops off another slice of carrot cake. No note this time. Just a wink. Seungcheol catches your eye. “I figured it was safer than flowers,” he says with the shrug of a man trying to act calm, cool, and collected.

You poke your fork into the cake. “This your way of asking to sit here again?”

“I would never assume.”

“But you are assuming.”

He smiles, soft around the edges. “Only a little.”

You shake your head. Take a bite. Let the silence settle again. 

Not quite friendship. Not quite strangers. Something else. Something quietly growing between sips of coffee and shared space.

By late afternoon, the light slants golden through the windows, soft and syrupy. Your laptop screen reflects it back at you in glaring defiance. The carrot cake is half-eaten. The air smells like espresso and mild ambition.

You stretch. He cracks his knuckles. The silence has been comfortable, companionable—until he speaks. “So. Freelancing,” he says, testing the waters. “That’s just... vibing with deadlines?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “That’s rich coming from a guy who wears a wristwatch like it owes him rent.”

He lifts his coffee cup in a lazy toast. “Touché,” he hums. “But at least corporate structure keeps things predictable. Stable.”

“Stable? You get sixty Slack notifications an hour and call that stability?”

He winces. “Okay, yes. But there’s a paycheck. A health plan. A desk that isn’t being commandeered by an iced matcha spill.”

You level a look at him. “Are you judging my system?”

He glances at your spread: laptop, two notebooks, highlighters of questionable age, and a sticker-covered planner that might be more decorative than functional. “I would never,” he says. 

You raise an eyebrow.

He grins. “Okay. Mildly.”

“You color-code your calendar and get passive-aggressive about Outlook invites,” you taunt. 

“You wound me.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“Please don’t be mean to me,” he says, deadpan. “I get turned on when pretty girls are mean to me.”

The words hang in the air.

Your typing stutters. Seungcheol goes pale. Then pink. Then a shade of red that belongs in a fruit bowl. “That was—I didn’t—I meant it as a joke,” he stammers. 

You let out a low whistle. “Bold choice.”

“I panicked.”

You laugh. Loud, sudden, and unfiltered. It startles the couple next to you. Seungcheol looks like he might curl into his coffee mug and disappear. “Okay, okay,” you say, still smiling. “Let’s set some ground rules before this table implodes.”

He nods solemnly. “No horniness before five?”

“Four-thirty. I’m flexible.”

He exhales a laugh, hands up in surrender. “Understood.”

The sun slips lower. Your coffee is cold again. The world outside looks dipped in gold foil. Across from you, Seungcheol relaxes a little. You don’t look directly at him, but you know he’s smiling.

The next few weeks pass in soft edits.

No dramatic reveals. No sudden declarations. Just a slow, accidental choreography.

Seungcheol starts arriving earlier. Not every day, but often enough to make it a pattern. He never asks to sit with you. Not at first. He just hovers close, table-hopping like a caffeinated bee until one day he drops his laptop across from yours like it’s always been that way.

“Morning,” he says casually, as if this is not a minor emotional event.

“You’re in my eye-line,” you reply flatly.

“I’m in your heart-line,” he says, complete with finger guns and an exaggerated wink.

You blink.

He sips his coffee, very focused. “Sorry,” he grumbles, now appropriately shamed. “Still workshopping that one.”

It becomes a new bullet point in the routine. Shared table. Shared silence. Occasionally, shared WiFi when yours decides to enter a fugue state. Sometimes you squabble over seating. Sometimes you share pastries. Once, you both accidentally ordered the same scone and acted like it was a legal dispute.

“Just split it,” Felix suggested.

“Absolutely not,” you both said. (In the end, he let you have it.) 

Another time, Seungcheol caught you stress-doodling in the margins of your planner and started rating your sketches like a judge on a chaotic art show.

“This frog has emotional range.”

“That’s a pigeon.”

“Even better.”

The Greeting Committee becomes less a café and more a stage for the most low-stakes, high-tension sitcom known to man. One Thursday, though, Seungcheol brings someone with him.

You look up at the new arrival. Mid-twenties. Good bone structure. Nervous smile. The kind of person who says thank you twice just to be safe.

Seungcheol ushers her to a corner seat, sliding into professional mode like a second skin. Back straight. Voice low, reassuring. Hands used sparingly, deliberately. A talent he’s trying to recruit, you realize. 

He’s good at this. It shows.

You don’t eavesdrop. Not really. But your laptop screen is less interesting when he leans forward, nodding with the kind of attention that makes you feel seen by proxy.

You watch him talk about contracts and career growth like he believes in people. Like he sees possibility in them and is simply here to translate it to paper.

It makes you feel something.

Maybe admiration.

Maybe curiosity.

Maybe the sudden realization that beneath the tie knots and tragic Americano habit, Seungcheol might actually be kind of brilliant.

He glances up mid-meeting and catches you watching. You look away, pretending to be fascinated by a blank spreadsheet. In the corner of your eye, you see him bite back a smile. 

Later, when the talent leaves, he slides into the seat across from you again, a little smug.

“You were staring.”

“I was judging.”

“You judge with very starry eyes.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snipe, but the heat in it is doused by whatever residual admiration you’ve been trying to fight down. 

“Too late,” Seungcheol sing-songs as he unpacks his things, readying to be your seatmate once more until five in the afternoon. “Already added it to my morning affirmations.”

It’s a Wednesday. The kind where the air smells like over-steamed milk and deadlines. The windows of The Greeting Committee are fogged at the edges, and the playlist is stuck somewhere between folk optimism and indie despair.

You’re halfway through your second coffee and the fourth paragraph of an email you’ve rewritten five times when Seungcheol walks in. He looks like someone who lost an argument with his alarm clock, his inbox, and possibly God.

His tie is loose. His hair is defying gravity in three directions. He drops his briefcase three tables away and immediately starts pacing with his phone pressed to his ear.

“No, I said the 17th, not the 7th,” he says, voice a low, stressed hiss. “Yes, because they’re filming in Thailand, not, I don’t know, the moon.”

He hangs up. Sits for all of five minutes. Stands. Sits again. Calls someone else. Wash, rinse, repeat.

You try to focus. You really do. But there’s something magnetic about watching a usually unflappable man unravel like a department store sweater. “Not worried,” you mutter to yourself, clicking back to your work. He’s fine. Just corporate molting. 

But then you hear him exhale. Hard. He rubs his eyes like the day is a contact sport, and you feel a twang of sympathy because you’re not a goddamn monster.

You walk up to Felix, who’s wiping down the espresso machine with the casual grace of someone who moonlights as a Disney prince. You slip him a five.

“What’s this for?”

“A carrot cake emergency.”

He glances at Seungcheol, eyebrows lifting.

“Make it look natural,” you add. “No obvious charity. Just… coincidence.”

Felix winks and executes the drop with spy-level precision. Mid-call, Seungcheol barely notices the plate until the scent catches up to him.

He pauses. Looks down. Then up, but not at Felix.

Right at you.

He smiles. Not the usual cocky smirk or the teasing grin. No. This one is quieter. Warmer. A tight-lipped gratitude that has your traitorous heart skipping a beat. Maybe two. 

He mouths, Thank you.

You raise your mug in reply.

He takes a bite. For the first time that day, his shoulders drop. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it softens. Like cake under a fork. The café hums around you—a gentle orchestra of foam, glass, and familiarity.

You go back to your laptop, a little smile playing on your lips. Still not worried, of course. Merely bservationally invested.

You pack up as the sun angles lower in the window, slanting gold across your keyboard. The drone of the café shifts with the hour. A quieter crowd now, more book than laptop, more wine than espresso. You sling your bag over your shoulder, ready to melt into the early evening.

You’re halfway to the door when Seungcheol calls your name. He’s still at his table, carrot cake reduced to crumbs, a little less frazzled than before. He jogs to catch up, a hand running through his hair, trying and failing to tame it.

“Thanks,” he says, a little out of breath. “For the cake drop. Very subtle. Almost untraceable.”

You feign innocence. “No idea what you’re talking about. Maybe Felix just really likes you.”

“Yeah, he also gave me a drawing of a frog once. But I have a feeling this was you.”

You shrug. “I prefer plausible deniability.”

He smiles. That damned smile again. Not practiced, not perfect. Real. “It helped,” he confesses. “More than I thought it would.”

There’s a beat. Not awkward, more aware. Then he gestures toward the street. “You headed home? Want a ride?” he offers. 

For a flicker of a moment, you feel panic. Real, dumb, heart-skipping panic. It’s stupid, but there’s only so much changes to the routine that you can manage. 

You shake your head too quickly. “Oh—no, I’m good. I like the walk. Clears the head. You know. Air. Legs. Exercise. The usual.”

Seungcheol tilts his head to one side, amused. “Right. Wouldn’t want to deprive your legs.”

You wince. “That came out weird.”

“A little.”

You make a vague getaway motion with your thumb. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow. Or whenever your Google Calendar allows.”

He steps back with a hand over his heart. “Rejected. Brutally,” he says, probably half-serious in his petulance. “I’ll add it to the long list of things humbling me today.” 

You laugh, finally breathing again.

He grins. “Get home safe, leg defender.”

You toss him a wave as the door jingles shut behind you, the night warm and a little kinder than before.

The next time, though, it’s your turn to fray. 

Not frayed like the fashionable kind, like the artfully undone cuffs of your oldest hoodie. No. Frayed like a wire that’s been chewed on, left buzzing and dangerous, held together by the last threads of caffeine and hope.

You take your usual seat by the window, laptop open but untouched. There’s a tab open for invoices and another for a brand guideline doc you swear was written by an alien. The client has emailed five times since sunrise. Each message contradicts the last. You can’t even be mad anymore. Only tired.

The Greeting Committee smells like cinnamon and second chances. Felix slides your drink over with a gentle smile. It doesn’t help much.

Seungcheol arrives half an hour later, still slightly windblown, suit jacket over one arm. He spots you, hesitates, then sits at the table beside yours.

“Hey,” he says, carefully. “You look industrious.” 

You grunt.

He peeks at your screen. “Stressed from freelancing?” he says, aiming for a friendly jab. “Didn’t know that possible. I thought you’d have it easier, you know. Not having to deal with soul-crushing clients.”

It hits wrong. Off-key. The joke doesn’t land; it crash lands.

You glance up. Maybe he sees the sharpness in your jaw, the sheen in your eyes. Maybe not. You stand abruptly, chair scraping a little too loud against the floor. “Excuse me,” you say, voice too even.

You retreat to the bathroom. Lock the door. Breathe once. Twice. And then it happens.

Your chest caves, just a little. The tears come fast and hot. Not the kind you can blink away. These are stubborn, panicked, silent sobs. Messy ones. The kind you don’t want anyone to see.

You wash your face after. Pat your cheeks until they stop looking flushed, though they don’t. Your eyes are still red, like you lost a fight with a mascara wand and your own emotional stability. 

When you emerge, the café looks the same, but something has shifted. Seungcheol looks up immediately. He doesn’t say anything.

Just watches you, eyes soft, mouth slightly open like he started a sentence but forgot how to finish it. There’s none of his usual machismo. He just looks like someone kicked his favorite puppy.

You sit back down, mute. Felix gives you a glance, like he’s debating giving you a cookie. You shake your head. Not today.

Seungcheol clears his throat, shifts, but says nothing.

The silence is a kindness. So you let it be.

You go back to your screen and pretend to work. Seungcheol stays in his seat beside you. Quiet, still, and present.

He doesn't come by the next day. Or the one after.

It shouldn’t matter. And yet, your eyes flick to the door more than they should. There’s a particular flow you’ve both unconsciously followed, a choreography built of glances and coffee steam, shared space and sidelong banter. You miss it. Or him. Or whatever weird, ambiguous thing he is.

On the third day, though, he returns.

You feel him before you see him. His presence has a particular gravity, like someone dragged in a suitcase full of decisions and contradictions. He walks up, eyes careful, a coffee in each hand.

“Peace offering?” he says, nudging one cup toward you.

“Is it poisoned?” you ask, trying not to sound too pleased at his reappearance. 

“Only with charm and sincerity.”

You take it. He sits. Not at the next table. Not across the room. But right across from you. “Okay,” he says, settling in. “I want to understand what you do. Freelancing. The whole… lifestyle."

“You mean the glorious, cobbled-together hustle powered by imposter syndrome and caffeine?” you throw back, 

“Exactly,” he grins. “That.”

You peer at him. “Don’t you have a mountain of corporate souls to harvest today?”

He leans back, eyes closed dramatically. “Took an emergency leave.”

You stare. “An emergency leave. For freelance empathy research.”

“And because my boss told me I was breathing too loudly on calls. Also that I needed to stop quoting BTS lyrics in pitch decks. But yes. Research.”

You snort despite yourself. “Fine,” you say, gesturing to your screen. “Give me an hour. I have to finish this edit before my client finds another designer who doesn’t cry in public bathrooms."

He lifts both hands in surrender. “No rush. I’m just here to sponge up wisdom and avoid responsibility.”

You nod once, then dive into your screen, fingers tapping in a slow, precise rhythm. Every so often, you feel his gaze. Like he’s watching someone solve a puzzle he never knew existed. You finish the edit in record time, hit send, close your laptop with a satisfying click.

He perks up. “That it? Are we about to enter the magical world of self-employment lore?”

You stretch, then take a long sip of your not-poisoned coffee. “Welcome to hell, Seungcheol. There are no benefits, but sometimes people send you cheese in the mail."

He grins, eyes lighting up. “Sounds oddly romantic.”

“It’s a lifestyle of extremes.”

For the first time in days, the air between you feels loose again. You tell him all the details. The ability to work from wherever, at the price of the constant availability. The power to pick and choose your battles. The legal threats issued when you’re not paid on time. Seungcheol is expressive; he shuttles from amusement and horror every so often. 

As you close up your tirade, you rest your chin on your palm and squint at him over the rim of your cup. “So what are you like outside the nine-to-five costume party?” 

He hums. “Define ‘outside.’”

“The part of the day where you're not actively recruiting K-pop idols or quoting RM at your boss.”

He taps his fingers on the table, mock-pensive. “Well. I play padel.”

You actually flinch. “Of course you do.” 

“And indoor golf,” he adds, almost sheepish.

“You absolute LinkedIn man.”

He gasps, fake-offended. “Take that back.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me you use Notion to organize your fridge.”

“That was one time. And the color-coding was inspired.”

You point at him, triumphant. “I knew it.”

He chuckles, leans in a little like he can't help it. “And what do you do outside of crying over client feedback and judging my recreational habits?”

“I doodle in margins. Watch bad reality TV and pretend it’s for character study. Occasionally rearrange my bookshelf like it’s therapy,” you answer as you roll your shoulders. 

He nods solemnly. “That tracks.”

You tilt your head. “You know, you’re very defensive about your Very Normal Corporate Hobbies.”

“You asked. I answered.”

“You answered like a man who has a separate gym bag just for tennis whites.”

“Only on weekends.”

You laugh, louder than intended. A few heads turn. Seungcheol watches you, smile stretching slowly, like he’s soaking it in.

“So,” he says, after a beat. “You want to know me, huh?”

You bite back a grin. “You’re the one who took emergency leave to decode the mysteries of my working habits.”

“But you’re asking the personal questions.”

You go to sip your coffee again but pause mid-air. Okay. Fair. You set your mug down. “Maybe I do. Want to know you.”

He blinks, surprised. You swear there’s a slight flush to his ears. “Wow,” he says, voice lighter. “I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

“Don’t get cocky. It’s purely investigative.”

“Of course. For science.”

“For society.”

“For the greater good.”

You both grin into your drinks. For a moment, it feels easy again—like maybe you’re two people in a café, not an ironic universe crashing softly into each other. Just you, him, and the slow unfurling of something not yet named.

You start bringing extra pens, just in case he forgets his again. He never asks, but he always takes them, twirling the cap between his fingers as if it’s part of his pitch strategy. You pretend not to notice the way he always slides it back across the table when he leaves, perfectly aligned with your notebook.

He starts remembering how you like your coffee. Not the way you order it, but the way you drink it. When it should be sweet, when it needs to be strong. He doesn’t ask. Just shows up with a cup that tastes like exactly the kind of day you’re having.

Once, you swap playlists. He laughs at your affinity for melancholic ballads and sends you one too many motivational bops in return. You retaliate with obscure indie rock. He retaliates harder with vintage K-pop. It spirals quickly.

Your seating becomes a ritual. You gravitate toward each other like satellites, or maybe like rival planets that keep brushing orbits. Not always talking, but near. Comfortable in the shared silence of productivity, in the occasional sarcastic quip lobbed across laptops.

Then, one Thursday, you can’t make it. A meeting across town. A cousin’s birthday. Something outside the orbit. You don’t text. It’s not that kind of arrangement.

The next day, you return to The Greeting Committee, windblown and half-apologetic for reasons you can’t name. Felix greets you at the counter with a too-wide grin.

“Someone was a little antsy yesterday,” he says, sliding your usual across the bar.

Your brow furrows. “Antsy?”

Felix leans in, tone conspiratorial. “Your boy was pacing,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Kept checking the door like a golden retriever who lost his owner at the park. Ordered three espressos and didn’t drink any of them.”

You don’t even have the energy to clock Felix for calling Seungcheol your boy. You glance over to your usual table. Seungcheol is there. Head down. Pretending he can’t hear Felix. He’s gone stock-still.

You approach slowly. “Three espressos?”

Seungcheol already has his face buried in his hands. “I hate him,” he groans. 

You set your things down. “Were you worried about me?”

“I was... mildly alarmed that my study subject had vanished,” he mumbles. “For science.”

You grin at the now-inside joke. “For society.”

He squints at you from between his fingers. “I should’ve taken another emergency leave.”

“Better clear it with HR.”

He sighs dramatically, then glances at you. “Glad you’re back.”

Your heart stumbles. “Yeah,” you murmur, trying not to smile too much. “Me too.”

The day stays with you.

Like a bit of sugar stuck on your lip, or a phrase you can’t remember the origin of. It trails behind you into the evening, clings to your sweater the next morning, settles in the folds of routine. His face, half-horrified under Felix’s grin. The way he said glad you’re back. Too casual. Too real.

It sits beside you when he doesn’t show up the next day. Or the next. Or the three after that. By day six, you’ve graduated from confused to mildly insulted. Not that it matters. Not that you care. Not that you check the door every time it opens.

You try to reason with yourself. He has a job. A corporate one. With meetings. Flights. Possibly a high-stakes padel tournament. But still, the café feels off-kilter without him. Like one chair always pulled out too far.

Day eight, you’re settled into your seat—headphones in, deadlines glaring—when a shadow flits across your screen. You look up.

He’s back. Tan coat, navy slacks, guilty smile. Holding a coffee cup like a peace treaty.

You don’t look up again. Not really. Just enough to let him pass. You type a little more pointedly than usual. Sip your drink a touch too loud. “Okay,” he says eventually, dropping into the seat across from you with a sigh. “Are we doing this?”

You don’t stop typing. “Doing what?”

“This thing. Where you pretend not to notice me because I disappeared for a week.”

You arch a brow. “You disappeared?” you ask, even though the tick of your jaw gives away your feigned nonchalance. 

“I had a work trip,” he says, halfway exasperated. “I didn’t fake my own death.”

“Would’ve been less dramatic.”

He exhales a laugh, then leans forward, arms on the table. “You know, we could exchange numbers. Save you the emotional labor next time.”

You glance at him. He’s smirking. Just a little. But there’s a hopefulness under it, peeking out like socks that don’t match.

“You think I want your number?” 

“No. I think you want me to want your number.” 

You snort. You hate it when he’s right. Wordlessly, you hold out your hand; he stares at it like it’s some sort of bomb. 

“Phone,” you say dryly. “Before I change my mind.”

He fumbles it out, unlocking it with shaking fingers. You type in your number, add your name, and for no good reason, a croissant emoji. You hand it back. “There,” you huff. “Now next time you vanish, I can file a formal complaint.”

He grins, and it’s a little too wide for his face. A little too happy to be friendly. “I’ll have my people forward it to legal.”

You finally meet his eyes.

It feels like stepping into warm light.

Your phone buzzes, mid-sip, mid-scroll, mid-holding-back-a-yawn. A text. From Seungcheol. Who is, rather notably, sitting four feet in front of you.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:03 PM]: did you sleep last night or are you just naturally corpse-chic today?

You look up. He’s got the gall to raise his brows at you over his laptop, like he didn’t just insult you through cellular waves. Like this is normal behavior for a grown man in business casual.

You respond with a slow, deliberate middle finger under the table. He grins. Felix swats you both and murmurs something about children being around. 

The next day, Seungcheol does it again.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:25 PM]: is that your third cup? do i need to stage an intervention or just sponsor it as a startup?

This time, you reward him with a middle finger emoji. Something a little more permanent, and a lot less damning to Felix. Seungcheol’s responding cough is suspiciously laughter-adjacent.

It becomes a rhythm, a beat stitched between sips and keystrokes. You never text outside of The Greeting Committee. Not once. But inside its sun-drenched walls, with the clatter of cups and the low hum of indie folk, you have your own thread. A quiet thing. A private game.

Sometimes, it’s teasing.

Seungcheol ☕ [1:43 PM]: felix gave you the bigger muffin. favoritism.

Sometimes, it’s curious

Seungcheol ☕ [3:10 PM]: what are you working on today? looks serious. also your nose scrunches when you’re focused.

Sometimes, it’s borderline sentimental:

Seungcheol ☕ [5:04 PM]: i like mondays better now.

You don’t always respond.

Sometimes you just smile, or shake your head, or raise an eyebrow that says you’re on to him. Sometimes he takes that as victory. Sometimes he gets mock-wounded.

You pretend not to notice the way he watches your face light up, but you do. You always do.

You don’t know what to make of it—this strange little performance. This theater of text bubbles and muffled laughs. But your fingers start lingering over your phone when he walks in. Your heart bumps when it buzzes. You catch yourself rereading his old messages when he’s in the restroom.

You know it isn’t just caffeine making you giddy, no matter how badly you want to make the claim.

Seungcheol doesn’t come in one morning. You notice before the door finishes not opening.

Felix does, though, gliding past your table with a steaming latte and a smirk like he knows a secret. He wipes down the counter with theatrical flair before leaning over it to say, “So. Are you two ever going to get together, or should I just start a betting pool?”

You laugh. Too quickly. Too high. “We’re not—” You wave your hand in a vague gesture that means something like, Don’t be ridiculous, but also, maybe, Please don’t ask me that when I haven’t had my coffee.

Felix raises both eyebrows and hums. “Sure. Okay. Keep lying to yourself, sweetheart.”

You spend the next thirty minutes trying to focus on your screen and not on the vacant corner of the cafe where Seungcheol’s laptop usually glows and his stupid phone buzzes with texts he won’t say out loud. It’s like trying to work with half your keyboard missing. Or your second favorite limb.

Around lunchtime, when the loneliness gets just a touch too loud, you do something unhinged.

You open LinkedIn.

It starts off innocent. Curious, even. You want to see what he looks like in a professional headshot. You want to know if his job title is as unnecessarily long as you suspect. (It is. “Senior Talent Acquisition Specialist & Strategist, Creative Industries Division.” Ugh.)

You scroll through his accolades, which are infuriatingly impressive. Fluent in three languages. Led multiple region-wide talent campaigns. There’s a photo of him at some conference, smiling and mid-sentence, looking… God, competent. That’s, unfortunately for you, really hot. 

You hate how charming his bullet points are. You hate that he probably made a slide deck about them. You close the app. You reopen it. You check his endorsements.

And then, as you're packing up, phone zipped away, pretending like you haven’t spiraled into corporate espionage, your screen lights up.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:22 PM]: you know i have linkedin premium, right? i can see who views my profile.

Your soul leaves your body. You stop dead, laptop halfway into your tote. Another buzz.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:22 PM]: did you miss me that bad?

A third, before you can reply:

Seungcheol ☕ [2:23 PM]: you could’ve just texted, you little coward.

You type back with trembling thumbs.

You [2:25 PM]: You should be banned from the internet.

He sends a smirking emoji, and the emoji with hearts on the face. 

You hate him. You hate that you’re smiling. You hate that your heart is fluttering like it just got a calendar invite to something thrilling.

You slide your phone into your bag. It buzzes again. You leave it there. 

You don’t need to check it to know exactly who it is.

The next time you see Seungcheol, he’s already sitting at your table.

He has the audacity to look smug, half-grin tilting upward as you approach, coffee in hand and dignity in tatters. “Hope you found what you were looking for on my profile,” he says without preamble.

You set your cup down with deliberate care. “Actually,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him, “I did. Very informative. I especially liked the bit where you led a cross-functional recruitment initiative. That was hot.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then he chokes on his Americano.

You raise an eyebrow, sipping your latte with practiced coolness. “What?”

He coughs into his sleeve. “Nothing,” he wheezes. “Just didn’t realize I had a fan.”

You tilt your head. “LinkedIn says you’re results-driven. I just wanted to see if you lived up to the branding.”

He goes very still. There’s a beat, then another, and then his ears go pink. It’s kind of glorious. He clears his throat, fiddling with the lid of his cup like it’s suddenly become complicated engineering.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses. 

This, as in corporate flirting? “Immensely,” you chirp. 

He lifts his gaze just long enough to give you a look that says two can play this game, but not very well, apparently. “You know, I was going to bring you a croissant to make fun of you gently, but now I’m reconsidering.”

“Fear is the beginning of wisdom,” you say, quoting something you may or may not have pulled from a fortune cookie.

He groans softly, but there’s laughter behind it. There always is, lately. He looks at you a little too long, like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment. You feel it, the shift—somewhere between banter and something gentler, something a little more reckless. But then he breaks the moment, leaning back with a crooked grin.

“Remind me to revoke your internet access,” he says.

“Try it,” you say. “I dare you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. You don’t look away. Neither does he.

The evening’s already blushing gold by the time Seungcheol says, “Let me walk you home tonight.”

It’s casual, tossed in like garnish. But there’s a new kind of weight to it. Not the kind that sinks, but the kind that anchors.

You sip the last of your lukewarm latte and reply, “Okay. But we’re walking. No car. It’s only twenty minutes, and you need the humility.”

He squints like you’ve personally offended his shin splints. “Twenty minutes? That’s practically cardio.”

You stand, grab your tote, and shoot him a look. “You’ll survive. Probably.”

He groans but follows, waving a lazy goodbye to Felix, who grins way too knowingly.

The air outside is warm with the memory of the sun. The streets are still holding onto their buzz, slow and syrupy. You walk side by side, his arm brushing yours just often enough to register. He doesn’t make a show of it. That would be too easy.

At the end of the block, you turn left instead of right.

Seungcheol pauses. “Hey. That’s not the way to your place. Unless you’re secretly living behind the dumpster.”

You shrug. “Need to make a stop.”

His eyes narrow. “Is this how it happens? You lure me out, make me walk, then finish me off behind a coffee shop? Classic femme fatale behavior.”

“Stop being dramatic,” you sigh. “I’m feeding someone.”

You lead him to the back of The Greeting Committee, where the air smells like cooling bricks and old pastries. There, curled beneath a battered crate and a weather-worn sign, is a stray tabby blinking lazily up at you.

“This is Pumpkin,” you say, crouching to pull a packet of wet food from your bag as if it’s completely normal to carry gourmet feline meals in a tote next to your charger and existential despair.

Seungcheol just stares. “You—what—is that tuna mousse?”

“Chicken and pumpkin puree,” you correct. “He has a sensitive stomach.”

The tabby slinks forward, mewling. You set the food down, and Pumpkin immediately goes to town. Seungcheol is still watching, expression somewhere between disbelief and awe. “You do this every day?” he asks.

You shrug. “Most days. Felix lets me stash a few cans under the sink. He pretends not to know.”

Seungcheol huffs a quiet laugh, crouching beside you. His knees crack with such dramatic flourish you can't help but look at him. “I’m too young to make those sounds,” he mutters.

“Corporate life ages you.”

He glances at you. “So does pining after someone who makes fun of your LinkedIn.”

You pretend to study Pumpkin more closely. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Oh, it is,” he says, and his smile feels like the first sip of something warm on a cold morning.

The two of you watch Pumpkin finish off his meal. You could probably get going, but you quite like seeing Seungcheol—immaculately pressed suit, Aventus Creed Seungcheol—crouched in a random alleyway, watching a cat with immense concentration. Makes him look more human, less robot. 

Pumpkin mewls appreciatively at you as he finishes off his meal. The stray gives Seungcheol a hiss that suspiciously sounds like a warning. It doesn’t really make sense until you get to your feet, Seungcheol in tow, and you realize he’s giving you a Look. The preemptive kind that warns of something ahead. 

He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m about to do something stupid.”

“Like pet the cat even though he’ll hiss at you again?” you say, because it’s easier to joke about things than take anything seriously. 

He takes a breath. His gaze flicks to your lips. “Worse.”

And then, before you can ask, Seungcheol says, “Sorry,” like it’s the preamble to a crime scene, and leans in.

The kiss is not polite. It’s not tentative. It’s not a test or a maybe.

It’s the undoing of a thousand little silences.

Your back hits the wall. You let out a surprised sound, half laugh, half breathless awe. The alley smells like coffee grounds and rain-slicked pavement. His tie is the first casualty; you tug it loose and toss it over a bike rack without ceremony. Seungcheol groans into your mouth. His hands are warm and everywhere, grounding you while one of your legs hitch over his waist. 

You taste his Americano on his tongue, bergamot from his cologne, and something sharper that must be everything he hasn’t said. The way he kisses you like an overdue confession. You don’t stop to think about the logistics. Or the implications. Or whether Pumpkin the cat is scandalized.

You just think about how this man—who wears suits to cafés, who once made you cry with a poorly timed joke, who texts you across the room just to see you smile—is kissing you, like the world might end if he doesn’t.

Your breath is still caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat when he pulls back. Not fully, not even really. Just enough for air to cool your lips, for the night to slip between your mouths, for you to hear him say, between peppered kisses along your jaw and neck, “I’ve dreamt of doing that since the moment I saw you in that damn cafe.”

You let your head tip back against the brick wall. “You can’t call it love at first sight,” you murmur, voice wobbly but amused. “This isn’t some drama your company produced, Choi.”

“Fine. Whatever.” He says it with no real bite, his mouth still brushing against your throat. “But I’ve known I wanted to kiss you since I laid my fucking eyes on you, so what does that make me?”

You choke on a laugh. It bubbles between your ribs, tangled with the aftershock of his lips and the humiliating truth that you’d let him keep kissing you all night if he wanted.

Your fingers are still laced in the lapels of his coat. His hands—well, one is braced against the wall behind your head and the other has begun to roam with alarming curiosity, curling possessively at your waist, tugging you flush against him like he could make up for the months lost in one touch.

It’s reckless. A little indecent. Unwise in about seventeen different ways.

You kiss him again anyway, because you’re not a coward. But when his thumb slips under the hem of your shirt and your knees actually threaten mutiny, you pull back, panting, forehead resting against his.

“We can’t be like teenagers groping each other in an alleyway,” you whine. 

He grins widely, a little wild around the edges. “Why not?”

You push gently at his chest, which is about as effective as shoving a tree. “Because I live around the corner, and I have dignity.”

“Debatable,” he murmurs, but he steps back all the same. The loss is enough to almost make you sob. 

You grab his hand, and tug him along. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s go make more questionable decisions in the comfort of my very adult, very allergy-safe apartment,” you manage. 

He hastily grabs his tie with his free hand. “If there’s carrot cake, I might propose.”

“There’s vodka in the freezer.”

“Close enough.”

The two of you make it to your apartment in record time, breathless and disheveled, a tangle of limbs that barely manages to key open the door. You’re laughing, the kind of laugh that shakes with adrenaline.

Your back hits the inside of the door before it even closes properly, and Seungcheol is already kissing you again. Less alleyway, more frantic prayer. His hands at your hips, your fingers at the buttons of his shirt, all coordination gone to hell.

“Wait… we should talk,” you try, mouth brushing against his as you speak. Your hands are on his collar, but your words are trying to wrangle the last of your common sense.

He nips at your jaw. “We will.”

Your jacket slips off your shoulders. His tie joins it on the floor. “Seungcheol,” you say with more force, stepping back as much as he lets you. “We can't make out for three episodes and then just forget to have a conversation."

His shirt is halfway undone, and his hair’s in beautiful, stupid disarray. He pauses then, forehead against yours. His breath is still shallow. So is yours. “You’re right,” he says. “This shouldn’t be like the dramas.”

Your heartbeat is in your throat. “So?” you choke out. 

He exhales. It rumbles against your sternum, where your bodies are still close enough to feel the echo. “So we do both. We kiss first, talk after. We do it all. As long as neither of us runs.”

Your hand stills against his chest. It would be the easiest thing to make a joke—say something coy, derail the tension with a smirk and a shrug. But Seungcheo’s eyes are honest in a way that leaves no room for denial. No games, no marketing language, no curated storylines. Just him, a man still half-dressed and fully sincere.

“Deal,” you decide, and then you kiss him again.

It carries you all the way to the couch, to the warmth of pressed skin and the ridiculousness of two adults trying not to knock over a lamp while tangled in each other. You tell yourself you’ll talk after. You will.

But right now, there’s nothing but the soft thud of clothes hitting your floor and the sound of Seungcheol whispering your name.

You wake up to sunlight smeared across your floor like a crime scene. The throw blanket is wrapped halfway around your thigh, a heel of it digging into the couch cushion. You blink. The apartment is too quiet. The kind of quiet that knows something is missing.

Seungcheol is gone.

Not vanished. His shoes are gone, his jacket too, but he’s left a note. Folded in half and propped up against your half-empty water glass like a tiny paper tent.

Didn’t want to wake you. You looked criminally peaceful. Not running, just got dragged into an early meeting. I owe you coffee. And at least three kisses. Minimum. — Choi (Not A Flight Risk) Seungcheol

You stare at it for a beat too long. It’s charming. Earnest, even. The ink slightly smudged where he might’ve hovered too long over the word criminally. But your chest feels taut. Like a rubber band wound too tight around something soft.

Your phone buzzes.

Seungcheol ☕ [7:21 AM]: i meant what i said. i’m not disappearing. Seungcheol ☕ [7:21 AM]: also, how do you feel about bagels? asking for a future breakfast. Seungcheol ☕ [7:22 AM]: also pt2: you drool in your sleep. it’s very cute.

You chuckle. Which turns into a sigh. Which turns into you setting the phone face down and pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes.

It’s not the leaving, exactly. You understand work. You understand early meetings and obligations and shoes that need to be polished. It’s the ache of the aftermath. The warmth of him still clinging to your sheets and skin, and the chill of the apartment now that he’s no longer in it.

How easily he’d done it. How easily he could still do it, if he wanted to. In the imminent future. 

You move through the morning like someone wearing someone else’s shoes. Make coffee, forget to drink it. Brush your teeth, stare too long in the mirror. You’re not angry. But there’s something like bitter lodged in the back of your throat, and it won’t quite go down.

Later, at your at-home desk, he sends a selfie from a conference room. Half his tie is undone, and someone’s arm is motioning animatedly beside him, blurred in mid-gesture.

Seungcheol ☕ [1:30 PM]: currently dying. cpr not required unless administered by you.

You do laugh. A little. Quietly. Still, the unsettled thing inside you rolls over, sighs. Unimpressed.

You wonder, absurdly, if he’s kissed anyone else like that in an alleyway. If he’s made out with a woman behind a coffee shop, all suit and stubble and soft declarations. If he’s left notes for other people, claiming they looked criminally peaceful.

You know it’s silly. But that doesn’t stop the wondering, or the weight of wanting more.

You text him back something flippant. Light. Exactly the tone he always teases you for having.

You [2:02 PM]: If you die in that meeting, I’m keeping your coffee points.

It earns you a photo of his exaggerated gasp, hand to chest like a silent movie star. You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach where it has to. 

You don’t go to The Greeting Committee the next day. Or the next. Or the one after that.

At first, you tell yourself it’s because you need a change of scenery. The café chairs were always a little too firm, anyway. And there are so many other places to try! Like that plant-filled co-working space that smells faintly of eucalyptus and overly ambitious startups. Or your kitchen table, which wobbles like it’s been cursed by a very specific and petty god.

But the truth is less glamorous. The truth is, you miss him. And missing him makes you squirm. You don’t know what to do with that kind of intimacy—the kind that follows you home, seeps into your dreams, and then sends you sweet messages about bagels as if it didn’t completely undo you.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:09 PM]: missing my coffee buddy. when am i seeing you again?

You reply an hour later.

You [5:10 PM]: Got a deadline this week. Might be a while.

The next day:

Seungcheol ☕ [6:19 PM]: i’m starting to think i hallucinated the whole thing. very elaborate dream. excellent production value. You [9:32 PM]: Definitely real. Probably. 87% sure.

You try a different café. The espresso tastes like regret. The barista spells your name with a Q. You spill oat milk on your notes.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:20 PM]: Thinking about filing a missing person report. You [10:13 PM]: I’m just very elusive. Like a fox. Or Carmen Sandiego.

You’re doing it. The dance. Light-footed and clever. Skipping across the surface before anything can pull you under.

But it gnaws at you. Not the silence, because there is none. Seungcheol still texts. Every day. A silly update. A selfie with an Americano. A picture of a squirrel he insists is giving him side-eye. It’s the consistency of it. The unrelenting sweetness. The way he keeps showing up, even if you don’t.

On the fifth day, your phone buzzes with something different.

Seungcheol ☕ [8:04 AM]: door.

You open the door in your worst t-shirt—a sleep-soft relic from a failed music festival, collar stretched, logo faded into oblivion. Seungcheol stands there like the dramatic ending to a mid-season K-drama. Tousled hair. Scowl on his face. Cardboard pastry box in one hand, a bouquet in the other that looks like it could finance a small wedding.

“Really?” he says, before you can even fake a good morning.

You blink. “Hi?”

He holds up the pastries, slightly tilted. A peace offering gone stale. “You’ve been dodging me like I’m a subscription service you forgot to cancel,” he deadpans. 

“You could've just texted again,” you mutter.

“I did. Several times. Look where that got me.”

You sigh and step aside. He brushes past, trailing the scent of espresso and patience thinned to a thread.

He places the pastry box on your counter and sets the bouquet down with exaggerated care. It doesn’t match your kitchen. Too pristine. Too blush-colored and wrapped in sheer paper that shimmers slightly. You resent it for being beautiful. For being from him.

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” you say, arms crossing over your chest.

“Yeah, well.” He shoots you a look. “I wasn’t sure if I was showing up for a conversation or a war.”

You lean against the counter, the cold tile pressing into your hip. The kitchen feels too quiet, too bright. You think about the last few days and how you’ve been avoiding your usual coffee like it might burn more than just your tongue.

“I wasn’t trying to ghost you,” you say finally.

“No,” he agrees, watching you. “Just haunt me a little.”

There’s something too knowing in his tone, but not unkind. He isn’t angry. Just... here. Uninvited and stubborn and still charming in a very irritating way. 

“I needed time,” you offer. It sounds thinner out loud than it did in your head.

“Time I can do,” he shoots back, “but disappearing without telling me why? Not really my favorite genre of heartbreak.”

You glance at the pastries. At the bouquet. At him. He looks ridiculous. And sweet. And maybe a little scared under all that posturing. “Fine,” you say. “We can talk.”

You set the kettle on the stove. He takes a spot on your counter stool.

You make the tea to buy yourself time. Seungcheol doesn’t press, just watches, elbows on the counter and jaw tucked into his hand like he’s willing to wait forever or until the kettle screams.

It does, eventually. You pour the water. Set down mugs. Curl your fingers around yours like it might anchor you.

“I just… I don't know what we're doing,” you say, eyes fixed on the rippling surface of your tea. “It feels like two people on opposite tracks pretending they aren’t going to crash into something.”

Seungcheol exhales a soft laugh, more breath than amusement. “You think we’re crashing already? We haven’t even started anything.” 

“That’s the problem,” you say, glancing at him. “You wear suits. You chase clients. You probably have a skincare fridge and a Google Calendar color-coded within an inch of its life.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just sips his tea and lifts an eyebrow like, And?

You press on. “I work out of cafes. I write brand copy for sock companies and only recently stopped paying my rent late. I have... retroactive jealousy issues.”

“Retroactive?”

“Like, I’ll be jealous of things that happened before I even knew you.”

He stares at you for a minute. Then: “That is both deeply irrational and weirdly flattering.”

You groan into your tea.

“Okay,” he says, putting the mug down. “Full honesty? I don’t even really like The Greeting Committee.”

Of all the things Choi Seungcheol could have said in that moment, that was not the one you were expecting.

Your head snaps up so fast, you’re surprised your neck didn’t damage somehow. “What?” you stammer. 

“Yeah,” he grimaces. “Their lattes are overpriced and their playlist is one bad Sufjan Stevens song away from sending me into a spiral.”

You’re scandalized. “You—you’ve been coming there for months!”

He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Because the first day I walked in, I saw you by the window. Eyes on your screen, hair in that ridiculous little claw clip, frowning like the fate of the world depended on a semicolon. And I thought, holy shit. There goes my weekday.” 

You want to scoff. You want to melt. Instead, you accuse, “So you treated me like a talent to chase.” 

His head snaps back. “Oh my God,” he says, nearly knocking over his tea. “Do you hear yourself? You make it sound like I had a casting binder labeled ‘Girl In Cute Sweater By Window.’”

“I mean—”

“I liked you. I like you. And every time I tried to talk to you, you dodged me like I was pitching a pyramid scheme. What else was I supposed to do?”

You falter. Your mug has gone cold. Your pulse has not. “Maybe,” he continues, quieter now, “if you weren’t so busy building exits in your head, you’d see I’m not going anywhere.”

You look at him. Earnest. Exasperated. Still holding on. He stares back at you, and he must find something there underneath all the frazzled panic and the indignation. He must see it. Whatever you can’t say, hiding just right on the surface. 

You don’t know who leans in first, but your nose bumps his, and neither of you laugh. Not at first.

Your lips find his, soft and familiar, and then softer still when he sighs against your mouth. It’s unfair, how easily kissing him feels like home. Like you’ve done it a thousand times before and you’ll do it again, again, again.

Your hand fists the back of his collar, tugging him closer like you’re afraid he’ll vanish for another meeting, or for some other girl by the window who catches his eye.

“I know I’m being ridiculous,” you murmur between kisses, lips brushing his jaw, his cheekbone. “But you wear nice shoes and own stock options and know how to pronounce ‘acquisition’ without choking on your own tongue.”

He chuckles into the shell of your ear. “You’re literally straddling me right now,” he grunts, hands already roaming over your curves. “Do you really want me to start listing your resume?”

You ignore that. Instead, your voice comes out in one of those flurried half-whispers, tangled in the haze of heat and nerves. “Sometimes I make up fake ex-girlfriends of yours in my head so I can stop wanting you so much,” you confess. You’re already on a roll. Might as well keep going. 

He pulls back briefly to look at you. “You…. what?”

You groan, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. “They’re really pretty in my imagination. The type that remember to water their plants and own matching socks.”

He laughs, full and honest, and rests his forehead against yours. “Do the fake ones also haunt The Greeting Committee?” he teases. “Or just the real ones you make up to ruin your own day?”

You swat at his shoulder, but he catches your wrist and presses a kiss there, which only melts you more. “I’m a freelancer,” you babble. “I can’t even guarantee what my income will look like next month. I eat leftovers three times a week. My savings account cries itself to sleep.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it for your benefit. I’m saying it because it’s true.” He threads his fingers through your hair, his voice low. “You think I didn’t bribe Felix for your schedule, so I could time my work-from-home’s around you?” 

“That makes you sound like a stalker.” 

“A handsome one. Who brought pastries and a ninety dollar bouquet.” 

“Was it really necessary to mention the price of the flowers?” 

“Why the fuck are we even still talking right now?” 

You kiss him again before you can say something overly earnest. He kisses back with the kind of conviction that feels like a vow. Hands wandering. Shirts lifting. Breathless little nothings in between.

“Wait,” he murmurs, as you fumble backward, hand on his belt buckle. “Where’s your bedroom?”

You gesture vaguely to the left. “Through the hallway. First door. Don’t judge my laundry basket.” 

“I won’t judge,” he says, hauling you up bridal style without warning. You yelp. He grins and nips at your earlobe. “But if you keep making up fake girlfriends, I might have to fight one in a dream.” 

You press your face into his shoulder, laughing and mortified and a little bit in love.

That guy who used to always be in a suit is in your seat.

Technically, it’s still not your seat. The Greeting Committee hasn’t suddenly been overtaken by bureaucracy and gold nameplates. But it doesn’t matter. You’re at the same table now.

Window seat, second from the left, with sunlight that softens instead of sears. An outlet for both your laptop and your lingering cynicism, and enough ambient chatter to feel alive without being overwhelmed.

Seungcheol is there. Across from you. Laptop open, tie conspicuously absent, sleeves rolled up like he’s auditioning for the part of everyone’s favorite approachable CEO. He’s editing something, you think. Or maybe pretending to. Every few minutes, he looks up like he’s going to say something, then doesn’t. 

When you finally glance at him over the rim of your coffee cup, he gives you that smile—the one that says, I can’t believe you picked me.

Felix brings a blueberry scone cut neatly in half. “For my favorite couple,” he announces, loud enough for the older woman at the neighboring table to coo in amusement. You groan. Seungcheol winks.

“We’re not your couple, Felix,” you mutter.

“You literally are,” Felix says, already walking away. “I made the bouquet for your first fight makeup. I’m emotionally invested now.”

You shoot Seungcheol a look. He raises both hands in surrender. “I didn’t tell him anything! He just knows things. Like a romance bloodhound.”

You roll your eyes and nudge half the scone toward Seungcheol. His fingers brush yours, deliberate and warm. You’re still getting used to that. The small intimacies. The way he lingers now.

How your things have started to mix at each other’s places: his tie in your laundry bin, your socks peeking out from under his couch. How he texts you silly memes during meetings and starts grocery lists in your Notes app like it’s always been shared.

There are days you still trip over the difference between solitude and comfort. Days when you want to crawl back into your shell of low-stakes independence and low-commitment caffeine. Days you remember all the reasons you told yourself not to do this.

That he’s too polished, too stable, too everything-you-aren’t. That he comes from a world of network pitches and tailored blazers and you, on some days, can barely remember if you own an iron.

But then he smiles across the table like you’re not a gamble, just a good choice. And it becomes easier.

Seungcheol leans in a little, conspiratorial. “What do you think Felix would do if I kissed you right now?”

You glance toward the counter. Felix is absolutely watching. “Probably write about it in his next customer newsletter.”

“Worth it.”

You kick Seungcheol lightly under the table. He nudges back, grinning. There’s a softness to his grin now. He’s not just amused; he’s grateful. You catch the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his thumb taps idly on the side of his mug like it wants to be touching you instead.

You pretend to read something on your screen. Seungcheol pretends to work on his edit. It’s mostly an excuse to sit in your shared silence, warm and companionable.

It’s not official. No brass plaque. No velvet rope. But it’s understood. It’s set in stone.

You might really, really like Choi Seungcheol after all.

[the-librarby]

REWARD ME, WON’T YOU DARLIN’? II

- SIMON RILEY (COD)

“You cannot stay in here! I demand privacy!”

He crosses his arms over his chest, “You lost your right to privacy the moment you decided to make a run for it,”

You fluster, “What you expect me to bathe in front of you? That is barbaric!”

Fool him twice shame on him, shouldn’t have done that Princess.

Part I

You had never been this far out from the castle before. You weren’t even sure how many towns over you were now, but the lack of hunters made you feel a little more at ease. You know you didn’t have long before you had to move on, but hopefully a few days respite would last here.

The town was quiet, a peaceful change from the other stops on your journey so far. When you booked your room at the inn there was no chirpy check in girl, just an efficient worker. Everyone here seemed to mind their business from first impressions. Which was a nice change of pace compared to the peering eyes of the last few towns. When you entered your room you took a deep breath and tried to collect your thoughts.

Where were you going from here? You couldn’t outrun the hunters forever, especially not that last one you saw on your way out. The mere thought of him sends a shiver down your spine. Maybe getting a job would help you shake off the rest of this princess identity you’re trying to get rid of. There was a tavern downstairs, how hard could it be to be a barmaid? With a restored sense of confidence you set your mind to marching down there tomorrow.

For now you needed sleep. Dreams of that masked man made it a restless night.

Being a barmaid was tough. It was busy and gruelling, especially at night when the tavern filled with weary travellers. You had no idea how anyone could do this forever, and each day you are reminded how far from home you are, how far from your life you are. You love it here, amongst the rowdy crowds, and the constant darting back and forth between drinks service. You’ve never seen people so in their…element. Back home in the castle everyone had a role, titles, and expectations. There are no manners here, it’s completely barbaric at times when the men think they can get away with a squeeze of your arse. Luckily the owner of the establishment is not afraid of throwing out the wayward customers when they overstay their welcome.

It was the third night of service when you knew you pushed your luck too far.

“Serve that fellow a drink, will you?” The owner ordered, jerking his thumb towards the left side of the bar.

“Who?” You asked, peeking your head over his shoulder trying to catch a glimpse.

“Can’t miss him, he’s wearing a mask over his face.” he says gruffly as he pours another drink.

It feels as though ice has been thrown over your shoulders and soaked you through, you try to pass it off as silly paranoia but you haven’t seen anyone else wear a mask since that day. When you look again, more cautiously this time, you can see it’s who you dreaded it would be. He’s got his arms resting on the bar, looking expectantly in your direction. You quickly look away, clenching your hands by your side.

“Actually, I’m not feeling so well, could I be excused for the evening? I’ll make up my hours tomorrow,” you rush out.

The owner frowns but doesn’t look in your direction as he continues to hand out drinks over the bar, “Serve that gentleman and then you can clock off.”

It’s not what you want to hear, but you’re not going to argue. You exhale deeply through your nose and go about pouring him a drink. As you walk over you duck your head down in what you hope looks like casual shyness and place the drink down in front of him.

“Your drink, Sir,” you say softly.

You can barely hear his deep hum in thanks. Just as you take off your apron and move to walk away he speaks up, “Enjoying your stay?”

You glance over at him through your periphery and offer him a small smile, “Oh yes, it’s been amazing. Would highly recommend the inn’s services,”

“Are you ready to go home?” He asks.

Your fingers freeze, holding the ties of your apron. You turn to face him fully, his drink is still untouched on the bar. You smile gracefully and tilt your head in confusion, “I’m sorry Sir, I’m not quite sure what you mean, I am home,”

He raises an eyebrow, “Grew up here did you? On what street?”

Your smile drops, “I don’t see how that’s your business, stranger,”

The corners of his eyes crinkle slightly at the venom in your tone and outstretches his gloved hand towards you, “Ghost.”

It’s a mockery, a joke to him that makes your blood boil. You slam your apron on the bar counter and make a run for it through the kitchen doors. You weave your way through the stuff, and push through the back door into the alleyway behind the venue. If you could just run to your room and gather your things, you could make it out of here. As you sprint towards the entrance of the alley, a sudden shadow blocks your path and sweeps you off your feet with the force you run into it with.

“C’mon princess, fun’s over,” a gruff voice cuts through.

Trapped in a tight squeeze you resort to kicking and flailing, “Let me go you brute!”

The man huffs at you strained effort to slip free and begins to drag you out of the alleyway, “Stop squirmin’ you brat,”

With all the effort you can conjure up, you concentrate on driving your knee into his groin in with all the strength you have. The man drops you like a sack of bricks against the dirt and clutches his knees as he groans in pain. You can barely hear the cuss words he’s throwing out as you make a mad dash for your room at the inn. You’ve barely slammed the door shut behind you and secured it with the flimsy lock when the door handle begins to rattle.

“Open up,” he demands.

“No!” You shout, back away from the door.

“No? I don’t think you realise what trouble you’re in sweetheart. You don’t just kick a hunter in the fucking balls and get away with it,” he seethes.

You start gathering all your belongings, “All the more reason for me not to let you in,”

There’s a shuffle outside your door, the rattling has stopped, “Oh, got a mouth on you do ya? I’ll kick this door down if I have to,”

You look around in search for something to get you out of here, “The owner is quite fond of me, I don’t think he’d appreciate that,”

“Five,” he starts, at first you think he’s gone mental until you realise he’s counting down, “Four,” you quickly grab the sheets off your bed and throw them in the corner of the room near the window, “Three,”

You run to the door and cautiously open it with the latch still in place to keep some sort of flimsy defence in place, “Please, Ghost is it?” You ask politely as you peek out at him. The man looks furious with his hands placed on his hips, “Is it money you are after? I can pay you out,”

He raises an eyebrow, “With your dwindling funds? Your father has placed a heavy bounty on your head, one that you would not begin to match even with a well paying job,”

You sigh defeatedly, tears springing to your eyes, “Will you at least let me collect my thoughts? You have no idea what it’s like there, please give me one more night here before I have to be dragged back,” you sniffle.

He rolls his eyes and sighs, “I will be here as soon as the sun rises, have your things ready by then,”

You wipe your eyes, “Yes of course, thank you so much for your generosity, Ghost.”

As he turns away you listen to the sound of his heavy boots stomping down the hall until you cannot hear them anymore. Softly you click the door shut behind you once more and start thinking about how to not only get out of here, but evade that bloody hunter. You walk towards the sheets your previously abandoned, the room you’re in is too high to jump from without a leverage but it is facing empty paddocks of land where no one but the farmers walk through during the day. You start fastening the ends of each sheet together to form one long rope, the night is still young so you do not test it yet, you must be patient and wait for the perfect moment.

It’s well past midnight before you decide to crack the window open. The air is brisk against your cheeks, but thankfully the cloak you’re wearing covers most of your body. You toss the sheets you fastened into a rope out the window until they dangle against the brick wall. It doesn’t touch the ground but from here it’s looks long enough to take that gamble. You peer out for one last look of that hunter before carefully climbing out, it’s terrifyingly high to your mind and for a moment you have second thoughts, but you know it’s either this or an escorted trip back to the castle.

The climb down is slow and nerve wracking, every gust of wind has you clenching harder onto the sheets and pausing to stop the swaying. When you reach the end of the rope, the jump down is still quite high but you shut your eyes tight and count down from three before letting go. With a huff you land harshly on your knees against the soft grass, you give yourself a quick once over and breathe a sigh of relief at the lack of injuries— save for the future bruises you will have.

You stand to your feet carefully walking along the brick wall to the entrance, in the stables you can see an unfamiliar black horse. It must belong to the hunter, you duck back behind the wall and walk towards the back road leading out of the town. Hopefully you can hitch a ride on the way, but for now you need to use as much moonlight as you can to make your escape.

Dawn has cracked by the time you make it to the next town and you are exhausted. Thankfully you had managed to find another traveller in the early hours of the morning to give you a ride the rest of the way in, but you had spent a lot of time afoot during the night and honestly had no idea how you had not gotten attacked by some sort of wild animal.

You couldn’t stay here long though, that hunter would already be on his way and much faster with a personal steed. Out of habit you look over at the stable just in case, and deflate once you see it— a black horse. It couldn’t be, how would he get here so fast? How would he know you’re here? You swing your head around, looking in all directions for his recognisable mask.

“You have to get off the cart, Miss,”

You whip your head around to look down at the driver, “Sorry?”

“The cart. Get off, I need to sell this hay.” He repeats.

You nod and climb down, pain shoots up your legs once you set your feet on the ground, a soreness from travelling so far on foot. You see no sign of Ghost amongst the dispersed crowd of people milling around about their day. The cart drives off without you further into town, you watch absentmindedly as it goes already mourning the thought of being without a ride once again.

A sigh from behind you snaps you out of your thoughts, “I underestimated you,”

You spin around on your heel, Ghost peers down at you with his hands clasped behind his back making his shoulders seem even broader. You can only grit your teeth in frustration of already being caught.

“Oh don’t look at me like that darlin’, it’s not your fault, no one escapes me,” he explains, as if that’s a worthy answer.

“I escaped you once, I can do it again,” you hiss.

He leans closer, “You will not fool me again Princess, you have my full attention. I will get my bounty.”

You start to thrash when he grabs ahold of your arm but this time he doesn’t ease up as he drags you towards this town’s tavern. No one even bats an eye as he hauls you over to a free table and tosses you into one of the chairs, you rub your shoulder as he moves around to take a seat across from you. Ghost lounges back with his arms crossed over his chest and thighs spread wide as he watches you with a calculated gaze.

The barmaid comes over to take your order, when you don’t speak he does for you, asking for whatever is being served on the menu before shooing her away. He’s not kind, and seems a little rough around the edges, you can only imagine the horrors he’s seen or been apart of.

“We’re leaving as soon as you finish eating,” he states.

Your eyes widen, “What? We can’t!”

“We can and we will,” he replies, undeterred by your rising tone.

“But!” You frown, “I haven’t even bathed, I need a night here to get myself sorted,”

He leans over with his arm propped against the table, “That excuse won’t work on me again, sweetheart.”

The barmaid places down your food in front of you. It’s some sort of stew you can’t even begin to think of stomaching right now, you slump back in your chair and cross your arms over your chest, refusing to look at him.

“Eat,” he demands.

You scrunch your nose into a sneer, “I do not take orders from the likes of you,”

He scoffs, “You do not have a choice, Princess.”

You try to match his stare but his gaze is unwavering, he doesn’t seem the least bit affected by your hatred for him as he waits for you to make the first move. He looks completely self-assured of your capture except for the way his shoulders seem to be stuck in a tense line, ready just in case you try to make a sprint out the door once again. It’s a small victory that makes your lips curl into a smirk, you could make a fool of him once again you’re sure.

The bowl of food goes untouched, you’re stubborn enough to refuse anything he might buy for you. Ghost doesn’t seem the least bit bothered if you take care of yourself or not, his only criteria is that he keeps you alive to cash in his bounty. After a moment of no movement from either of you he stands to his feet.

“Let’s go,” he rumbles.

You frown, crossing your arms over your chest, “I’m not going until I have a chance to bathe,”

“Get up now before I drag you out,” he’s becoming impatient with your demands now.

“Let me order for a bath, or I’ll make a scene,” you repeat.

He hunches over and he grips the back of your chair to turn you until you’re facing him, “You are not making the demands here, understood? Now get the fuck up,” when he grips your arm once again you scream as loud as you can, everyone looks over in your direction to see what’s happened. It’s completely shocked Ghost into letting go of your arm.

“I’ll only be ten minutes,” you bargain.

His eyes are wide, “You’re a fucking loose screw aren’t you?”

You smile politely and stand up, you’ve got him now, for a minute at least. Before he can think better of it you march over to the front desk and ask for a room and some hot water be brought up. Once the key is handed over you walk down the hall to find it, Ghost follows hot on your heels up until you try to close the door on him.

You frown at the way he’s wedged his foot in between the doorframe to permit you from closing it fully, “I’ll be out in just a moment,”

He shakes his head, using his strength to push you aside and enter the room, “Not happening,”

You hold the open door confusedly, following his movement as he makes himself comfortable on the edge of the bed. Your expression turns into one of embarrassed contempt, “You cannot stay in here! I demand privacy!”

He crosses his arms over his chest, “You lost your right to privacy the moment you decided to make a run for it,”

You fluster, “What you expect me to bathe in front of you? That is barbaric!”

“Hot water?” One of the inn workers calls softly, looking at you expectantly.

Ghost looks to you with a lazy hooded gaze, his eyebrow quirks up in question. What are you going to do about it? You breathe out and let the lady in, she makes her way over to the tub which thankfully, although there is no sort of door or divider, it is sectioned off in a covered corner of the bathroom. It’s not as much privacy as you would like but it’s enough that only one corner of the tub would be visible from Ghosts’ view.

You look over at Ghost once more, the hunter is watching the worker as she pours the hot water in, god knows what’s running through his mind— probably the quickest route to get back into your father’s hands. You kindly thank the lady on her way out before closing the door behind her. Without even looking the hunter’s way you walk into the bathroom and round the corner to wear the tub is, you really do want a bath after all the travel you did just to get here. The warm water is inviting enough that you undress despite there being a man— with a watchful gaze—in the next room.

You can’t help the sigh of relief that leaves your lips when you sink in, Ghost looks away even though he can’t see anything except for your feet which sometimes dangle off the side of the tub.

“How much is my father paying for me?” You call out.

“A lot,” is the gruff response you get back.

You roll your eyes, “Care to be more specific?”

“It rises the longer you’re away from home.” he’s getting desperate, is what goes unsaid.

You look up at the ceiling, allowed the warm steam fill your lungs. There would be nothing to convince this hunter to let you go, he is determined, that much you can see. Your only chance at freedom is to throughly think out a plan of escape, something that would go under his nose.

“Is that black horse yours?”

“Yes,”

You hum, “Must get paid a lot as a bounty hunter,”

“Is there a purpose behind all your questions?”

“Ill-tempered,” you comment, “That’s undesirable in a gentleman you know,”

“Good thing I’m not going for desirable then.” he mutters.

You finish the rest of your bath in silence, the only sound is the swishing of water within the tub as you climb out. You doubt the man will give you time to wash your clothes, so you slip the dress back on once you’ve dried off.

When you reappear you’re dressed again with a sour look on your face. Ghost doesn’t comment on it as he stands and walks towards the door. You watch as he opens it while you fasten your cloak around your shoulders, you’re about to brush past him when he grabs your upper arm. You look up at him expectantly when he doesn’t let go.

“I don’t need to be escorted,” you state firmly.

“Better safe than sorry, wouldn’t want you getting lost again,” he emphasises.

The innkeeper wishes you both safe travels as you walk out, you try to send her a pleading look but Ghost has an already tugged you along out of sight. When his horse comes into view it’s bigger than you imagined—definitely bigger than the horses you’ve seen around the castle. But he’s beautiful, sleek black hair that’s neatly maintained and a good weight. He’s definitely well looked after, you can’t help but reach your hand out towards him.

“Wouldn’t do that if I wer—” he cuts off when his horse unexpectedly knocks his nose affectionately into your hand. Anyone else would have had their finger bitten off by now, he watches you skeptically.

“Hello handsome,” you coo, momentarily forgetting your woes as you rub up and down his muzzle, “What’s your name?”

“Ash,” he grunts as he unties his reins.

Ash is very affectionate you realise as he rubs his nose against your cheek. You laugh and use both hands to give him a scratch until Ghost clears his throat. You step back, smile fallen as he gestures expectantly for you to hop on.

When he reaches forward to grab your hips you raise your hands in defence, “I don’t need assistance.”

He backs off instantly and watches as you attempt to climb on. It’s somewhat clumsy only because you’re not used to a steed as big as Ash, but triumphantly you managed to seat yourself and adjust your dress so it’s draped appropriately over both your legs as you sit on the left side. Ghost grabs ahold of the reins and guides you out of town by walking ahead with Ash. You watch the town one last time before looking down at your lap, with each step back feels a stifling weight of defeat in your chest.

“How did you find me anyway?” You ask curiously.

He looks up at you from over your shoulder, “Hair pin,”

You frown, “What—how?”

He looks back at the road ahead, “Vendor couldn’t forget the pretty face that swapped her earrings for one of his low quality hair pins,”

You clench your eyes shut. Foolish. That’s what you were. A naive little girl that didn’t know what she was doing, letting herself stand out when she was trying to blend in.

“Was a smart thought,” he adds on, “Pawning off your jewellery,”

“I don’t need your sympathy,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

Ghost shuts his mouth and steers Ash off course towards the forest beside the road, “Where are we going?”

“Shortcut,”

“Through the forest? What about the wild animals?” You ask cautiously.

“Not worried,” he replies shortly.

“Not worried? I am worried! Why can’t we take the road?” You look around trees for any signs of bears.

“Shortcut,” he repeats, “We’ll get there quicker this way,”

“Should I remind you if I die you will not receive your bounty?”

He rolls his eyes, “Don’t worry Princess, nothing will kill you out here. Harm you, maybe, but not kill you,”

“Are you seriously teasing at a time like this?” You ask incredulously.

“Yes, because you are uptight,” he responds.

“I am not uptight, I happen to be quite the opposite,” you argue, crossing your arms over your chest.

“According to who?”

“Friends if you must know,”

“Were these friends after something?” He questions.

You frown, “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

He chuckles but doesn’t respond. The walk through the forest is peaceful, you can hear the chirping of birds and for the most part there are no dangerous animals leaping out at you. Ghost is ahead steering Ash like it is a second nature to him, you wonder how far he has travelled and how much of the world he has seen in his line of work. You can’t help but feel a crawling sense of jealously travel up your arms. The sensation is so lifelike you can’t help but look down at your arms, only to see it is not your sense of jealously but a spider crawling up towards you.

You shout and flail your arm around, Ash kicks up a bit of a fuss at your reaction causing Ghost to whip around as see what all the trouble is about. He tugs the reins to still Ash and walks over to you.

“What is it?” He asks, looking over you for any sign of pain.

“Something’s on my arm! A spider, I don’t know where it went,”

Ghost blinks, “Are you serious?”

You look at him incredulously, “Are you stupid? Why would I not be serious!”

He sighs and grabs your arm, instantly you still as he inspects it for any sign of spider. “There’s nothin’ th—” he pauses to look at your cloak.

“What?” You ask, “What? You’re making me nervous,”

“I found it,” he mutters, reaching a hand out.

You clench your eyes shut, “Get it off me, please,” you beg.

He takes a moment to look at your terrified expression before focusing on the spider on the outside of your cloak. It is not poisonous, or particularly big in his option but he reaches out anyway to flick it off.

“Gone,” he finalises.

You peek an eye open and look over your cloak where Ghost’s hand is hovering, “Are you sure?”

“As the dead.” he promises.

You clutch your cloak tighter around your body and nod. Ghost resumes walking ahead towards the next town. The rest of the journey goes without any issue, before you know it, you’re back at the town you previously had a job at. Instead of stopping at the inn you stayed at previously, Ghost travels further in until you reach a different inn, a much smaller one with more room at the back for Ash.

You take his hand to jump down out of habit but immediately draw your hand away once necessary. Ghost doesn’t acknowledge your behaviour as he ties Ash up to his post. He only hovers beside you as walk towards the inn’s entrance, its warmly lit and much quieter than the one you stayed at.

“Good evening,” the woman smiles, “Room for two?”

You return her smile, “Two separate roo—”

“Yes.” Ghost cuts in.

You whip your head around to face him, does he even know what he’s asking for? Before you can explain the lady is already handing over the room key.

“Enjoy your stay.” She hums.

Ghost leads the way down the hall looking along the doors for the marching number, “Do you even know what you’ve done?”

He sighs, “What have I done now, Princess?”

“She,” you gesture to the innkeeper, “Thinks we’re together— like courting,” your voice trails off into a flustered whisper, “Why did you say yes to one room?”

Ghost stops in front of your rooms door, inserting the key into the lock before looking down at you with a quirked eyebrow.

“Courting huh?” He muses, “Suppose a princess could be worth courting if she came with a decent dowry,”

You look at him with disgust, “What a shameful thing to say.”

He swings the door open, gesturing for you to walk in. The room is nice enough, except it is what you feared it would be with only one bed in the middle. Ghost closes the door behind you, making himself comfortable by throwing his minimal belongings on one of the side tables.

“You should get another room,” you insist.

“So you can get thrifty and make another rope out of sheets?” He asks.

You glare at him, “Where are you to sleep? There is only one bed,”

His eyes crinkle, “Worried about me darlin’?”

You wave him off with a scoff, “Not at all, you can sleep as the dogs do. On the ground,”

He shrugs his shoulders, slowly beginning to unravel the ties on his leather armour, “I’ve slept worse places.”

His ability to roll with the punches aggravates you to no end when he knows how to push your buttons so easily. With a huff you sit on the end of the bed and watch curiously as he continues to undress. With the armour gone you can see that beneath he wears a black flowy shirt, which he starts to take off alongside his armour.

“What are you doing?” You ask, slightly panicked.

He looks at you questionably, “Undressing?”

“There is a lady in the room, you should not be doing any of that sort in front of me without intention,” you state.

He quirks an eyebrow, “What sort of intention?” He asks, smirk evident in his tone.

You fluster and look away, now realising the trap you’ve fallen into, “Just go to the bathroom, I do not need—nor want— to see you undressed,”

“You sure?” He asks with amusement but walks towards the bathroom, this inn thankfully has doors which close off the bathroom completely, “What if I had intentions?”

You refuse to respond to his petty teasing by pointedly looking away. However, you can’t help but watch out of the corner of your eye as he pauses in the doorway, it’s completely open for you to see everything as he hikes the shirt over his head. I’m in the bathroom. You can practically hear his voice in your head as his shirt drops to the ground.

For a second you’re drawn to the amount of scars you can see imbedded across his back, some are deeper than others and massive as they stretch across his skin. You barely catch a glimpse of them before the door slips shut behind him.

You sigh and fall back against the mattress. What could you do now? Ghost would not let you out of his sights and even if he did, he has proven himself a skilled hunter—perhaps more skilled than the usual one. No one else had even dared come after you so far.

That’s it. You squint your eyes in thought. What if he had competition over your capture? Your head was needed alive so you could not be harmed, but perhaps Ghost could be taken care of by other bounty hunters? You could make a run for it while they fought over who was more worthy of bringing you in.

You lift your head up when you hear the bathroom door open once again. Ghost still has his mask on but his face and hair look cleaner. You trek his movements as he walks across the room to the only armchair available near the window. Slowly you sit up as he makes himself comfortable and closes his eyes.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“What does it look like?” He asks crossing his arms over his clothed chest, “Sleeping,”

You frown, “With your clothes on?” You inquire, “And your mask?”

He peers over at you, “I am not allowed to be undressed without intentions, correct?”

You shake your head, refusing to fluster over his amusement. Instead of replying you take your bag to the bathroom to get changed into your nightgown. It feels indecent to wear so little in front of a stranger—a dangerous one at that. So you slip your cloak on over the top before stepping back out into the bedroom. Ghost has not moved but his eyes watch as you crawl into bed.

You reach for the lamp beside you and plunge the room into darkness.

[grotesquevi]

cw  # 18+ mdni, ass stuff, oral, brief mentions of strap-on sex, reader has shit ton of dirty thoughts while vi models for her figure drawing class, pure self-indulgence.

if you recognize this might be because it's from my previous blog vicorices (terminated, long story) this is a remaster from the original post since today this blog's one month old and i'm still trapped in the knight!vi life, either way yippe!!! check out my arcane masterlist since it's almost done fucking finallyyyyy!!

rotting and thinking about figure drawing classes where vi's the model because you've been saying your favorite subject keeps getting canceled over and over again cause your teacher cannot find a model — how bad can it be to have a bunch of art nerds drawing on her?

she stands there in the middle of a wave of easels distributed around the room in nothing but black briefs and bandages around her chest, and your teacher says something about focusing on the muscles, on the force of the skin and the details, but you wonder at the very deep how are you going to get through almost four hours of class with her looking like that.

and the girl you've been seeing for like a month now spots you right away well installed in the back while everyone's getting ready: why were you even mad at her that very morning? fuck. it's impossible to remember it when the four-minute poses starts and she's seated on a chair, flexing on her biceps as you have a nice view of her profile, the muscles on her legs as you define the first details in a blue pencil, quickly drawing on the anatomy you've already drawn so many times before.

your gaze travels slowly through the exposed skin, drinking in the details and the lines of her body. in red you trace the ink that etches on her back going through her arms in a design you've seen plenty, sure in a much compromising situation since vi got this tendency of acting up all sharp and tough with the rest even when she's whining in the privacy on your dorm as you're buried to the hilt inside her cunt, ass up, cheek pressed against your wrinkled sheets — you have such a good view of her pussy stretching up for your cock, pink dildo opening her deliciously as a loud smack lands in her ass, making her take a sharp intake of breath, the sting unexpected and stupidly good.

it’s a different kind of nostalgia that makes you struggle to keep up on your drawing, vi’s moving to face you as her chin rest against the palm of her hand, and it's enough to make you lose focus again when you can feel her gaze as you try to work and not wander, once again, to a dirty memory.

she knows what she's doing there. your palms are sweaty as you trace the details of her face, the tattoo on her cheek, the nose ring and the freckles you cannot see from that far but you know they're there, and before you could finish — fuck, she's changing up again to a new pose, another one that leaves you breathless when she's stretching and you have a sinfully good view of the happy trail that disappears down the fabric of her underwear.

and it's a very accurate drawing of it anyway, the seconds going on slower now when you end up thinking about that trail of pink hair you've tongue-traced on top of her, seated on her face when you bite on her lower belly, fingers rubbing against her parted legs, fat clit already swollen from previous ministrations. vi can barely fucking think in moments like that, dizzy between your soaked folds she becomes a drooling mess who's loves to tongue-fuck you as it helps to muffle her own moans against your sensitive skin.

how the fuck can you draw like that? you're squeezing your legs together, biting on the inside of your cheek to make the pain distract you from another thought as you're already so close to masturbate in the bathrooms at the end of the hall it's damn insane. a thrill for sure cause you're half jealous of the other students checking vi out for a second, a feeling that's dismissed when she's staring at you again and fuck's sake.

there's not a single fly in the room, hot as you toss your sweater from over your head even when it's winter still, and vi has to hide her evident smile from your flustered attitude as she holds still, sure you're dampening your underwear there seated beneath the easel, cheeks blushed — barely concentrating in drawing her like you're supposed to.

and not really far from reality, your mouth is dry as you draw on her messy hair, the cherry strands being chaotic as ever, like when you make out with her for too long and you're pulling on her hair, lips puffy as you climb up to her lap.

your top is raised against your chest, the fabric’s held between vi's fingers as her mouth seeks your breast and she praises your new rule of not using bra on lazy days like those, stiffed nipple against the flat of her tongue before she's biting on it, harshly until you yelp against the pain and she's muttering a barely audible sorry before doing it again, fingerprints marked in your waist because of her tight grip as she's moving you against her gym pants: so fucking good.

it doesn't help when you're given a fifteen-minute-break and she's pulling you to the bathroom, cause you need far fucking more than just her tongue in your ass, kneeled behind you as she teases your rim muscle, coating it with slick saliva before she roughly speaks.

"fuck, you're leaking through your jeans" it makes her happy ‘cause it's all her fucking fault, making you soaked and needy, unable to seek for relief more than with her — "are you that turned on, sweetheart? all because i'm posing in your class? you're creaming your panties."

and you have no option but shake your head, sensitive as ever as her fingers rub on your clit and you're holding into the bathroom sink, gripping on the sides as you stare at your own reflection in the big mirror in front of you.

"think too much about you, vi" the words slur together as her thumb push against your ass, making you moan at the intrusion "god- thinkin’ about the things we do."

"your horny brain keeps reminding you how good we are for each other, that's it" a triumphant smile appears on vi's lips as she looks up to you — "what you've been thinking the whole fucking class huh? how good we've fucked this month? atta girl, such a dumb slut for pussy."

no. fifteen minutes does not cover near the half, in fact, in makes you even worse, cause your underwear clings to your dirty cunt, wet and uncomfortable as ever, and you can do nothing but keep drawing until vi takes care of you again after two more hours of pure torture.

she keeps your drawings from that class and you still can't remember why you were mad at her that morning to begin with.

[nogutsnogloria]

Could I humbly request more of Pope x Lena’s favorite? Maybe Pope finally asks her out but something happens and they bring Lena along on their date?

um yes you absolutely can. thank you so much for your request i hope this does it justice.

summary: your first date with andrew is slightly derailed. you both make the best of it.

pope cannot believe that the sitter bailed. he purposely didn’t beg one of his brothers and went with the neighbour who had always been reliable when he asked, she cancelled last minute and he doesn’t want to cancel on you but obviously he can’t leave lena. he has to let you know that he owes you a rain check. hey-sitter cancelled. there are a few more people i can try but we might need to reschedule.

he’s sighing and rubbing his face tossing his phone on the counter when lena comes up to him. “uncle pope what’s wrong?” she’s climbing up onto the stool at the island next to him. “you remember how i told you that you would have a babysitter tonight?” lena nods. “well your babysitter is suddenly busy so i have to change my plans a little bit” pope turns to her and sees her smiling like she has the best idea. “you know who could babysit me…” she trails off and pope knows exactly who she means. “kiddo i have a secret, my plans are with her already. she’s was supposed to be busy with me tonight.” lena grins at him. “like a date? are you gonna marry her?” that makes pope huff a little laugh. “well i should probably take her on a first date before we think about getting married don’t you think?” he teases her with a little poke to her side. it makes her giggle. pope wasn’t planning on telling her yet but since it’s out now he has to ask. “is that okay with you if her and i start going on dates? she will probably be around a bit more but it doesn’t mean anything changes between you and me right?” lena nods. “i know, she makes me really happy uncle pope i like her a lot” pope pulls her into a hug. “yeah me too.”

you just got out of the shower and you checked your phone to andrew’s text saying the sitter cancelled. you sit on the bed and sigh a bit disappointed. you were looking forward to seeing him, but you understand completely that lena comes first, you wouldn’t want that to change for him ever, especially for you. that still doesn’t change the fact that you really want to see him, even if the date isn’t happening. what if we altered the plans a bit and lena can come along? you lie back on your bed looking up to the ceiling with another deep sigh. your phone buzzes beside you, the message makes you smile. we will pick you up at 6.

you finish getting ready and wait down in your kitchen. you see the truck pull into your driveway so you open your door to leave and lock it behind you. pope is there opening the passenger door so that you can get in. you hop up with a “thanks” and he shuts the door behind you. you turn to lena in the back seat. “hi lena how are you?” she smiles at you. “i’m good, we got you flowers. i picked them out.” she’s handing you the bouquet. you gasp at her “you did? thank you, you really shouldn’t have” you say mostly to pope. he looks at you with a smile and starts the truck. you dig through the bouquet for the purple gerba daisy and a few carnations and give them to lena. “here lena these ones are for you” she grins back at you “really?” you nod “mhm, they match your jacket”

pope drives the three of you down to the pier. there is a little food truck show happening and it should have something for everyone. you have lena in your arms reading her all the menus so that she can decide what she wants, all three of you decide the taco truck looks like the best bet so you go wait in line. once you’ve all ordered what you want pope tells you to go find a seat. there is only two chairs so lena has to sit on your lap while the three of you eat. pope offers to take her but you turn down the offer. the three of you have easy conversation as you always do.

midway through dinner you decide to play footsies with pope just to see his reaction, he’s not totally flustered but you can tell you caught him off guard. he recovers quickly equally playing back, you two enjoying this little secret moment. lena spots an ice cream truck and you two conspire against uncle pope to go get ice cream. when your walking over to the truck he says “you know, i’m starting to think you have a bigger ice cream problem then she does” you give him a smile and bat your eyelashes a little neither confirming or denying. pope doesn’t get one again but he plans to steal a bite of yours just because he can.

the three of you head down to the park at the pier with the ice cream lena skipping ahead. pope reaches for your fingers and threads his in between yours. you find yourself sitting close to him on a bench watching lena play around on the park. you watch the sunset behind her as she plays. you and pope having easy conversation while sitting there. it starts to get dark and pope almost apologetic says to you. “i need to get her home to bed.” you turn to him knee knocking against his. “yeah it is getting late.” neither of you make a huge effort to get up. it isn’t until lena comes over complaining about being cold that you all decide to head back to the truck and pope starts the drive back to your house to drop you off.

he pulls into your driveway and puts the truck into park. you turn back and lena has fallen asleep. “see this was the part of the date i was going to let you make out with me on my porch for 20 minutes but someone needs to get to bed.” pope lets a noise from the back of his throat that is a whine mixed with a groan, and you giggle. still your leaning in over the centre console looking into his eyes. he reaches up to pull at the ends of your hair as you two look into each others eyes. both of you looking for a sign that the other doesn’t want this to happen. you both come to a silent agreement that you want this so you lean in and give his lips probably the most innocent kiss you have ever given a boy, let alone a man like andrew, but you could not live with yourself if lena woke up to your tongue down his throat. he smiles into it. “are you being shy?” and you lean your forehead into his chest bashfully. “you know what they say leave them wanting more, so that they come back” you can feel the rumble of his laugh against your face. he pulls your head out of his chest. “i definitely do want more. next time i’m prepaying the babysitter, and i’m holding you to that 20 minutes promised on your porch” lena stirs in the back and you turn to look at her. “okay enough stalling in the driveway, i will let you two get home. thank you for everything tonight, i had a really great time.” he’s smiling at you. “thank you for still coming out with me and my partner in crime.” you smile looking back at lena. “i wouldn’t have missed it.” with that you are finally crawling out of the truck making sure to grab your flowers. you unlock your front door and give one more wave, pope waves back. once you’ve closed the door pope starts the truck up again and drives home, not remembering the last time he felt this content.

[cynosdaydream]

LOSER'S GAMBIT! - PART 3 (FINAL)

Learning to live is learning to let go.

Now playing: あのね - あれくん and Yuika

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Word count: 3.7k

Author's note: WOWIE i can't believe I have written a full blown series. thank you for all the support that has been given to me while writing this, and I hope you enjoy the final part of loser's gambit!

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 (you are here)

Desc: NOT proofread, sylus x f!nonmc!reader, mentions of zayne, zayne lowk regrets, emotional vulnerability, just soft stuff, tiniest smidge of hurt/comfort

You felt the cool air of the night hit your skin as you took off your helmet. Well, not your helmet, you thought, handing it back to the silver-haired man in front of you. "Here's your helmet." You said, patting it a few times to dust whatever dirt it might have accumulated on the ride home off. "Thank you, my dear. See, the ride home wasn't so dangerous, was it?" Sylus purrs. You roll your eyes, remembering how he might or might not have almost hit a pedestrian on the way to your house.

"Is it the new 'in' thing to call almost crashing into a civilian 'not so dangerous'?" You question, tilting your head to the side as you gingerly step off his motorcycle, careful not to strain any of your injuries. Sylus rolls his eyes, claiming, "He was wearing a completely black outfit in the dead of night. He should consider himself lucky I was only going 30 kilometers per hour for you."

The both of you converse and laugh on the way up to your apartment, and you must have laughed a little too hard, because you tripped over your own feet while chuckling at Sylus' lame attempt at a joke. You close your eyes, arms stretching out on instinct to brace your fall. And then you realised that you had also sustained wounds on your arms, and that this minor fall was going to make them hurt like a bitch. Sighing, you accepted your fate as the ground got closer and closer.

A hand catches you by the collar, and another grounds itself on your side, pulling you up gently. Sylus helps you back on your feet, shaking his head while his eyes scan your form for any more injuries sustained. However, instead of thanking him, his featherlight touch and concerned gestures make you remember his earlier 'confession', and you were now starkly aware that his hands were rolling up your sleeves to check if any wounds reopened.

Helpless, you opened your mouth to try and say something, anything -- but words of thanks felt like they were lodged in your throat as you watched Sylus frown at the sight of your bandaged arms. Finally, when he deemed you unhurt, he let go of your arms, and his eyes trailed up to meet yours. "I cannot stress this enough, dearest, but you need to be more careful." He pinches the bridge of his nose with a hand on his hip, and his frown slowly transformed into a mischievous grin. "Should I carry you the rest of the way up?"

The combination of the pet name and the suggestion of being carried princess style was flustering you to the maximum. But... if he was really going to be your boyfriend (was he already? technically not, right? since he said to wait patiently for a real confession. but he kind of confessed already! this is way too confusing...), you were willing to be a bit bolder. Ah, you missed someone caring about you like this. "I'm not that helpless." You state confidently, even though that was exactly how you were feeling, but for a completely different reason. "Maybe you should hold my hand, though. So, if I fall, I'm taking you down with me."

Afraid of possible rejection, you waste no time in swiftly slotting your hand in his, curling your fingers into the gaps between his. When you're turned away from embarrassment, Sylus smiles softly at you, inwardly relieved that you're comfortable enough with him to engage in these kinds of gestures. "Very bold of you to assume your weight would pull me down. It takes a lot more to bring me to my knees, you know." Sylus' silken voice cuts the air, and it only makes your face grow warmer at his suggestive tone. "You are genuinely so irritating. If we were in the 1940s, I would be throwing tomatoes at you right now." You huff, tugging him into the elevator with you.

You somehow make it to your living room without bursting into flames with how hot your face was, and you hastily dropped your whole weight down onto the couch. Your friend-boyfriend-whatever followed suit, but not before asking you whether you needed anything. "Water? A blanket? Snacks?" Sylus asked slowly, the slightest bit of concern in his voice. "Calm down, silly. You've only been to my house once and stayed in my living room the whole time. I doubt you'd know where I keep my blankets." You sigh, turning your head to look at him. "Just come closer." Maybe it was the fatigue from the whole wanderer-hospital ordeal, but you felt whatever hesitation or embarrassment melt away like ice thawing in the sun.

Sylus quirks his eyebrow at you, but doesn't say anything. He shifts closer to you, and carefully rests an arm on your shoulders, extremely careful not to touch your injured abdomen with his movements. After a few beats of shuffling around trying to get comfortable, he finally speaks. "Now, what does my darling wish to do?"

"Your darling wishes to watch a movie." You inform him casually, adding an afterthought, "And maybe a snack or two." The low rumble of your stomach reminded you that you hadn't had a proper meal since the wanderer attack. You get up from your seat to get a snack a little too quickly, accidentally straining the large wound on your abdomen. Wincing, your body is quickly forced back down onto the couch. Sylus' hands are there to ground you for the second time tonight, but this time he doesn't make any comment or playful jab about your mannerisms, and instead gets up to find the snacks himself.

You yelp in protest, telling him that you didn't want him to go through all the trouble of finding where the snacks were and picking out the ones you specifically wanted. Sylus merely tells you to stay put, saying, "I've navigated underground bases so complex it would make even the most skilled architect's head spin. I'm sure I'll be able to open a few cupboards and slide open a few drawers. Just give me a brief description of the tidbits you want and I'll find them for you."

After a few minutes of nodding and shaking your head, the both of you were settled down in the dim lighting of your living room, eyes fixated on the glowing screen in front of you. You don't know how Sylus managed to find out where you kept your blankets, but you didn't question it as the comforting warmth of the cotton made you feel like you were on cloud nine.

The flickering of the television before you and the warmth enveloping you eventually lulled you into a deep slumber, and you felt a ghost of a kiss upon your forehead before your eyelids fluttered shut.

"Sweet dreams, kitten."

Today was just one of those days where everything was just the slightest bit worse. The weather outside your window was bleak and dreary, with grey clouds masking the sun's brightness, but not heavy enough to bring rain. Your take-out lunch order had gotten delayed by an hour, leaving you grumpy and hungry in your home. To make matters worse, since you had only recently recovered from your injuries, you were only given stay-at-home work to do, or simple recon missions. And today was one of those days where you were stuck at home, mindlessly typing some passionless response to a corporate email.

Finally, to really top it all off, you had noticed a small box in the corner of your room that you must have forgotten to unpack when you moved in, only to find that it was filled with small trinkets that your previous boyfriend, Zayne, had gotten you when you were dating. I guess I wasn't ready to fully let him go when I moved in. At first, you didn't think much of it, preparing to throw it all out, but as you sorted through the mess of items and letters, a small part of your heart still ached. The keychains and charms were reminders of how Zayne had remembered small details about you, noting down your likes and dislikes. Every letter seemed so intricate, affirmations of affection written in his cursive doctor handwriting.

However, as you finished reading each note and finished running your fingers over each trinket and set them aside in neat stacks, you realised that your heart didn't throb painfully because you missed Zayne as a lover. Your heart throbbed because you missed being loved. You missed having someone to annoy without any repercussion, and longed to be held in another's arms as you drift off to sleep. You sigh, putting the lid back on the box and standing up with the intention of discarding the whole box.

I want to be seen, to love and be loved so deeply it rattles my soul.

Unbeknownst to you, your silver-haired companion had entered your apartment silently, and was standing at your room door, leaning against the frame. "Everything alright, darling? You seem a little distressed."

The sudden intrusion makes you jump in surprise, almost dropping the box that you were holding. "Sylus! When did you get here?" You nervously say, fingers tapping against the box. "Not too long ago, but don't try to dodge my question." His brows are furrowed, but his eyes were soft, almost hesitant. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

Even though you felt like talking about your ex-boyfriend to your crush was breaking some moral code within you, you couldn't hide anything from Sylus. You knew he wouldn't push for information if you really didn't want to tell him, but you figured you trusted him enough to tell him anyways.

"I... don't really know, to be honest." You let out a mirthless laugh. You take off the lid of the box again, allowing him to see the contents inside. "I found this today. I don't know why I'm upset, really. It's all in the past." You begin, sitting down on the floor and tucking your legs neatly beneath you. "I just... I don't know. Sorry." It was hard to articulate exactly how you were feeling; it wasn't yearning, it wasn't longing, it was more of a gentle ache.

Sylus remains silent, only making noise when he shuffles to join you on the floor, legs straight in front of him. You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder as you try to mould your feelings into sentences with actual structure.

"I miss having...someone, you know? Like, my own person. Someone to be there with me. It was nice with Zayne at first, but the situation just got from bad to worse." You fidget with the box. The words hang heavy in the air. "Even though the upsides of leaving outweighed the downsides, there were still downsides to leaving. I think I just want someone to love me, not just like me."

"It makes me wonder sometimes, was I not good enough? Was I not skilled enough a hunter, not caring enough a girlfriend? Did I not visit him enough at the hospital, or did I not pay enough attention to our relationship?"

The words linger in the air, and for a second, you're scared that you may have overshared. "Sorry, you don't have to say anything-"

Sylus cuts you off by plucking the box right out of your hands and walks out of the room to place it somewhere else in the house. You hear the soft thud of the cardboard hitting the floor, and firm footsteps before Sylus walks back into your room and lifts you up onto your bed. You were confused, but patted the empty space next to you to signal him to sit down anyway. He sits, and turns his head towards you while he clasps your hands in his.

Garnet red eyes bore into yours, gaze grounded and unwavering. "No more of that. No more of this self-depreciating nonsense. You're not 'not enough' and have never been 'not enough'. That doctor was just too blind to see how well you treated him; how much you were willing to put up with for him."

"You're much too brave and beautiful for him. I've seen you fight wanderers straight out of hell and bounce back up to your feet right after. I know you. You're strong, and even if you mourn the relationship now, I know you'll come back ten times better and healthier."

You stare at Sylus, not believing the words that just came out of his mouth. "Sylus..." you trail off, not sure how to thank him for his reassurance. You felt so seen -- not just noticed, not just glanced atm but seen. He hadn't been put off by your sour mood, and hadn't looked away uncomfortably as you poured your heart out to him. Instead, he took the time to understand what you were feeling and put himself in your shoes, and ultimately come up with a response that was both comforting and reassuring.

"Thank you. So much." You say, tears forming in your eyes. "I really needed this."

"Anytime. Shall you ever need me again, just contact me. I'll be there in a heartbeat."

He intertwines your fingers, gesturing for you to lay into a more comfortable position.

After a few minutes, you are safely tucked under the covers, your head laying comfortably on Sylus' chest. His hands rest on your head, making gentle motions on your neck to lull you to sleep. The dim sky and soothing atmosphere seem to make sleep call your name enticingly, and you find your eyelids quickly fluttering shut.

A few months later, you find yourself scrambling in your room, trying on various outfits while trying not to trip over the clothes scattered across the floor. Earlier that morning, Sylus had shot you a text, asking if you were free to meet up at a certain restaurant for dinner. You had excitedly said yes, not wanting to pass up on an opportunity to spend time with your soon to be boyfriend the man that you liked.

However, as you checked the address that he had sent you (you insisted on travelling there yourself, much to his dismay), you realised that the restaurant that Sylus had invited you to for a meal was conveniently the one that you had gotten stood up by Zayne at.

But you didn't feel an uncomfortable twist in your chest or a churning in your stomach at the mention of it. Sure, you had a bad experience with your ex-boyfriend there, but that restaurant also sold all of your favourite foods, and it was where you had first met Sylus.

It was time to let go of all the past memories with Zayne, and make new ones with Sylus.

"Would this one or this one go better with my outfit?" You ask, holding two different earrings up to the camera. You were on a call with Tara and Simone, and they were once again helping you to decide on what to wear for a date. They unanimously decide on the one on the right, and you hook them onto your ears immediately.

"That silver bracelet would look amazing with that top!" Tara exclaims enthusiastically.

"Really? I think the jade one suits her better." Simone interjects.

"Yeah, it suits her better, but the silver one matches better with the outfit!"

"How does that make sense? If it suits her, it'll suit the outfit because the outfit suits her."

"You're the one not making sense, Simone!"

"Guys, it's not illegal to wear both of them, you know?"

After what felt like hours, you were finally done picking out what to wear and what to bring. "Thanks again, guys!" You say cheerfully, waving as you hit the red 'disconnect' button. You stare at yourself in the mirror, scrutinizing every detail - and you came to the conclusion that you looked good. Satisfied, you picked your keys off your table and walked out the door.

You let out a nervous breath before you step into the restaurant. It was just how you remembered it - but this time, it was completely empty, and you spot a single table with candles and a vase of flowers placed in the middle of it. While you walked over, a hand on your shoulder made you jump. You turn, coming face to face with none other than Sylus.

"My, aren't you early?" He said, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as he pulled out the chair for you. "You're stunning."

You laugh, flattered. "You're not too bad yourself, y'know? I didn't even know you could dress fancier than you already do on a daily basis." You admit, brushing your hands against his button-down shirt.

"And you booked out the whole place for the both of us? That's so sweet."

"Hmph, you don't deserve anything less."

The both of you exchange some banter and conversations as you wait for the food to arrive. You don't miss the way his eyes linger on your lips for far too long to be considered platonic.

When the courses eventually arrive, you're swept off your feet by how amazing it tastes. "By astra, I swear the food usually doesn't taste this good." You mutter in awe, mouth full. Sylus merely chuckles. "I'm glad the food is to your liking, __. I had it specially enhanced and modified to suit your tastes better." Your eyes widened, suddenly aware of how much effort he had put into this date dinner. "I can't thank you enough, Sylus. This is amazing, you really didn't have to." Feeling bashful, you offer him a bite of your food off your fork. He takes it wordlessly, eyes never leaving yours.

"Like I mentioned earlier, you don't deserve anything less than this. I require only the best for my beautiful woman." Sylus coos, adjusting your earring that had somehow gone lopsided while you were eating. You felt your face grow hot at his words and playfully flicked his forehead. "You tease."

What neither of you noticed was a particular pair of people standing outside the window of the restaurant you were in.

"Zayne, I want to eat here!" MC said cheerfully, tugging Zayne along by his hand. He glanced at the place MC was looking at, and his nose scrunched in discomfort as he remembered what he did, or what he didn't do, the last time this restaurant was involved.

Ever since you and him broke up, he holed himself up in his office, only coming out for important meetings or surgeries. Sometimes, even MC couldn't get him out of that cold, sterile room. The feeling of regret and sorrow seemed to creep up on him in the late hours of the night, eating away at his conscience. Of course, it was right of you to leave him - he knew he had been neglecting you, but it didn't make you leaving hurt any less. These feelings only became worse when he saw you being carried into the hospital by your 'boyfriend', unconscious and bloody.

Why didn't I try to make more of an effort?

"It doesn't seem to be open, MC. I don't see any people inside." Zayne remarks, peering through the windows. Despite this, MC insists on just looking at the menu outside the door, and he follows her without complaint. As she looks at the menu, pointing to various different things she wanted to try the next time they had an opportunity to eat here, Zayne noticed two figures inside the restaurant, illuminated by the soft candlelight.

Your back was facing him, but he could recognize Sylus' face as clear as day. Silver hair, striking red eyes - he was hard to miss, and even harder to forget. Zayne's eyes widened in realisation and a feeling of unease settled in his stomach as he watched the scene that was unfolding in front of him. He tries to pull MC away from the menu, but the image was already burned into his mind.

Inside, you were finished with your meal, and now just chatting away with Sylus about life and whatnot. He was being extra flirtatious, dumping smooth compliments on you and being more touchy than usual. You tease him about it with a knowing smirk on your face, "Feeling extra affectionate tonight, aren't we?"

"This is how I always am, darling. You're imagining things." Sylus quips back, albeit a little nervously.

So it didn't really come as a surprise to you as the light suddenly dimmed, and Sylus pulled out a bouquet of flowers that he had been concealing the whole night while kneeling in front of you.

His voice shakes the slightest bit as he starts his confession, clearing his throat a few times before the words start flowing smoothly.

"My dearest __, I'm sure I fell in love with you the day that I laid eyes on you in this very place. At first, your beauty had enraptured me. But along the way, I fell for every other part of you as well. Your bravery, your kindness, your ability to be vulnerable without shame - all these things make my heart beat harder for you, and I wouldn't have it any other way. So now I ask you: will you accept me as your lover?" He finishes with a flourish, holding the bouquet out to you.

Your eyes start welling up with tears as you listen to his confession. Sylus made you feel safe, comfortable and all of those strange, fuzzy feelings. From when you met him until now, he had gone above and beyond for you, always making sure that you could rest easy and feel relaxed in his presence. With a full heart and shaky hands, you answer.

"Is that even a question? Yes, of course, a thousand times over!" You exclaim, clutching the bouquet of flowers and throwing yourself into his arms.

Sylus barely had time to stand up to his full height before you came crashing into his chest, but he held you tightly in his arms anyway. "I couldn't be happier than right now, darling." He whispers against you, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Me too." You admit, smiling into his shirt.

The universe works in strange ways. They say that when one door closes, another one opens. Even though the door that closed shut painfully, slamming itself against your fingers as you tried to stop it from closing, the door that had opened in its place led to somewhere beautiful, flourishing and evergreen. And you couldn't wish for anything else.

-END-

taglist:

@mentaltrouble2201, @beaconsxd, @leftpoetrymoon, @noxellaa, @boopershnooper @aboobie , @blorbohunter , @notisekais , @justpassingdontworry @satansdaughter123

[obsidianpegasus]

“Writing is so fun,” I say, as I:

Rewrite the same sentence six times.

Cut a line I loved for "flow" and immediately wish I found a way to make it fit instead.

Sit motionless for twelve minutes trying to decide whether I should use commas or em-dashes for one particular phrase.

Get distracted imagining a scene four chapters ahead that has nothing to do with the current plot.

Change one word and feel like I just altered the fate of humanity.

Re-read my own dialogue and debate whether it’s good or if it will make people give up on the fanfic instead.

Delete an entire paragraph because it didn’t feel right.

Spend twenty minutes choosing between “said,” “asked,” “murmured,” or “whispered,” as if it will alter the timeline.

Get emotionally attached to a metaphor no one else will even notice.

Write one (1) good line and convince myself I deserve a national award.

Leave a comment for myself in the draft like: “Fix This Crap” and then never fix it.

Realize I cannot explain how time works. Was that scene three minutes or three hours? Unclear.

Pause mid-sentence to stare at the wall and question my life choices.

Get so overwhelmed I close the page and proceed to feel guilty about it for three days.

Threaten to delete everything and start over. Again. For the seventh time this week.

Post it anyway. Obsessively check stats like my life depends on it.

[glowplumes]

Mr. Sylus and His Friend

I've been thinking a lot about Sylus and his damn eye, and how that poor loser would cope with knowing exactly what's going on in your horny ass mind. Cannot believe this is my first post!! MDNI!!!

Warnings: suggestive themes, mentioned (light?) choking, MC is down astronomically buy Sylus is SOOO much worse, suggested P in V, suggested marathon sex, mind reading, no actual smut... but maybe their should be???

This shit is so boring. 

Your eyes glaze over as the auctioneer continues to prattle on about the next item that was up for sale. It wasn’t one of the modified Protocores you were after, and it wouldn’t be up until much later in the evening- that’s how you end up mentally checked out, wishing to be anywhere but this stuffy ass venue.

To make matters worse, you’re horny. Like, ridiculously worked up. And, right hand on the bible, it wasn’t even your fault. Sylus had spent the entire car ride kissing you senseless, pawing at you and pleading with you, only to abruptly withdraw his hands and expertly reapply the makeup he’d so dutifully smudged. 

“Perfect. Now the pretty kitty is ready to hunt for something shiny,” are the last words he spoke to you before the auction began.

Needless to say, you were absolutely fucked.

Rather than the Protocore, the only thing on your mind was the infuriatingly beautiful man next to you, sitting there with his infuriatingly large biceps. God, what you wouldn’t give for him to wrap one of those monstrosities around your neck as he fu-

“Sweetie, we can leave now if you’re… bored,” Sylus says, his voice low and slightly strained.

You raise an eyebrow as you look at him, trying to understand why the leader of Onychinus was suddenly so tense.

“What? No, we haven’t gotten what we came for yet,” you say back, giving him a once over. His leg is bouncing erratically under the table, and while you’re mildly concerned, you can only hope that when you got home, he’d let you bounce on him like that-

“I can have someone else take care of it,” he says through grit teeth. What the hell was his deal? He’d made a big fuss about coming all the way out here, and now he wants to leave before he even gets what he wants?

“Sylus, what’s wrong with you? You’re acting all skittish,” you whisper back, making eye contact with him once more. His jaw tightens, and you have to fight the urge to curse under your breath. 

You were supposed to be listening for the answer to the question you literally just asked, but instead, you were wondering if his jaw would look like that if he had you spread out on his desk, open and ready for him to-

Sylus inhales sharply, and you’re pulled out of your reverie.

“It’s nothing, sweetie. Nothing I can’t fix later,” he says roughly, rolling his neck before turning slightly in his seat, facing the auctioneer once more. Almost as if he couldn’t bear to look you in the eyes.

God, you were a mess, and seeing Sylus so… on edge wasn’t helping either. The rational part of your brain, though rapidly dissipating, was still concerned for Sylus. He was usually so confident, self-assured- a far cry from the man sitting next to you on tenterhooks, lacking all of his typical cool composure.

“Are you sure? I’ll admit, I’m a little worried about you,” you murmur, placing your hand on the space between his shoulder blades.

He tenses yet again, but before he can get a word out, the auctioneer finally brings out the piece the two of you have been waiting for. 

You have no idea that he knows you’re fighting the urge to jump him right at the table, which in turn has him trying to decide if it’s worth it to straight up blast a hole in the wall just to get you home faster.

And he’s conflicted because? Does he tell you what he knows? Does he wait for you to bring it up? He should be paying attention, should be focusing on the goods, but his brain short circuited the moment his eye showed him a very vivid image of you laid out like a feast while his cock made itself at home between your thighs.

In the end, he leaves the decision in your hands since intimacy is still such a new thing for the two of you.

It’s not until you’ve come for the sixth time that evening that you realize he’s been very carefully recreating your own fantasies all night. :) 

[vampiredaisiesss]

things we lost in the fire | d.w. x reader

tags and warnings: angst, major character death, grieving, themes of loss, abandonment and emotional dependency, soft smut, p in v, riding, domestic dean, older dean with grey in his hair says hi.

summary: you and the winchesters go a long way back. dean was your first love—and your first heartbreak. a lifetime later, the world has burned down around him. sam is gone. and dean winchester comes back to you, seeking the only arms that ever knew how to hold him without breaking.

but grief is a fire. and love is never untouched.

The rain's always the first to arrive, isn't it? Three days of it drumming against your kitchen window like knuckles rasping against wood, like someone asking to come in. You don't know yet that it's carrying Dean Winchester back to you.

You are making tea when the headlights slice through the thunderstorm. Earl Grey with honey, the way your grandmother taught you—steep for exactly four minutes. No more, no less. Time matters, she used to say. Too little and you taste nothing. Too much and you taste everything wrong.

The car door slams. One door. Not two.

Your hands know before your mind does. The mug slips, porcelain shattering against the kitchen tiles in cloud of steam. Seven years of bad luck, grandmother would say. But you think you've already lived through yours.

When you open the door, Dean is standing there with his shoulders bent against the storm. Water runs down his face—rain or tears, you cannot tell. Will never ask. His leather jacket seems to engulf him whole tonight. You remember suddenly how he looked at seventeen, caught in a downpour after his first heartbreak, when love felt like something that happened to other people.

"Sam—" he starts, and the word breaks in half.

You already know. Have known since the phone stopped ringing three weeks ago. Have known since the dreams started, the ones where you're reaching for something that dissolves the moment your fingers touch it.

But you let him tell you anyway. Let him shape the words with his mouth, this mouth you once kissed behind the gymnasium when you thought you were invisible. Let him speak his brother's name like a prayer and a curse and an ending all at once.

"I burned him," Dean manages to say. "Spread his ashes in the wind like he was—like he was nothing."

But Sam was never nothing.

Sam, who used to steal cookies from your mother's jar and leave apology notes written in careful third-grade cursive. Sam, who cried the day you found a dead bird and insisted you bury it with full honors. Sam, who grew tall as a tree and gentle as autumn breeze and never learned how to be anything but good in a world that ate good things alive.

You open your arms. He falls into them.

He stays because where else is there to go? The bunker holds too many ghosts. His car holds too many memories. The road holds too many possibilities that end in the same nowhere.

You give him the guest room, but he doesn't sleep there. Doesn't sleep anywhere, really. You find him at three am sitting at your kitchen table, staring at his hands like they belong to someone else. At four am standing at the window, watching for something that will never come. At five am with his head buried in his face.

"You don't have to take care of me," he says on the third morning, not looking up from his mug.

"I'm not," you lie. "I'm making breakfast."

"You hate breakfast."

He's right. You've lived on coffee and anxiety for most of your adult life. But Dean hasn't been eating. He needs feeding the way broken things need mending—carefully, persistently, with more patience than you think you possess.

You learn his rhythms. How he flinches when the phone rings. How he checks every lock twice before bed. How he keeps Sam's phone number in his contacts and almost calls it a dozen times a day, thumb hovering over the screen.

"Tell me something good," he says one evening as you sit on the porch, watching the day die in shades of orange and pink.

You think of the summer you caught fireflies in mason jars, how Sam insisted on letting them go because he read they only lived for two months. How Dean pretended to be annoyed but released his too, watching the tiny speck of light drift away.

"Your brother," you say, "was the only person I ever met who could make the smallest of creatures sound like the most important thing in the world."

Dean's laugh comes out broken. "Yeah. He was good at that."

Was. The word sits between you. A sound with its own weight.

The nightmares begin on a Tuesday.

You wake to screaming. Raw, animal sounds that seem to come from somewhere deeper than his throat. You find Dean thrashing in the guest bed, sheets twisted around his legs, his hand reaching out into the darkness of the room.

"Sammy!" he cries, and the name is a wound torn open. "I got you, I got you, don't—"

You touch his shoulder and he comes up swinging, eyes wild and unfocused. For a moment you think he might hit you. For a moment you think he wants to.

"It's me," you whisper. "It's just me."

Recognition filters back into his face. He collapses against the headboard, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin.

"I couldn't catch him," his voice is a child's voice, small and lost. "He was falling and I couldn't—my hands weren't fast enough."

You don't ask what he was falling from. Don't ask why Dean's hands feel responsible for every tragedy they couldn't prevent. Instead, you sit on the edge of the bed and wait.

"Will you—" he starts, then stops. Starts again. "Would you mind—"

"Yes," you say before he can finish asking.

You slide under the covers beside him, careful to leave space between you. He turns toward you anyway, instinctive as a plant seeking light, and you let him. Let his forehead rest against your shoulder. Let his breathing gradually match yours.

"Tell me about before," he whispers into the darkness. "When we were kids."

So you do. You tell him about the fireflies.

Dean's breathing evens out against your collarbone. His hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining like he's afraid of getting lost.

This becomes your routine. His nightmares, your presence. The slow, careful work of learning how to exist in the same space without bleeding all over each other.

Spring arrives eventually, as spring always does, stubborn and hopeful and impossible to ignore. Dean starts working in the garden. Needs something to do with his hands, he says.

You watch him from the kitchen window as he plants tomatoes and peppers and herbs you can't pronounce. His shoulders are broader now, less weighed down with hunger and sleeplessness. His hands move through the soil with surprising gentleness, and you remember suddenly that he used to draw, before the world taught him that his hands were only good for violence.

"You could take classes," you suggest one evening over dinner. "Art classes. Like you used to talk about."

He looks at you like you've suggested he learn to fly. "I don't remember how."

"Hands remember," you say, thinking of your grandmother's fingers finding piano keys even after her mind forgot the songs. "Even when we don't."

He doesn't respond, but the next day you find sketches on the kitchen counter.

The first time you make love—and you use that phrase deliberately, make love, because what you do is less about desire and more about creation—it happens just like that.

Dean appears in your doorway at midnight, barefoot and hesitant. He's been having good days lately, days when he laughs at something on television or hums while washing dishes. Days when he seems to remember that he exists in present tense.

"Can't sleep," he says, but his voice carries something different tonight. Not the familiar weight of nightmares, but something lighter. Something that might be want.

You pull back the covers without speaking. He crosses the room one step at a time. His lips crash against your lips. They're rough, chapped from neglect, tasting of the apple pie you baked for desert and blood, as if he had bitten his lips crimson before arriving here. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, seeking entry, and you open for him.

A soft moan catches in your throat.

His hands find your face. They're trembling a little. Trembling with a terrible responsibility of touching something you love more than yourself. Fingers of his other hand dig into the soft flesh of your hip as he presses himself closer, chest to chest, the heat of him searing through your thin shirt.

You tug at his tee, pulling it over his head, and his freckled skin gleams in the moonlight. Your fingers trace the curve of his jaw and he shudders, breath hitching, as you press your lips there, tasting salt.

“Are you sure?” you whisper, your mouth brushing the corded muscle of his neck, where his pulse leaps.

“No,” he says honestly, for once. “But I want to feel—God, I want to feel alive.”

You guide his hands to your shirt, and he pulls it off. Calluses scrape your skin, sending sparks down your spine. His fingers fumble with your bra until it falls away, and his breath catches at the sight of your breasts, soft and heavy in the dim light. He cups them, thumbs brushing your nipples, which harden under his touch. You gasp, arching into him. And his mouth follows.

Ardent lips closed over one nipple, tongue swirling, hot and wet. You back arched more, letting you into a slow and languid ride of delight. His hand kneads the other breast, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

Dean moves to the other breast, leaving your tender nipple with a suckling pop. Saliva drips from his mouth, the sight of it making heat pool between your thighs.

His eyes find you like he's sketching you into existence. "You're so beautiful," he says in a brittle voice. "I'd forgotten that things could be beautiful."

You push him back onto the bed, straddling his hips. His eyes, wide and searching, lock on yours. Your fingers work his jeans open, the zipper loud in the quiet. He lifts his hips as you tug them down, revealing the hard line of his cock straining against his boxers. You slide them off, and he’s bare before you, thick and flushed, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. Your hand wraps around him, stroking slowly, and he groans. His head tips back, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he fights to stay present.

You shed your own pants, your underwear, and climb over him, knees bracketing his hips. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, guiding you as you sink down, taking him in inch by inch. He’s hot, hard, stretching you, and you both moan out at the sensation. Your hips roll, slow at first, finding a rhythm, and his hands slide to your ass, urging you deeper. He thrusts up, tentative, then bolder, his cock sliding in and out. The friction sparks heat that pools in your core.

His breath is ragged, puffing against your shoulder as he sits up, arms pulling you close. Your breasts press against his chest, nipples grazing his skin, and he kisses you, desperate teeth nipping your lower lip. His hands roam, one tangling in your hair, the other gripping your hip, guiding your movements as you ride him. Your bodies are slick with sweat. The bed creaks, a counterpoint to your gasps, his grunts, the wet sounds of your bodies joining.

“You feel so good.” he whispers, lips brushing your collarbone, voice thick with something like awe. His hips snap up, harder now, and you meet him. Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving half-moons on his skin. You clench around him, and he curses softly. A broken “fuck” erupts against your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

You move faster, chasing the heat building between you. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and rubbing in tight circles. The sensation is electric, a jolt that makes you cry out, and he watches you with wide eyes and parted lips.

When you come, it’s a wave crashing, and he follows, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he finishes inside you.

Afterward, you lie tangled in sheets and starlight, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare shoulder.

"I used to think," he says quietly, "that wanting things was selfish. That love was something you couldn't afford if you were trying to save people."

"And now?"

He considers this, his thumb finding the pulse point at your wrist. "Now I think maybe love is what gives you something worth saving."

You marry on a Thursday in October, when the leaves are dying their most beautiful deaths. No ceremony, just you and Dean and a justice of the peace and some of your loved ones. Jody. Claire. Donna.

Dean wears his father's ring on a chain around his neck—one of the only heirloom that survived all the burning—and you wear your grandmother's dress, altered to fit a life she never could have imagined.

"Do you take this man," the justice begins, and you want to laugh because take implies acquisition, ownership, the claiming of something that was never really yours to begin with.

But you say yes anyway. Yes to this man who waters your plants when you forget. Yes to this man who learned to make soup from scratch because you were down with cold. Yes to this man who still wakes up reaching for his brother but has begun, slowly, to reach for you instead.

The ring he slides onto your finger belonged to his mother. You think about that sometimes—how love travels through generations, how it survives even when the people carrying it don't.

Your daughter arrives on a Tuesday morning in March, screaming her indignation at the bright, cold world. She has Dean's eyes—that impossible green—and Sam's stubborn forehead, already set in determined lines.

Dean cries when he holds her, tears he's been saving for years finally finding their purpose. His hands dwarf her tiny body, but he holds her like he held you the first time you made love. That terrible responsibility of holding something you love more than yourself hitting him again.

"She looks like him," he whispers, and you know he means Sam. "Around the eyes."

She does. The same wide-set gaze, the same expression of intelligent curiosity.

"What do we call her?" you ask.

Dean is quiet for a long moment, studying your daughter's face. "Hope," he says finally. "We call her Hope."

It's a dangerous name, hope. The kind of word that can cut you if you hold it too tightly. But Dean says it determinedly, like something he's finally ready to believe in again.

Your son comes two years later, quieter but no less miraculous. Where Hope demands attention like a small, beautiful storm, he observes. Watches. Thinks before speaking, the way Sam used to do.

Dean teaches them both everything he knows about being human. How to tie shoes and throw baseballs and fix engines and scramble eggs. How to be kind to things smaller than themselves. How to say please and thank you and I'm sorry like they mean it.

"Why do we have to be gentle with the cat?" Hope asks one afternoon, age five and already full of so many questions.

"Because she's smaller than you," Dean explains, guiding her tiny hand as she pets your tabby. "And because being strong means protecting things that can't protect themselves."

You watch from the doorway as he shows her how to scratch behind the cat's ears, how to read the signals that mean more or stop or I trust you. This man who once thought his hands were only good for violence, teaching his daughter the act of tenderness.

Now you stand at the kitchen window, watching Dean chase your children through the meadow behind your house. They're playing some elaborate game involving dragons and knights and magic spells that only they understand.

Hope, seven now and fast as wind, dodges between Dean's arms with delighted shrieks. Your son, Sam—yes, you named him Sam, after long conversations and longer silences and finally the understanding that some names are too important not to carry forward—tackles Dean's legs with his five-year-old determination.

Dean roars dramatically as he's brought down by tiny hands and high-pitched battle cries. He gathers both children against his chest, spinning until they're all dizzy with laughter, until they collapse in a tangle of grass and happy limbs.

The afternoon light catches in his hair. It's more gray now; he doesn't want to dye it as it reminds him of the privilege of having made so far. You think about time. How it's cyclical inside of linear. How the boy you loved at fifteen became the man you married at forty-two, became the father you watch at forty-nine.

"Daddy, tell us about Uncle Sam," Hope says as they lie in the grass, clouds moving overhead them.

Dean's face goes quiet for a moment, the way it always does when the past surfaces unexpectedly. But then he smiles—not the practiced smile he wore for years, but something real and unguarded.

"Your Uncle Sam," he says, pulling both children closer, "was the kindest person I ever knew. He used to say that loving someone meant wanting them to be happy, even if their happiness looked different from yours."

"Like how Mama is happy when she's reading and you're happy when you're fixing things?" young Sam asks.

"Exactly like that." Dean's eyes find yours through the window, and his smile widens. "Love means making space for different kinds of happiness."

You look up to the sky, a soft smile playing on your lips. Sometimes in May, an ache crawls under your ribcage and squeezes your heart. And you sit with it under the blue sky, hoping Sam would be looking down at you as you look at him. So, you throw him a smile and a silent prayer.

You know he'd say that love isn't just about holding on, but about knowing when to let go. Like how Dean learned, finally, to carry Sam with him without drowning in the weight.

The timer chimes. Dinner is ready. You call them in, and Dean looks up from the meadow, grass in his hair and dirt under his fingernails and your children hanging from his arms like small, perfect miracles.

He smiles at you—this man who learned that survival and living don't have to be the same thing, who discovered that happiness isn't something that happens to other people—and you understand, finally, what it means to build a life from the ashes of an old one.

"Coming!" he calls, and his voice carries across the meadow.

You beam, satisfied. So this is how you survive the unsurvivable. This is how you survive the burning. You don't just live through it.

You live beyond it.

[mwahbabe]

More Chloe breeding??? Yes. Like right now plz -J

pairing: chloe price x fem!reader

mdni, smut, breeding kink, dom!chloe, sub!reader, tribbing!!!, talk about pregnancy&starting a family, multiple orgasms, creampies :)

a/n: hi. <3

“hey baby?”

"yeah?" chloe said, her attention focused on the tv, but still completely listening and aware of you as she held you close to herself, her arm wrapped snugly around your shoulders, her thumb gently rubbing over your arm.

“if you had a dick would you get me pregnant?”

you were half joking, expecting a “babe what the fuck?” or something along the lines of “uh dude we’re both girls” from her. but noo. no no no. her reaction had your stomach flipping, suddenly unbelievably turned on.

“oh hell yeah. i’d knock you up so damn fast.”

you gasp with a smile, as if she had just given you the biggest compliment in the world, “oh my god babe you mean it?”

"fuck yeah, i mean it." she said with a little smirk as she pulled you closer to herself, her arm wrapped around your torso, "i’d fill you to the brim every day."

“oh well fuck.”

she laughed softly, her hand rubbing over your belly gently, as if there was a little bun in there. her eyes locked on your face as she got a bit more serious. "i’m not kidding, though. i’d fill you up and stuff you full."

you swore you felt your body short circuit. “to the brim?”

“to the fuckin brim hotstuff.”

“get you all nice and big with my baby."

you cannot stop smiling, butterflies all through your stomach and pussy. “how many?”

“at least three. maybe five.”

“as long as i’m naming those babies.” “yeah, yeah, yeah.” she said with a massive smirk, loving how you were so on board with her. “as long as you're carrying my babies, you get to do whatever the hell you want.”

and that’s how this started.

chloe didn’t need to really do a lot to get you in the mood or up and running, just a whiff of her scent, which was a mix of her deodorant, hair dye and shampoo, weed, the smell of outside, and her natural musk she carried, and the way she looked at you with that predatory look in her eyes. it was a stark contrast with the way she would always look at you with those blue puppy dog eyes, while she was eating your out or just in german. she was a sookie. completely smitten for you, her beautiful girl.

“fuck.. oh fuck. love this pussy you know?” chloe had you spread under her, atop her bed she hadn’t bothered making up. as she grinded down on you, both of you completely naked, your slick pussies kissing sloppily, dripping arousal all over both of your thighs and the sheets, her words so vulgar and full of need. she was face to face chest to chest with you, this look was good on her, hair messy, her eyes all blown out, her shoulders and arms flexing as she held your leg up, brows furrowed in focus, completely focused on you and getting both of you off.

“hah.. ah.. fuck– need to fill you baby, so bad. gonna carry my kids huh?”

you moan loudly at that sentence alone, “yeah.. oh god chloe… need it so bad.”

“uh huh.. i know.. take it.. i know you can.. yeah?”

she thrusted her hips into yours in short hard thrusts as she punctuated her sentence. “fuck! yeah baby..” you wrapped your arms around her, holding her tightly, not wanting to let go for even a second.

there was no stopping her when she got like this, and you would never. she was in her own world with you and your perfect cunt, your engorged clit stimulating hers, her clit was throbbing, her brain was numb and only wanting to cum over and over and make sure it got inside you, each time she came she held you tight locking you in with her arms, creaming on your overstimulated pussy at the same time you came, her teeth gritted and her eyes shut tight as she whimpered with each clench of her cunt.

your eyes were dazed, jaw slack as she kept going after a quick check over of you, then getting right back in, her arms above your head, her armpit in your face, the musky smell of her was so addicting, it awakened something in you that made you want to bite her. “chloe.. ah fuck..i love you.”

her movements faltered for a second, the sentimental words striking that chord inside her that you always knew how to find. “fuckin love you too babe.. shit.. can’t get enough, gotta fill this pussy.”

“yes yes..” you grip her back tighter, digging your nails in, “you want a boy or girl?” she asked rhetorically, knowing you couldn’t think, “doesn’t matter, i’m giving you both.”

[angeldrawsstuffs]

Just wanna get down some of my thoughts about Monstrosity’s release date because, while I am excited for it… I absolutely HATE the way this release has been done for a multitude of reasons.

Again, getting this out of the way so nobody gets it twisted: I AM EXCITED FOR MONSTROSITY AND CANNOT WAIT TO WATCH, I AM PURELY TALKING ABOUT THE MARKETING AROUND IT HERE, NOT THE SHOW ITSELF, I’M CERTAIN IT’S GONNA BE FANTASTIC. WE GOT THAT? GOOD. /lh

Ok so the fact we didn’t know when exactly this thing was coming out on streaming until THE DAY BEFORE is absolutely wild, right? Like, no matter what franchise you’re talking about, fans not knowing for certain when something will be released until the day before is a terrible idea. Over the past few weeks I’ve heard so many different rumored release dates thrown around and none of them were correct. Actually- less than a day before, really.

The fact it only got one trailer is actually like- legitimately something I’m not upset about. It’s a short spinoff series, one trailer is pretty much the standard for that.

Ok, second of all, I won’t harp on this one too much because I’ve talked this to death in other posts but Lego- please for the love of all that of holy let your other themes EXIST without needing to insert Ninjago into everything for two minutes please. Like- Dreamzzz S3 got 10 days to itself before Monstrosity. I get it, Ninjago’s the golden child moneymaker, but that also means new Ninjago content can WAIT to let other themes breathe. Honestly every time this happens it distracts me more and more from the new Ninjago thing because the frustration with this repeatedly happening and Ninjago overshadowing other themes keeps growing. Like, at least give your other stuff two weeks Lego, I thought we learned this lesson the past bajillion times you’ve done this.

To another point why I think this whole release has been a mess… You’d have to be in dedicated fandom spaces and/or checking Lego’s YouTube channel to know that it’s coming out tomorrow (technically today as of writing this cuz it’s past midnight). Like, all other reasons aside, I think we can all acknowledge that’s just a terrible marketing call. Like, I will not be surprised if people who aren’t constantly checking social media (so like- most people) don’t realize Monstrosity came out because there was, and I repeat, less than 24 hour’s notice of it happening.

Also- a Sunday? Ok I know that’s pedantic but Sunday is such an odd day to drop the series, especially with the very sudden release.

One last thing, I feel like dropping the series on streaming only three days after showing it at a convention feels pretty soon. Like, you’d want to wait to build up the hype more and make the early screening for those who were at the panel feel more special, yeah? Cuz like- idk about anyone else but three days doesn’t feel like a lot of time in terms of getting to see it early. Maybe a week would’ve been better?

If I think of more I’ll post about it but- yeah. Overall my opinion is now just that Lego is terrible at marketing any of their animated media that isn’t mainline Ninjago (as in the main show, not any spin-offs or other such things like Monstrosity). Seriously mainline Ninjago is like the ONLY show that gets halfway decent marketing (even then they fall into the issue of it getting excessive- yeah I’m still hung up on the two months straight of weekly DR S3 “trailers” reusing the same footage and presenting it like new stuff).

Am I just losing my last marble or does anyone else feel this way? Like- that the handling of Monstrosity’s release has been… iffy at best.

[erosetta-sims]

[Modular Bespoke Study - Part A]

Sims4 CC

✨Here comes the double study room, please check it out~

The first part is equivalent to the main framework of the study, which includes various large and small furniture pieces for combined customization, totaling 30 items. However… does it look a bit empty? There are also some decorative ornaments that I plan to create as content for next month. Let me strive to fill it up!!

Hope you like it : )

🤎Total items: 30

The number of colors ranges from a dozen to thirty or forty. The colors of wooden furniture are all matched. In addition to solid colors, curtains and throw pillows also have checkered and printed options. For specifics, you can check them out in the game by yourselves.

Sheer curtains and cloth curtains can be stacked in two layers. Slightly staggering their positions can prevent any texture clipping.

The lighting effect of the shelf is built-in.

Holes on the pegboard can be used to place items on the storage board. Next month, some matching decorations that can be hung or pasted will also be made.

The curtain box is independent and can be paired with other curtains to hide the curtain rod.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

MaxisMatch - New Meshes and textures.

🤎Release version: 1.115

🤎HighSchoolYears & HomeChefHustle

🤎Public release in July

----------------------------------------------------------------------

1 set of desk and chair

1 under-desk drawer cabinet

5 basic bay window seats (left, middle, right, coffee table, chaise lounge)

3 bay window seats with backrest (left, middle, right)

2 pillow combinations

2 desks (2x1, corner)

2 shelving units with built-in lighting (straight panel, cabinet style)

3 pegboards

1 window (4x1)

3 curtain boxes (left, middle, right)

3 curtains (half-wall, low-wall, mid-wall)

3 sheer curtains (half-wall, low-wall, mid-wall)

1 floor (color-customizable)

----------------------------------------------------------------------

🔗Early Access

★ For personal use only. It cannot be re-uploaded anywhere, with or without charge. Please post the original link instead of packaging.

(Google Translate, Please forgive me if there is any inappropriate expression.)

[soriseerakyra]

The Quiet Between The Screams

TW: Pregnancy, mentions of matricide, mentions of self-harm, dream murder

He touches your stomach as if he is checking you for a wound. No smile. No reverence. Just a palm, calloused and cool, pressing lightly against the small swelling beneath your ribs. As if something inside might break. As if he were expecting it to bite.

You can’t blame him. You haven’t felt human in weeks.

Your ladies gasp when he touches the small bump. They were worried about this, about letting him be around you when you were in such a vulnerable state.

The high chamber is silent. Outside, Giedi Prime howls with its usual industry—grinding gears, plasma drills, a sky carved open by chemical lightning. But in here, everything is still. No guards. No surveillance. Just you, and Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, and the child twisting quietly inside your womb.

"It kicked," he says.

You nod. You don’t correct him. You don't ask if he's pleased. You're not sure you want to know.

He pulls his hand back. He wipes it on his coat as if he had touched something unclean.

You close your robe.

He leaves in a hurry, and your ladies clamor around you. It has been this way for the past few weeks.

His behavior is strange.

It’s what haunts you as you sleep. How off-put he is by your distended body. You may not be sure if 'off-put' is the right word. Perhaps 'unsure,' 'hesitant,' or 'maybe wary' would be more accurate. All things that were not Feyd-Rautha. All things that haunted you in your dreams.

You were only at the beginning of the third month of your pregnancy. Barley a bump there feel. But you had been glad. This was what you were sent here for. Secure the bloodline and your future. It was the outcome of all of these noble marriages and should have been expected.

Except your husband seemed…surprised. Surprised by your pregnancy, astonished by your excitement, and shaken by the prospect of the future.

You were no fool. You did not expect the murderous Na-Baron to shower you with affection the way another might. Did not expect him to pat you on the head and say how proud he was of you. But you certainly had not expected him to run away from you. To avoid your form entirely.

You knew he had problems with his mother. That the friction there had led to her death. However, no one seemed to care enough about your safety to tell you why she was killed.

He moved you here, to this high chamber. Away from your marital bed, away from him. As if he could not stand the sight of you. The idea of. His visits are all like this. Short, lacking understanding, and a hurried exit.

If this were to continue, you wouldn’t be sure how long you would have left. How long your child would have without you.

***

That night, your hauntings change.

A boy who looks like Feyd in all ways except for his eyes smirks at you. He presses a dagger deep into your abdomen over and over again, with the ease of pulling a lever. With the care of cutting grass. He murders you. He smiles. And you can only be glad that he is healthy.

It's terrifying. But you cannot bring yourself to do anything but rub your belly soothingly when you wake alone in your new chambers. You could not abandon your child to such a fate. To be capable of such cruelty.

Your tears begin to well up in your eyes, warm as they roll down your cheeks. There is no one to comfort you tonight, only the darkness. Only the silence.

***

Dinner is the only thing that retains its normalcy. He stares at you with his usual interest. Always wondering what you choose to eat, where your taste buds linger. Tonight, he wonders why you are not drinking wine.

“Is it spoiled?”

You can only shake your head, exhaustion from another sleepless night clinging to your bones.

He hushes himself, watching you with wary eyes. You both continue in silence for moments more. But he cannot help his need for conversation.

"You’re quiet," he says over dinner, not looking up.

"You left a knife on my table."

"A gift."

You snort. "Of protection or permission?"

He glances up then. His eyes are the color of hunger.

"Both."

You mull it over, thinking of the short, blood-red blade that was left in the quiet of the night for you. It was silly that it brought you comfort. Because it could have only been left if he was watching you, waiting for those few hours you fell asleep to leave you your gift. A romantic gesture of the highest order from Feyd-Rautha.

And yet.

He doesn’t speak again for a long while. Then, as you reach for a piece of bread, his voice is low and curious.

“Do you think he’ll hate you?”

Your hand freezes mid-reach. You look up slowly.

“What?”

Feyd leans back, expression unreadable. “Our son. Will he hate you for bringing him into this world? Or will he save that for me?”

Your heart flutters at his curiosity, so much so that you nearly disregard his question.

“My goal is to make sure that he is happy. There is no reason he cannot be, even here.”

He snorts. “I’m happy. Would you have him be that way?”

You pause for a moment, meeting his eyes deeply so that he may understand your meaning. “I mean happy in the way that you make me.”

He cannot answer this because he cannot lie and say that he doesn’t understand it.

There were nights he spent curled into your stomach, simply listening to you breathe and to your heartbeat. A feeling he had not understood nor deemed necessary at the beginning of your courtship. Now, he cherished it in ways he refused to name. It had become a ritual, something primal and silent. And with your body changing, with the heartbeat no longer just yours, he did not know what part of the sound still belonged to you—and what belonged to the thing he helped create.

“You can try.”

You can’t help but grin.

He always did love issuing a challenge.

***

He stands at the foot of your bed, fists clenched and breath heavy. Under these lights, you see familiar dark rings around his eyes. He had also been losing sleep.

"She called me her redemption," he says finally. "Her clean slate."

"And?"

"I never asked to be her second chance."

“And you hated her for it?”

“Yes.”

Your lips roll into a line, unsatisfied with his reason, but you cannot argue with him because there is confusion in his eyes, too. As if he doesn’t know the reason why he is who he is.

“If he is like me, will you hate him?”

“I will love him.”

He comes closer and kneels near the side of your bed. He hesitates before he puts a hand on your belly.

“If he is like me,” you ask. “Will you love him?”

Contemplation settles across his face. And his hand this time snakes under the blanket, settling on the bare skin of your stomach. He rubs this time using his entire palm to feel the budding seed. The feeling of his calloused hand on your skin sends shivers down your spine.

“He will be mine.”

You chuckle. Perhaps that was better than love to him.

[cherrycrvsh]

Followed you then unfollowed you right away when I saw you being moots with a shifter... Ew... Or do you not know dove and that Caleb user is a shifter...

we are taking this OUTSIDE‼️‼️‼️‼️ of course i know they're both shifters. 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀 i literally call shifters "shifties"😕😕😕 AND THEY'RE LIKE. VVV NICE STFU. what did they even do to yew vro. like:

𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑓𝑒𝑛 𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎 !? 𝑤ℎ𝑦 𝑢 𝑐𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 !?!?!? 𝑖 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑒 !¡ 𝑣𝑎𝑚𝑓𝑦𝑟 𝑟𝑦𝑡𝑠 !? 𝑣𝑎𝑚𝑓𝑦𝑟 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑒𝑦𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒 !!!!! 𝑖 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑟𝑢𝑡𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎... 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑡 !! 𝑖 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑦𝑒 𝑖𝑑𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑.. 𝑖 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑖𝑒... !! 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑜𝑛, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒.. !!!!!!!!!! 𝓲 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓭 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝔀𝓪𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓭𝓸𝓷𝓽 𝓫𝓮 𝓪𝓯𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓭 𝓲 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓲 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓪 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝔂𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓼 𝓲'𝓵𝓵 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓪 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮

i used to have HOOP DREAMS until i found out there were other ways to SCORE😈😈😈😈 if you're gonna be my BITCH!!! you HAVE to be OBEDIENT ! you CANNOT be a WHORE!!!

(tw: taglish)ate... ma... I'M GETTING MARRIED!!! ANO⁉️ MAGPAPAKASAL⁉️⁉️⁉️ so he and nicole got back together 👠👠🤨🤨🤑🤑❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 eh, sana nga yung nicole nalang, ano? e KASO.. HINDI! yung BAGO!! yung PRINCESS!!!! OH MY GAAAASH!?!? 😧😧😧 YUNG NAKILALA NIYA SA BARKO!?!? E CHARARAT 'YUN E😞😞💀💀 HAH‼️⁉️⁉️ sino ba yung princess na 'yan?🤨 hindi kaba nag babasa nang email and fb updates ko sayo??🤬🤬🤬 AY! wala na kasi akong time mag basa ng ganyan d2...🥲🥲 sobra kasing busy, sa mga trainings, seminars!! alam mo na‼️‼️ sino nga uli yan? 😁😁 yung nagfefeeling broadway singer na WALA namang BOSES!😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😤😤😤🫩🫩 kulang na nga sa talent... kulang pa sa PES!! at kulang sa salita🤪🤪 nung pinakilala sakim ni reb² wala halos imik, at kung makakapit sakanya akala mo linta 😑😑😑😑 yang babaeng yan, hindi kopa nakita hindi kona gusto hah😤😤 hindi kaya nakulam o nagayuma ang bunso natin...? does mama know?😶 how did she react?🍵 of course she's not happy. e kailan lang nakilala ni cj yung gurl🫩🫩 eh kelan nga ba⁉️ 4 months ago... sa cruise🙄🙄 diba? AAHHHH sí, sí. nag cruise NGA pala si reb² para makapag move on kay nic—.. 🤔 SANDALI! EDI KASALANAN MO PALA‼️‼️Ako⁉️ e idea kaya ni ate alex yon. OY BAKLAAA😠😠😠🤡🤡🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🌈🌈🌈👨‍❤️‍👨👨‍❤️‍👨👬👬 umagree ka naman Diba ⁉️ tsyaka sino ba yung bumili ng ticket 😠Ako ba????? Oh..? So it's my fault now😐😒😒😒 kung alam kolang na yung kapatid nyong yan ang PROMOTOR, i wouldn't have agreed to that stupid idea..🙄🙄 ... btw the wedding's happening in TWO weeks💩💩 two weeks? buntechi?? INSTANT MAMI😱😱😱😱 hindi 💀💀💀 oh? e bakit nagmamadali? e bakit pa daw nila patatagalan kung true love 💘😘❤️ na?🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄 weh?🤡 tRuE lOvE mY ASS 💩💩💩 QUESOOO😭😭😭 QUEJOROR!!!! ka chaepan!😔😔😔 Anyway, ANO pa ang mga opinion naten kailangan umuwi para sa BIG event? HUH!? UMUWI!?!? pati AQUOH⁉️⁉️⁉️ yup.😐 hiling ni rebreb at utos ni Mama. Dapat KUMPLETO tayo. TAYONG LAHAT⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️ uuwi si teddy? Sandali3x hindi ako sigurado diyan! E check ko Muna schedule ko, busy Ako this month😭 ehh.... si bobby? ..... i'll check my sched. ... sige check korin schedule ko ah!

[fiery-blues]

the pitt fic recs (pt. 5)

link to fanfic recommendations masterlist

1. healed backwards by divineauthor | santos character study

You never meant to become a doctor.

—

Trinity Santos, on her day off.

2. Plain to See (Plainsman) by lislemons | whitaker character study

Dennis is homesick for a home he doesn't miss. After a bad day that leaves him with a broken nose, he has a bit of a breakdown about his home. Robby finds him, and Dennis does what he knows best, and quotes bible verses as he cries about it.

(Or how Dennis ended up in Pittsburgh, a thousand miles from home and why he doesn't want to go back.)

3. Nothing Else I Could Do by darlingsdarling | mohabbot

Abbot is vibrating, and she feels it. Feels it resonating between her ribs. His hands are clasped around a near-empty glass. “I didn’t know you were dating an anesthesiologist.”

Is she vibrating, too?

“He’s great.” Samira doesn’t know if it’s for her or Abbot, but she says it. Thomas is great. He checks every box.

------

Mohabbot across five New Year's Eves. Right person, wrong time--or whatever it is they say.

4. lipstick lover by HotelRaleigh | mohan/ellis

"You nervous?" Dr. Ellis' voice jerks her from her musings, that signature smirk working its way onto her face. Samira swallows at the way it tugs the corner of her lips up, the way her perfect, white teeth gleam in the dim lights.

"No." Samira says, sitting up straight. "Why would I be nervous, Dr. Ellis?"

***

or, Samira Mohan makes a proposition. Parker Ellis accepts.

5. how lucky are we by kcrlfs | mohan/abbot/robby

“Sometimes I talk to Robby, and I understand him more than I understand myself,” Samira said.

She felt Jack nod. “That doesn’t surprise me,” he said, his voice muffled against her shirt.

“And then sometimes I don’t.”

“That doesn’t surprise me either.” Samira could tell he was smiling. “You two are a lot alike.”

“Is that why you’re with me?” she asked.

Samira Mohan is a principal ballerina at the New York City Ballet. For the upcoming winter ballet, they will be dancing Swan Lake, as led by their director, Emery Walsh. Samira vies for the lead, only Emery has one issue—she can't dance the Black Swan. She's too tight, too innocent. Emery wants to loosen her up.

6. i am something (i have been something) by softersoftests | mohan/walsh ballet au

In the professional sense, of course.

7. baby take my thoughts and carve the others out by nucodiangelo | mohabbot

“Robby force you to take a break?” he asks when she’s close enough to not have to yell.

“Yeah.”

“Me too,” he huffs. “Like he’s my superior or something. Asshole.”

Samira laughs, bending down to put her coffee down, balancing her sandwich on the lid, and then leans her forearms on the railing, far enough away to still be able to look at the side of his face, but close enough that she feels a little more confident she’ll be able to do something if he… Well. “Should you be sitting over there?” she asks, staring at the slight slope of his nose, the shadow of his eyelashes across on the top of his freckled cheekbone.

“Probably not,” he answers in a casual tone. “At least I’m sitting.”

That doesn’t comfort her very much, but she figures there’s no point in fighting him on it, so she turns and sits down with her back against the warm metal, mirroring him. “You want half of my sandwich?” she offers, twisting her upper body to hold it out to him.

8. finished praying for your downfall by darlingsdarling | mohabbot

“Jack,” he’s gray now. He wasn’t gray when they met but now his auburn brown hair has faded to almost entirely silver. She imagines it would suit him if there wasn’t so much blood in it. “to what do I owe the displeasure?”

Maybe it’s a mean thing to say when he’s actively being loaded out of an ambulance, but Samira really cannot bring herself to care. He’s upright and breathing, so in the grand scheme of things, the situation can’t be that bad. And you’re allowed to be rude to your ex-husband—it’s one of the big perks of getting divorced before you graduate med school. It’s the participation prize of a failed marriage.

“Hey there, gorgeous.”

-----

Samira's ex rolls into PTMC and brings a lot of baggage with him.

9. Dennis Whitaker can't catch a break by hilarycantdraw | santos & whitaker

If Dennis had to start dying in front of anyone, Trinity Santos would be one of his top choices because he knew she would do practically anything to keep him alive. Sure, a lot of those things were probably crazy and would earn her a lecture from Robby or Abbott or whoever was the attending when they inevitably arrived at the Pitt, but at least Dennis would live to tell the tale.

Dennis pictured his airway closing and Trinity performing a crike on him on the floor of their apartment with the sharp little paring knife she used for slicing fruit. It’s exactly the kind of insane thing she’d manage to pull off.

Since it was after seven, Abbott would probably be in charge of the ER and when they arrived he’d probably say something like, “Doctor Santos, you know that interns aren’t supposed to perform unassisted crikes. But that was super cool.” Or he’d probably never say super cool but Dennis was too out of it to conjure a good Abbott impression and that seemed close enough to the lecture Trinity’d received after the REBOA incident.

[my-great-big-book-of-fan-fiction]

L Lawliet x Reader pt. 22: the Billionaire and the Prostitute

Wowza, another chapter! This one is a little fluffier, I think, so I hope you enjoy!

you spent three hours getting ready. Three hours to put on your classiest dress, do your hair, do your makeup, accessorize, put on your perfume, and become all-around show-stopping. You were going to show everyone just how vain and self-centered you are, as a final "fuck you" to your mom. Her image as the perfect woman and mother would finally collapse. The perfect plan. All you had to do was show up, and make a daring announcement.

"Look at me everyone! I'm a prostitute!"

Or something to that effect.

The doorbell rang, and you hurried down the stairs. That must be L, ready to watch thing 1 and thing 2.

Said cats followed you to the door, Romeo hopping to the windowsill to look outside. His nemesis.

You nudge juliet away with your foot as you open the door. "Hey," you sigh, "I hope it's not too much troub- woah, you look like shit."

His skin was somehow paler, tinted green and sunken around his eyes and cheeks.

"It's a...light cold," he excuses, stepping into the house. His voice was nasal, stuffed up from phlegm and snot.

"A light cold? Do I look stupid?" You lead him to the couch, cats in tow.

"Not particularly."

"Sit. You look like you're dying."

He sits down, a wobble to his knees, and Jules jumps into his lap.

"I'm surprised Watari let you leave the penthouse like this." You stare down at him, hands on hips. He stares up at you, as if your concern is somehow an overreaction.

"I'm not so ill that I cannot function. I'm already here."

You frown. He was right, having him travel again when he was so...bleh, was probably worse than having him stay here.

"Do you have a fever?"

"...no."

"Liar," you scoff. His eyes narrow. Your hand slides beneath his bangs, pressing to his forehead. "Tsk, you're burning up! You should have just called and stayed home."

"This is important to you."

"Not as-" not as important as you. That...wouldn't come out right. It wasn't in that sense, not exactly what you meant. "It's not that important. Can you eat? Have you slept?"

"I assure you, I'm fine."

You sigh, and shake your head.

"You're running late."

You check your watch. You were running late. You look at him. His big, watery eyes, and his irritated pout. Then, to the watch again. If you left now, you'd be fashionably late. To him again. He'd have to stay awake and alert to properly watch the cats the whole time. He couldn't make himself anything, you doubted he could cook. He'd just have to sit here and...suffer, all afternoon.

You groan, and bury your face in your hands. This wasn't fair at all. "Fine. Fine fine fine fine," you grumble.

He tilts his head.

"Gimme a second."

You run upstairs, Romeo following closely, Juliet happy in L's lap. You return moments later, purse discarded in your room, with a medicine bottle. You sit down next to him, pour the medicine in a measuring spoon, and hold it out to him. "Here."

"What's this?"

"Candy."

He gives you a side-long glance, not appreciating your sarcasm.

"Take it."

He sighs, and takes the spoon from you. He already knows the flavor would be terrible. His nose crinkles in disgust, but he gulps down the liquid anyway. He erupts in a coughing fit, from both the viscosity and his own disdain.

"There there. You need a nap."

"I'm not a child."

"Come on, you're going in the guest bedroom."

You stand, and push him to his feet. As soon as he's up, you guide him up the stairs by his shoulders.

"What about your cats?"

"I'll watch them." You open the spare room door.

"What about-"

"I'm taking care of you, you idiot. Lay down."

He sits on the edge of the bed, and stares at you. He didn't...believe you. Not quite. There must be an alternative reason.

You cross your arms. "You don't get sick often, do you?"

"I haven't been sick since my childhood."

"Yeah. This is what people do when they ca-....when they..."

His brows raise. Oh. This was a new development. He lays on his side, crashing to the bed with a pillowy woosh. "I see."

You tap your foot. On one hand, he's listening now. On the other...you didn't like the kind of conclusions he might be drawing. "whatever, just...try to get some sleep."

You practically stomp out of the room. He rolls onto his back. He was tired. He could close his eyes for a few minutes, to appease you. Then, he would get out of your hair, and go home to be properly gross by expelling various fluids until he was half-dead.

He closes his eyes, just for a second. Then, a smell wafts in. Salty, and warm. He didn't like salty things, he didn't make a point to eat them...but this smelled particularly appealing.

The door cracks open, and an eye peers at him from the space.

"Hello."

"...hello," you say slowly, pushing the door open the rest of the way. Your clothes changed, what used to be a flashy black dress was now a hot pink tank top and some sweatpants. You had a bowl in your hand, and a silver spoon. "How'd you sleep?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've been sleeping for..." you check your watch, you never bothered to take it off. "4 hours."

"...I see. What is that?"

"Soup. Family recipe."

You walk over...and hesitate. He sits upright, supported by one arm. Finally, you sit yourself on the bed, between his arm and his legs, and offer him the bowl. He takes it with his free hand, and examines the liquid. It was thin and clear, with bits of onion and other herbs shining through. L breathes in the scent, and rests his chin on your shoulder. "Thank you."

This was one of the few times he's touched you without some sort of consent. You've cuddled plenty, had sex of course, but that was all expected hours beforehand. This was unexpected touch. Intimate, and a little needy. You allowed it, but only because he was sick.

"Just eat your soup."

He smiles, and pulls away to support himself on the headboard. You turn around, and watch as he brings shakey spoonfuls of soup to his lips. Eventually, he gives up, and sets the spoon aside to sip from the bowl itself.

"How is it?"

"...Nourishing," he decides.

"I know you don't eat this kind of stuff, but-"

"I appreciate your care."

"...you sound like you're drowning in mucus, you need to blow your nose."

He looks to the bedside table, and plucks a tissue from the small, designated box.

You watch as he de-gunks his face, to little avail. You grab a mini-trashcan from the floor, and hold it out. He tosses the tissue.

"You said this was a family recipe?"

"My- my mom's, yep," you murmur.

He nods slowly. "It's good."

"...yeah, well. Bad people do good things sometimes."

"Was she?"

"Hm?"

"Was she a bad person?"

You keep your eyes to the floor. "Maybe. Yes- well, not-" you sigh- "I don't know. She loved me, I think. And my dad. But she wasn't very good at it."

He sets his bowl aside. "Did she do things like this for you?"

"Sometimes. When I was really little, yeah. When I was older, I didn't get sick days."

"But you'd do this for me? Despite having other plans?"

You smile, and roll your eyes a little. "I believe in sick days. Today was supposed to be like...a big middle finger to her. But I guess now I'm as close to being a nurse as I've ever been, so really I'm just doing what she wants...or, wanted."

"...you're doing something she wouldn't have."

You shrug. "I guess. Did the cold medicine work earlier?"

"I'm...not taking any more of it."

"Really?"

"No."

"Aw." You stand, and pat his head. "It was in the soup. Sweet dreams, idiot."

He watches as you walk away, leaving him to conk out at any given moment. Evil.

This time, he felt like he had been resting. He felt much better when he woke up. The cold chills left, the twisting of his stomach, the endless fever. Everything has improved. He stirs, and finds a weight on his chest shift.

Juliet, purring on top of him. He pats the cat's head, and decides he would lay here for a while longer.

His plans are foiled when you walk in, and distract the creature enough to make her jump off and skitter out. "Oh, good, you're awake."

"How long have I been sleeping?"

"Mm, like 8 hours. It's 9 PM." Romeo weaved between your feet, settling in front of you like a gargoyle protecting his fortress. A very tiny gargoyle. "Jules has been here for a while, I let her in a few hours ago and she's been sleeping with you since."

"I've been here for far too long," L murmurs, sitting upright.

"Watari called earlier to ask about you, but he seemed understanding when I told him."

"Ah." He could already imagine that knowing, pleased expression he would pull when L would next see him. It was extremely annoying.

"Thank you again, for your care."

"...no problem. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, much better."

"Do you want me to call Watari?"

"There's no need." L takes out his own phone, and calls him. He has him on speed dial, why bother making you call?

You step out, and sigh. Romeo follows closely behind. You pick him up, and press a kiss to his forehead. "You're the sweetest thing," you croon, carrying him off to the living room.

L emerges from the guest room soon after, padding down the stairs. Romeo immediately sits at attention in your lap, watching L with intense focus from the couch.

"Watari will be here in an hour."

"Still feeling better?"

"Yes."

"Want to watch TV with me?"

"...sure."

You spent the rest of the hour watching a different jdrama (the last one wasn't on at this time), and enjoying each other's presence. Yet again, you were getting too comfortable.

When L's phone dinged, you knew he had to go. "See you around," you shrug.

"I'll call on you before my trip, no matter your decision," he assures.

You nod, and watch as Juliet spills from L's lap, already following as if she could go with him. He makes sure to keep her from escape.

The second he's out, you sigh, and lay back on the couch. Jules, dejected, settles between your legs, while Romeo takes your stomach. "Do you think I should go," you mutter, scratching behind the obtrusive ears of your boy-cat. He lets out a purr at the contact. "Not helpful."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh- excuse me, sir, is there where (Y/n) (L/n) lives?"

L examines the older woman. She was wearing the gaudiest makeup and jewelry, accompanied by a floral dress and an...attention-grabbing hat. She was also holding a thick envelope, labeled with your name. She didn't seem like a threat...but many threats disguise themselves as less-than so.

"Do you have business with her?" He sounded shorter with her than he intended, but he was still a little sick, and she was currently in the way of Watari's limo.

"I'm her aunt, I was just dropping off her inheritance and such, from the death you know."

This woman was not very cautious with your information.

"She does live here. I can take any items to her."

"If you don't mind, I'll do it myself." She eyes him like he's some criminal, and brushes past him for your door.

Alright then.

He heads for the limo, but the moment he gets in he orders Watari to wait. He wants to be sure you're alright, just in case this is some elaborate ploy.

The woman rings your doorbell, and you answer in seconds.

"L- oh. Hi, um-"

"Your mama left this for you, thought I'd bring it by," she says, her words so sugary you almost feel as sick as L.

"...thanks, aunt-"

"This is a nice place you got here. Do you know that man in your driveway?"

You laugh, just a little. Typical of her, never letting you get a word in. "Thank you, and yes, I know him."

"Is that your neighbor?"

You glance around. You were the only house here, you obviously didn't have neighbors. "No ma'am..."

"Your accountant then?"

Since when do accountants come to you? "Not that either."

"So then...is he your..." she leans in, whispering conspiratorially. "Boyfriend?"

"Umm..." so badly did you want to shout out "nope! Just a guy I fuck for cash!" Before you can even attempt to ruin your mom's lasting reputation once more, your aunt speaks over you.

"I just hope he's got better genes somewhere in there. Between you and me, you can do so much better than that, sweetheart. You're not with him for money, are you? You know eventually, he'll want a baby, and there's no telling how that'll go-"

"I'm doing just fine," you interrupt, matching her saccharin tone. "Between you and me-" you pluck the letter from her hand- "he's hung like a horse, so I've got nothing to worry about."

You gently push the door shut, right in her gaping face, and grin. Finally, shock value!

L watches, unable to see anything other than your expressions. If he could see your mouth past that hat, he'd be able to read your lips...but the woman doesn't move until the door closes. He decides all is well once she begins to waddle back to her car, and signals for watari to leave.

You look down at the letter in your hand, flip it over a couple times....

And decide to deal with it in the morning. Something about it gave you a sinking feeling, and you wanted to preserve your peace, for now.