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tom-whore-dleston · 1 month ago

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Lot of Funny Business

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x f. reader

Word Count: 2.4k

This fic includes: sorta spoilers from Thunderbolts*, smut (barely plot), Bob is a dom, heavy making out, dry humping, spanking, teasing, dirty talk, fingering, nipple play, doggystyle, missionary, pussy slapping, cum tasting, interrupted orgasm, cunnilingus (from the back 🤭), couch sex, cum swallowing

Summary: You and Bob show the Thunderbolts that you can be trusted to hold down the Tower together without supervision.

Notes: Request no. 1 of Build-a-Bob Workshop complete 🤗Thank you @taivantaylor for the request! In the process of working on the other requests I’ve been sent so far, but don’t worry babes, I see every single one and I’m so very excited to write them 🥰😘

request: Choose Me : Bob x fem!reader Hear Me: 15 minutes- sabrina carpenter Stuff Me: smut Dress me: Shoes - unresolved sexual tension Accessories - “youre wearing way too many clothes for what i have in mind” orrr “i had a very nice dream that started like this”

“Now, we’ll only be gone for 15 minutes. Don’t destroy the place, please,” Bucky called from the elevator door. Ava, Yelena, John, and Alexei had already huddled into the lift while Bucky held it open. They were on their way to a briefing with Valentina and Mel, which you and Bob both knew would take way longer than 15 minutes. It took Bucky the same amount of time for him to go over the rules you and Bob had to follow while they were gone.

“Don’t worry, we won’t!” You shouted after Bucky, eyes still focusing on your Nintendo Switch. Your legs were sprawled over Bob’s lap as he pretended to busy himself with a book he took from Bucky’s bookshelf. His face looked unbothered and blank to the team, but the side eye he gave you along with the quirk of his lip basically told you he’d rather destroy something else.

“Bye, be good, okay, Bob?” The quiet man sitting with you on the couch turned towards the team, flashing them a jolly smile and a thumbs up. He turned back to the book as your teammates disappeared behind the elevator doors.

As the elevator dinged, Bob tossed the book behind him, not caring where it landed and you dropped your gaming device on the arm of the couch. In an instant, you climbed onto Bob’s lap, desperately attaching your lips onto his while wrapping around him like a koala. Bob caressed your lower back as his soft lips danced in sync with yours. You squeezed your legs tighter around his hips, clothed groins rubbing together in a heated delight.

“God, I thought they would never shut up and leave,” you breathed against Bob’s mouth.

He smirked into your kiss. “I know right? They act like we can’t behave ourselves.” His lips trailed to your jaw, grazing his teeth along your jawline. “They think we’re children or something.”

“Well, if they saw me on top of you like this, then of course they’ll think we can’t behave ourselves.” You giggled as his aftershave tickled your neck. “But, I don’t care. They can watch us all they want.” Bob stilled underneath you, a darkness stirring inside him. A lustful kind of darkness.

“Someone’s a bad girl today,” Bob noted with a husky voice. His crotch grew harder against your wet center. You bit your lip, seeing Bob’s baby blue eyes turn a stormy blue.

“First, you lay your legs on my lap, trying to act all sweet and innocent in front of the others. Then, you rub up on my dick with those sexy legs of yours. I bet you knew how hard you were making me. Wanted to see me come in my pants. Little tease, you.” A large hand whacked down on your ass, causing you to yelp and rub against Bob more.

“Now, you tell me you want me to fuck the shit out of you in front of our friends, is that right, baby girl?” His voice was raspy and low in your ear. “Tell me you like being a bad girl for me.”

Your mind was fuzzy as his words and hot breath against your ear put you under a spell. “Yesss.”

Next thing you know, Bob cupped your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his. Bob raised an eyebrow, a sinister smile painted on his face. One of the perks of teasing Bob’s brains out was seeing him unleash his dominant side. He was always careful and gentle with you, making sure to never go past your or his limits. Yet, with him, you weren’t entirely opposed to testing how far he could take you.

“Get on the floor, baby. Need you on your hands and knees.” You immediately followed his orders. Without leaving his spot from the couch, Bob wasted no time in spanking you three times painfully close to your pulsing cunt. He continued, “Now let’s try that again, baby girl. Tell me you like being a bad girl for me.”

“Yes, Bob, I love being a bad girl for you!” Your delicate whimpers were music to Bob’s ears, yet he craved more.

“That’s my baby girl!” A finger traced up your slit, the soaked fabric pulling a wicked smirk from Bob. “You’re wearing too many clothes for what I had in mind.” With that, he swiftly yanked your shorts down, moaning upon the sight of your bare ass and dripping pussy.

Your voice yanked him out of his trance. “Better hurry up, Bob. The gang will be back any minute now-”

Smack!

“C’mon baby girl, you know they’re full of it! Any interaction with Val and Mel is gonna be at least an hour. I’m gonna take advantage of this alone time with my girl.” You almost missed the hint of romance in his words before he flipped that switch again. “Besides, if I remember correctly, you said something about not caring if they caught me worshipping you like the goddess you are.” Those words alone were enough to shut you up.

Bob ripped his shirt off, his abs glowing in the fluorescent light. Then, he pulled you flat against his chest, gripping one of your boobs while the other hand flew straight to your clit. He muttered a ‘fuck this’ before tearing your shirt off you and returning his hands back to where they were.

“Love how these tits feel in my hands! Especially when I do this.” His fingertip flicked against your nipple as he simultaneously rubbed tight circles against your nub. You threw your head back against his shoulder as you moaned and squirmed for him.

“F-fuck, Bob! S-so fuckin good!” You whined pathetically as your boyfriend tormented you with his hands alone. All you could do was cling onto his meaty thighs to ground you from making a mess on the tile.

“I know, baby girl,” Bob cooed, lightly kissing your sweaty temple. “Bet you can’t wait for me to fill this pussy up, huh?” As he spoke, he playfully slapped your clit, causing your breath to hitch.

“Jesus, Bob! Just fuck me already, please, baby, please!”

Bob chuckled, bringing his now drenched fingers to his mouth, savoring your juices on his tongue. He placed you back on your hands and knees, except this time, he pushed your upper body against the floor slowly. As you’re pressed against the hard cold floor, he hooked his thumbs under the waistband, dragging his pants down until his cock whipped out from behind the fabric.

“You really are my bad little girl. But I can never say no to you.”

Without further exchange of words, Bob tapped his cock against your entrance before inserting the tip inside you. He heard you hiss from the sudden stretch, soothing you with quiet shushes and pets against your back.

“I know, baby, I gotchu. I’ll be gentle with you.” Bob slowly shoved himself further into you, listening to your pain turn to pleasure. Once he was halfway inside you, he started thrusting back and forth, clasping his large hands on your hips. You rested your cheek on the ground to catch a glimpse of your boyfriend fucking you from behind. He looked absolutely delicious with his mouth slightly open and pouting and his eyebrows knitted, causing creases in his forehead.

“Like seeing how good I fuck you? If only they could see how sexy you look for me.” Bob slammed into you over and over again until he bottomed out inside you. Feeling him fill you up entirely made you cry out, your breath fogging the glass floor. Your walls clenched around his length as if it were life support, causing him to curse loudly.

“God damn, baby! Keep gripping me like that and you’re gonna make me come.”

You backed up into his thrusts, rolling your hips in a circular motion. The moans Bob let out were straight out of a porn video, which egged you to increase your movements on him. You both got so lost in the sounds of your faltered breathing and slapping of skin that you both almost missed a phone call from Yelena. Stopping your motions, you both listened as an automated voice sounded from the intercom notifying you that Yelena was calling.

“Answer call.” You groaned loudly, annoyed that your friend couldn’t let you have an orgasm without checking in on you. A holographic screen popped out from the middle of the living room, showing sound waves of Yelena’s voice from wherever she was.

“Hey, guys! How y’all doing?” The Russian spy asked, unaware of the situation you and Bob were in. While you spoke for you and Bob, your boyfriend took it upon himself to gingerly pull out of you, causing you to wince from the loss of contact. Luckily, he immediately replaced his cock with his tongue. You gasped, jolting forward, but Bob pulled you back against his face, pinning you in place as he licked the desire from your hole.

Yelena stopped whatever she was talking about with you. “Everything okay over there?” You were unable to conjure a coherent sentence as Bob lapped your pussy.

“Uh- Yeah. Just..playing Mario Kart with Bob.” You began to awkwardly laugh before it was cut off by a gasp. All thanks to Bob and his skillful tongue. “And it’s getting intense.” A faint ‘fuck’ escaped your lips as Bob sucked your clit, the tip of his nose brushing against your opening.

“Okay, now play nice you two!” Yelena responded, still not picking up on what was going on through the call. If only she knew how you and Bob were playing at that moment. “Sorry, it’s taking so long, but you know Val. All talk and no action. We’ll be back soon, though. Promise.”

Thankfully, Yelena ended the call before you could let out another whimper. Without warning, Bob scooped you up off the floor, tossing you onto the couch with ease. He couldn’t help but smirk at how drunk he got you from eating you out.

“Well, now that that’s over…” Bob pinned your hands above your head while lining up his cock at your entrance. “Where were we?” He flashed a quick smile before roughly thrusting into you until his balls were pressed against your ass. Your mouths fell open simultaneously, relishing the feeling of you both connected again. You pulled him close to you, sealing your lips against his as if he were an icy glass of water you craved in the middle of a scorching desert. Bob pounded into you as you tangled your fingers in his damp curls.

You separated your lips from his, praising him for good he made you feel while you stroked his scalp and pushed him further into you by wrapping your legs around him. His tip poked that spot deep inside you that always had you rolling your eyes and shaking like a leaf. Bob knew the effect this had on you, which motivated him to focus on that spot until you were screaming his name like a prayer. And he was more than focused. Determined even to send you to the edge.

“Yes, Bob, don’t stop, baby! Make me come, please! I’ll be good, I swear. Just wanna come so bad.” You were a blabbering mess and so so close to that sweet release. All Bob had to do was whisper filthy things in your ear while angling your hips up to penetrate you deeper.

“Come for me, baby girl! Fuck, wanna feel this dick get all wet and sloppy from you. Look so good taking me so deep like this. Bet you’ll be feeling me deep until I fuck you next.” Bob’s dirty talk paired with him holding you at an angle was the perfect mixture to get you falling down the pit of pleasure. He started chasing after his own release as you throbbed around him, coating his cock with your wetness.

“Oh god, I’m gonna come! Open that mouth for me, baby.” You lazily opened your mouth for him as he pulled out again to hover over you, jerking himself off until spurts of cum dropped into your mouth. You slowly swallowed his load little by little as he panted for air with his thighs on either side of your head. Bob crashed onto the couch next to you, curling next to your warm, sticky body.

“See? We were perfectly fine without supervision. Bucky and Yelena need to leave us alone in the Tower more often.” You kissed his nose while twirling a strand of Bob’s hair with your finger.

Bob giggled, “I agree. We can be as loud as we want and no one can tell us to be quiet.”

“Let’s just hope we don’t get interrupted again.” You added. There was a moment of peaceful silence, aside from your heavy breathing and heart beats. Bob sat up, stretching his limbs before gathering your clothes together. He helped you off the couch and into your clothes before you did the same for him. You both shared a loving kiss before resuming to the couch with Bob spooning you.

While you were cuddling, he watched you play Animal Crossing, mimicking the villagers’ gibberish and placing little pecks from your temple down to the crook of your neck. In the midst of your laughter, you heard the elevator door ding and your team members filed out the door. You and Bob attempted to fix your posture on the couch but they all looked at you with raised eyebrows.

“Geez, you two, save that for the bedroom,” John remarked, shaking his head.

“Leave them alone, Walker.” Ava lectured. “At least their clothes are still on.” Bob curled his lips inward, fighting back a snort.

“Anyways, who’s hungry?” Alexei boomed out of nowhere. “I’ll cook for team tonight.”

“Starving!” You and Bob both said in unison. His eyes were on you instantly and you avoided his gaze as your cheeks grew warm.

Yelena smiled, “Mario Kart that intense?” You and Bob nodded together.

“I won…a lot!” Bob lied, yet still implying that he did win something that only you would have known.

“Well, at least we know that you guys can be left alone without the Tower burning down,” Bucky commented before walking away with the others. You finally met Bob’s eyes and he gave you a knowing grin before you grinned back.

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#build a bob workshop 🧸❣️#request fulfilled ╰( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )つ──☆*:・ﾟ #sleepover 🌚🌝#bob reynolds #sentry #void thunderbolts #lewis pullman #thunderbolts #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds imagine #bob reynolds fanfic #bob reynolds smut #lewis pullman fanfic #female reader #no y/n

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humanjarvis · 2 months ago

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serenade

synopsis: when top music critic sylus qin gives your new album a scathing review, you plan a performance to make him pay.

tags: celebrity au, porn with plot, enemies to lovers (reader hates him, sylus is generally a bastard but just doing his job), mirror sex, p in v, light choking, moderate biting, size difference, dramatic reader, reader does some light internet stalking, brief angst only bc sylus’s review was mean, he does something nice at the end to make up for it, inspired by dandelion by ariana grande pairing: music critic!sylus x pop star!fem reader word count: 7.2k

a/n: writing this was a traumatic experience i literally decided i was going to finish and upload today 12 hours ago because i cannot have this in my drafts any longer

I. THE RATING

“A fucking 4.7?!” you screech, hurling your phone across the bed in horror.

It must be a mistake. A typo, or maybe your eyesight has gotten worse since your last checkup. Paparazzi cameras can do that, your optometrist had told you once. Yes. You’re sure that’s the case.

Taking a moment to breathe—hyperventilate, more like—you snatch the device back up and double-check with wild eyes.

And sure enough, in big bold letters: Four. Point. Seven.

There was no way. No fucking way that that hard-ass snobby bastard Sylus Qin had given your new album—the record you’d poured your heart and soul into—a 4.7/10 rating.

You refresh and refresh, but the numbers stay the same. 4.7, followed by heartless jabs that carve into your chest like daggers. Failed. Uninspired. Noise.

You must have died last night, somehow. You must be dead right now. And for some reason unbeknownst to you—you’ll have to talk it out with God if you ever get the chance—you had woken up in Hell.

Life as you knew it was over. The little ghouls who hounded you online were going to throw you to the wolves. Your agent would be lucky to book you at a high school bake sale. The reporters—if you even counted as a celebrity anymore—would never let this go. And there was only one man to blame.

Sylus Qin.

The name alone struck fear into the hearts of the entire pop industry. Not even the living legends with decades-long careers were safe.

The man himself was an enigma, with little known of him other than his unnaturally deep voice and moderately vampiric appearance. But the reputation that preceded him was that of the most renowned music critic alive.

No one knew how he got his start—maybe he’d just spawned onto Earth one day, slashing dreams and breaking hearts. Or maybe his mother had played him the classics while she carried him, murmuring to her belly about what true music was, and he’d been ranting about artistic integrity and sonic evolution since before he could walk.

No matter what his story was, the facts were that your peers lived in terror of a bad Sylus Qin review—or any Sylus Qin review, really. He’d ruined so many careers, it was like he had a yearly quota.

And the prick had just given what you’d thought was your magnum opus the industry equivalent of a public hanging.

As frustrated tears well in your eyes, you take a look around the house you’d only just managed to buy—the cozy Gothic fireplace, the customized in-home studio, and the quaint little garden. It was all still so new to you. And just like that, you’d have to give it up soon.

You were wholly, utterly, and hopelessly fucked.

***

Death. You’d imagined it’d be…more peaceful. Less emotional devastation, more belated introspection.

But as you shift under the weighted blanket you’d rolled yourself up in, the sudden movement disturbing the heap of tear-stained tissues on top of you, you realize how much you hate being wrong.

Your life had officially been over for almost 22 hours. And in those hours, you’d stared at the wall, ignored 36 text messages, opened and immediately closed your socials countless times, and sobbed into your satin pillowcase.

As you roll away from the sliver of sunlight slipping through your curtains with a pained hiss, you hear the heavy footsteps climbing up your marble staircase.

Oh well, you shrug inwardly. Not like it can get any worse. If it’s an intruder, they can have at it. Put me out of my misery.

But as a familiar pattern of knocks precedes the door swinging open, allowing more light than you’d seen in the last day to flood the room, you realize that this may be a fate worse than brutal murder.

“You can’t answer your phone anymore or something?” the tenor voice of Devon, your beloved, overbearing manager cuts through the room.

“Go away,” you mumble, the sound muffled by the heavy blanket covering your mouth.

You hear an incredulous snort. “Go awa—Girl, get up,” he snaps, walking up to tug the blanket off of you. As he heaves it to the foot of the bed, the army of tissues scatters across the room like huge snowflakes of failure, and your jostled body ends up sprawled in an almost-perfect diagonal from the impact.

“I’ve been calling you all morning! And not only do you not pick up, but you block my number? You had me rushing over here to do a wellness check like you died or something.”

“Oh. Well,” you begin nonchalantly. “In case you haven’t heard, I did. Yesterday. And I’m finding it to be quite pleasant, actually,” you lie through your teeth and purse your lips, “so I’d like to continue being dead, please. Alone.”

“Yeah. Right,” he responds, mouth wedged open in a clearly annoyed grimace. “Okay, we do not have time for this, girl. You got a fan engagement livestream scheduled for this evening. You’ve never canceled a stream, not even when you lost your voice from that virus that one time. You really gonna let that man break your streak?”

At the mere reference to his existence, your face shrivels and you curl into a defensive ball. “Oh, what’s the point?” you wail, shoving your face into the mattress. “There will probably only be 4.7 viewers. And then the tabloids will be filled with news about how I’m talentless and unpopular.”

Devon closes his eyes, pinches the mahogany skin of his prominent nose, and releases a slow, controlled exhale.

“Okay,” he starts, visibly switching tactics. “If your own fans—you know, the people who made you famous—can’t get you out of bed, maybe this will.” He takes a deep breath, as if bracing for impact, before continuing. “I have it on good authority that Sylus Qin is doing a TV interview. Tonight.”

And in the middle of an agonized writhe, you freeze in place.

“He never does interviews,” you say lowly, voice suddenly hard enough to cut diamond. “He’s never done an interview, D. Stop bullshitting.”

“Dead serious,” he replies, shoving his too-bright phone in your still sideways face. And sure enough, mysterious critic act be damned, Sylus Qin’s name is in bright bold letters on the hottest talk show in the country’s latest social post.

Failing to suppress the anxious pang in your chest, you swallow thickly. “It’s…real. You weren’t….he’s actually going to…right after…he…” The world starts spinning as you trail off, and when the dry heaves start up on their own, you wonder if it’s possible to die twice.

“Chill! Girl, chill,” Devon yells, firmly sitting you up on the bed. “My contact in production said he’s not talking about his work. He’ll be there to announce something, so he shouldn’t mention you unless they ask.”

“Unless they ask,” you cry, slapping your palms to your face.

“Which they won’t,” he adds in unsuccessful reassurance. “I just figured it might wake you up a bit. You’ve never seen him before, right? Maybe some exposure therapy will help.”

Chewing your bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, you consider your options. You could either kick your manager out and wallow in bed until you get a foreclosure notice, or get up, grit your teeth through the livestream, and rush back to your bedroom afterwards to hate-watch Sylus on national television and pray he doesn’t speak your name.

Your conscience and the voice in your head confer, and it seems like your anxiety has beaten your depression this time. Second option it is.

II. THE INTERVIEW

After an excruciating hour of smiling blankly, avoiding talking about your album, and pretending not to see cruel comments, the stream is over.

It was time to stare Death in the face.

With 8 minutes to spare, you run up the stairs from the streaming setup in your studio and catapult into your walk-in closet, ripping your intricate work clothes off and diving into the comfiest loungewear you can find. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it comfortably.

3 minutes. You dim the lights and flip the TV on, having already set it to the right channel in a bout of paranoia hours ago. Your house is empty except for you, but you trot over to shut the door just in case. A potential humiliation ritual was a private affair.

And with 30 seconds to go, you unmute the TV and slowly climb onto your bed, sitting cross-legged and letting out the kind of breath you’d spent hundreds on mastering in pilates.

The cheery, inauthentic talk show theme fills your ears, and you lift your eyelids open in resolve.

A corny host intro. A brief band performance. And then, a tall white-haired man is strolling across your screen.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the illustrious Sylus Qin!

Your heart stops.

“Thank you, it’s my pleasure to be here,” a baritone purr rings out. Unnaturally deep voice, huh. They’d been right about one thing.

And then he sits on the smooth leather couch, turning his body to face the camera.

Sylus Qin is…young. Not some wrinkled up curmudgeon out to terrorize the youth in his bitter old age. By the looks of it, he hasn’t even reached his 40s yet.

Another observation. Sylus Qin is big. To be tall is one thing—not that special in a world of models doubling as singers—but this guy nearly swallows the sofa with his huge, obviously muscled frame. You wonder how he finds the time to work out between ruining lives.

And as you take in his chiseled appearance—certainly vampiric, you think—you realize with unprecedented dread: Sylus Qin is handsome.

“Mr. Qin,” the host begins, “we know this opportunity is extremely rare, so let me just say—it is our absolute honor to have you here during such a busy time for you.”

It’s an ambiguous reference, probably not even to his most recent work, but you flinch backwards anyway.

“Not a problem at all,” he drawls smoothly. “And just ‘Sylus’ is fine. I heard you all like to…have fun on this show.” He finishes the reply with a conspiratorial smirk, and you can all but see the women in the audience swoon at his despicable charm. “Like you said, this is a rare moment. You’re here to ask, and I’m here to answer. So, ask away.”

“Perfect,” the host starts. “So, Mr—ahem—Sylus, you’ve built your reputation through exclusive music correspondence for a variety of publications…”

***

As the minutes tick by and your hatred turns to intrigue, you start to really study the man in front of you. Learn his unique cadence, contemplate the angle of his aristocratic nose. Take in the way his ruby eyes glint when he talks about music, the way he sounds older than the age listed on his Wikipedia. And his IMDb. And his famousbirthdays.com. You’d triple-checked.

You note the way he smirks at difficult questions, as if welcoming the challenge and begging for something harder. The way he crosses and uncrosses his thick, long legs as he weaves his answers into an impromptu PR masterclass. The way he panders to the audience so subtly you’d think it natural—if not for the way his large palms open when he looks their way, as if luring them into his trap from the stage.

Fuck, he’s hot. And you can’t even try to pretend otherwise.

Until a particularly sore subject snaps you out of your ogling and draws you back into the conversation.

“Now, Sylus, you may be a critic, but you’ve received some criticism yourself lately for your ‘harsh and grating’ reviews, especially in the pop sphere. Some go as far as to claim you’re even biased against pop artists. What do you say to that?”

And Sylus Qin chuckles. The bastard chuckles. As if he actually finds it funny.

“I give albums and their creators the reviews they earn,” he says evenly. “I didn’t get to where I am today by handing out participation trophies.”

He’s doubling down. You can’t believe he’s doubling down.

“I’ve heard that some recent articles of mine have…ruffled some feathers. There’s never a shortage of angry fans in my inbox,” he shrugs. “But it’s my job to speak up when projects are…uninspired. You all get better music that way,” he quips, spreading his palms once more.

Uninspired. Uninspired. The word that’s flashed in your head nonstop for the past 36 hours. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.

That was the exact quote he’d left in his scathing review of your album—you remembered. Because you’d read it—cried to it—over. And over. And over. And he’d just alluded to it with a smirk on his face, the crowd eating straight from his outstretched hands, in front of the entire country.

Ugly, uncontrollable shame heats your face as the all too familiar tears sting your eyes once more. As you search for the remote through blurry vision, your blood burns hotter than lava, and you curse yourself for letting your guard down. For seeing any redeeming qualities—even if only physical—in a man with his reputation. With his lack of empathy.

When your fingers close around the controller and you stumble off the bed, more than ready to click the TV off and return to the glorious rot-until-you-get-kicked-out plan, you freeze as Sylus speaks again.

“That said,” he continues, “I encourage any artists who’ve been offended by my commentary to come chat about it in person. That’s my reason for coming here, after all—to announce that I’ll be attending the annual Spirit Awards this year.”

Thumb hovering over the “off” button, you blink your tears away in disbelief. The Spirit Awards. You know that show. You know that show well. Because as thanks for your viral performance at last year’s event, you’d been invited to sing in the main performance slot.

You were going to headline. And Sylus Qin would be your audience.

As the interview ends and his figure fades to black with the next commercial, a sudden realization talks you down from the ledge.

This was your chance. To give the best damn show you’d ever put on, to reclaim the work whose meaning had been stolen from you. To sink his reputation, and to save yours.

Maybe it’s a good thing he looks the way he does, you think, a slow smile spreading across your increasingly mischievous face.

Because for the first time in almost two days, you’re confident. Confident that you’ll not only get him to change his mind, but that you’ll get him. Period.

Sylus Qin, we’ll see about that fucking 4.7 when I’m done with you.

III. THE PLAN

Bleary eyes. A full night of sleep lost. And three 12-ounce iced coffees delivered straight to your door.

But after eight and a half hours, Operation: Silence Sylus was a go.

After the interview, you’d set up a makeshift situation room in your studio. You’d hauled all your devices—phone, laptop, monitor, smart watch, you name it—into the space for backup. Anything that could find information, you needed. You’d have even dragged your smart microwave in here if you could figure out the wires.

But, all things considered, the setup had been the easy part. Because what came after was an informal case study on the most elusive man in history.

You’d started simple: his social media.

There was more to work with than you’d expected, but nothing too crazy. He had 2.6 million followers—a fraction of yours, you’d smirked, but still good for someone whose work is out of the spotlight.

His photos had no discernible aesthetic, as if he posted them straight from his camera roll. And his upload patterns…the lack of marketing was so severe it sent a shiver down your spine. The man posted a few times a year, if that, and the captions he did include were vague and simple. He’s lying about his age, you’d decided, because this guy is old as fuck.

But Sylus’s dire need for a social media manager was far from the most interesting thing you’d noticed. No, in all your 264 weeks’ worth of research—you’d scrolled until the app wouldn’t let you refresh anymore—not a single other person was featured on his feed. Like, there’d been more motorcycle pictures than humans on there. You’d have chalked it up to the narcissism typical of men like him, but he hardly even posted his own face.

And as shameful as it was to stalk the man who’d publicly humiliated you’s Instagram to see if he had a girlfriend, it was absolutely necessary. If the answer was yes, it’d put the whole plan in jeopardy! You were simply doing your job as a diligent creative, covering all your bases in advance. How would you seduce him into changing his mind about you if he had a fucking girlfriend? Or worse?

That would be your next stop, then, you’d nodded resolutely. His dating history.

But no matter how many articles you read; how many variations of Sylus Qin girlfriend, sylus Qin single, Sylus qin married, sylus qin Boyfriend you’d put in the search bar; how many viruses you’d probably gotten on your laptop from clicking through trashy tabloid sites; there was nothing. No photos, no reported sightings, hardly even a rumor. You’d typed in Sylus Qin asexual as a last resort, but that came back empty, too.

You’d sat in disbelief for a second, wondering how he could be so…clean. Even with his…glowing personality, his looks and success more than made up for any quirks. In this town, people should have been throwing themselves at him left and right, bogeyman allegations be damned.

But there was no mistaking it. As far as romance was concerned, the man was a blank slate.

Good thing you were coming for him with a big feather pen, ready to brand your name into his skin.

***

After analyzing his public image and making sure no…obstacles would block your path, it was time for a personality study. And where better to start than his full catalogue of reviews? His portfolio was practically front and center on his publication’s website—all 114 articles offered to you on a silver platter.

Almost immediately, you’d taken a nervous breath and hastily clicked past the most recent page. The abject horror of the 4.7 was still too fresh on your mind, and you’d be damned if tonight ended with a traumatic episode. So you’d landed on the second most recent page, starting with reviews from a couple months ago. And you’d read.

104 irritatingly confident articles. You’d read his praise, his disappointment, his bewilderment, his disgust. His beautifully packaged this-person-should-be-sent-to-prison-for-making-this-es. No matter how much you disagreed with some—most—of his takes, he was an incredible writer.

He tolerated jazz the most, it seemed. The smooth melodies, the warm embrace of the trumpet, trombone, and sax. It was so incredibly old. But it suited him.

“The riveting blend of brass and reed solos marks the triumphant rebirth of a fallen genre,” he’d complimented a band earlier this year. Looking at his preferences, it was no wonder why your synth-heavy pop beats seemed to have personally offended him.

But for all the things Sylus thought he knew about you, he was missing a few key items:

You were desperate. To win back the public, to win his approval, to win him.

You were planning a deluxe album with six new songs. And one of those songs said please fuck me disguised under a sensual trumpet solo.

You were desperate enough to release said album and perform said song a month early, solely to prove a point.

And with one screaming match of a phone call to Devon at 6 a.m., it’d been done.

You hadn’t coordinated with your dancers yet. Or told your label. Or informed the Spirit Awards producers that you’d be changing your set. But in your sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittered mind, it was all but confirmed. Your next performance would be dedicated to Sylus Qin.

There was only one more piece to put into place. With newfound conviction, you’d reopened his Instagram and clicked “Direct Message” before you could talk yourself out of it. And while you’d have liked to send him a colorful list of expletives, you maintained your professionalism.

Hi! I heard you’re going to the Spirits next Sunday. Hope you’re in the crowd for my performance—would love to chat after :)

The passive aggressive smiley face of doom. Sent and delivered.

His fate was sealed, but he didn’t know it yet.

Between excited bounces of your leg, you’d taken a final pass at his portfolio, and your eyes found your name before you could stop them.

“Deeming the music passable is more of a compliment than any listener should be willing to give. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.”

Failed. Uninspired. Noise. There they were again, the insults seared into the back of your mind.

A reminder of your shame, but a motivator for you to make him eat his words.

IV. THE PREP

You’d always loved awards shows.

The buzz of energy backstage, the rushed glimpses of peers and legends, the flamboyant accessories and vibrant strips of fabric strewn across the floor. The kind of chaos you’d learned to thrive in.

After making the rounds of greetings and introductions, you take a break outside your dressing room in the main hall. Your stage outfit was already on and hidden under a frilly robe; you always liked to arrive early in case of any mishaps. (Lesson learned from the time you’d been fashionably late and had to go onstage in an unfashionable loose corset. That had slipped down mid-song.)

Chatting with your head dancer, you laugh at a video she shows you on her phone before spotting something in the corner of your eye: a flash of white hair.

Your body goes rigid.

But the lightning-quick twitch in your eye is forcing you to turn around, and your breath hitches as soon as you do.

Sylus Qin is here.

Just as he said he’d be, you suppose, but it’s no less surreal seeing the object of your warring emotions in the flesh.

Somehow, he’s taller than he looks on camera. Bigger, too. How someone whose job involved hunching over a laptop writing hate mail every day could be built like a professional athlete, you’d never know.

Black slacks are snug around his strong legs, and he’s paired them with a silken, wine-red shirt that you’re sure would match the color of his eyes if he’d just turn arou—

It’s like he heard you. Felt you.

Because before you can even finish your thought, Sylus Qin’s bewitching ruby eyes are on you.

When your jaw drops slightly, his lips curl. And as that lazy, taunting, I’m-better-than-you smirk spreads across his gorgeous face, it reignites the feelings that got you here. The hatred and humiliation and unyielding spite.

So with flames in your eyes, you pat the dancer on the back and give her a cheerful platitude before storming—no, sauntering, you should saunter—over.

When he bends his neck to accommodate your comparatively small stature, Sylus Qin watches you like you’re his favorite reality show.

“Sylus!” you squeal, pulling him into a side hug. One thing you’d learned in the industry: overfamiliarity was the best form of offense. “It’s so nice to see you here! I’m glad you could make it.”

You expect him to falter. To push away from you in a decidedly rude yet necessarily humanizing show of uncertainty. For that condescending smirk to waver in confusion, only a little.

But to your surprise, he simply wraps a very muscled arm around you and returns your embrace. He’d been trained well, you lament with an inward groan.

“It’s great to be here,” he says smoothly, and the way he rumbles your name makes you want to forego the performance entirely and beg him to take you here and now. “Especially since someone was nice enough to invite me to watch their performance. I get the opposite, usually—people typically fake illness when I watch them in person—so I just had to see this for myself,” he drawls.

At some point, he’d laid his warm hand on your robe-clad shoulder, rubbing up and down in time with his slow words. But like that wasn’t enough, you’d almost been too wrapped up in his heady scent to notice. In his teasing embrace, the smell of spice, leather, and a hint of pomegranate envelop you, and you have to school your expression to look like you aren’t huffing it in.

As you stare up at him blinking dumbly, you notice his smirk widen, and somewhere in the back of your head you remember that conversations are two-sided.

“Y-yes,” you try to assert, cursing the way your voice shakes with need. “It’s right up your alley. I think—I know you’ll like it.”

“You know, hm?” he quirks a brow, circling his thumb against your arm.

“I know. It’s a new song, much more to your liking. Think of it as…a tribute. To your glowing review of me,” you reply coldly, untangling yourself from his hold despite your body’s protests. If you had any chance tonight, you had to level the playing field. Which meant Sylus Qin could not touch you anymore.

“Mm,” he hums, eyes lingering on the spot you’d detached yourself from before flicking up to your face. “I reviewed your album, sweetie. Not you. Even so, nothing I said was untrue,” he shrugs as you bristle with rage. “But…if your performance is to my taste, as you claim, then you’ll know my review soon after. Before the end of the night, I’d say.”

His words are intentionally vague, as if he’s goading you into asking what he means. But under the heat of his gaze, you’re too prideful and angry and turned on to ask for clarification.

“Then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” you challenge him with a saccharine smile.

He nods plainly, as if merely entertaining the idea of you ever impressing him. “I guess we will.”

That twitch in your eye? It’s back with a vengeance.

Before it can overtake your whole face, you spin on your heel and sashay away from him, pretending not to care if he watches you leave or not.

Refusing to stop before you’re out of his sight, you disappear into your dressing room and slump into the nearest chair. As the stylists flock over to put the last touches on your hair and makeup, you try not to chew your nails off and ruin your fresh manicure. Damn him, you think for the 300th time in a week.

***

In the center of the room, a monitor broadcasts the show’s live feed. The early portions go by in a blink—time flies when you have pre-seduction attempt anxiety, you guess—and before you know it, it’s 10 minutes to showtime.

As soon as you’re clear to set up on stage, you make a beeline for the curtain and pull it back ever so slightly, looking for Sylus in the crowd. And just to your luck, there he is, sitting pretty in the second fucking row. Great if you don’t mess up, catastrophic if you do.

Just as his all-knowing eyes shift toward the stage, as if he somehow felt your gaze from afar, you inch back into the inky shadows of the curtain.

Two minutes to go. Clenching your hands into fists, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe.

It was time to channel the outrage, embarrassment, and devastatingly irritating lust into the performance of your life.

V. THE SHOW

The soft swells of a trumpet float through the hushed arena.

The player, first chair in a local jazz ensemble, sways gently to the beat, his dark skin glowing in the warm stage lights.

In time with the soulful melody, dozens of dancers fan out around the bar set, fiddling with prop bottles of fake booze. Your hours of research had pointed you in one direction: a speakeasy theme.

Perfect for a jazz intro, and seductive enough to get your point across without getting you banned from live television.

The outfit under your robe was a modern take on the 1920s: a bejeweled crimson flapper dress, sharp black stilettos, and a thick raven’s feather nestled in your hair.

Just like you’d practiced, you stumble onto the set, miming drunken confusion as you trip into a male dancer’s arms. You shoot him a flirtatious smile when he steadies you, only for your attention to be captured by the trumpet still crooning in the background.

Enraptured by the player, you glide across the stage to lean against him, standing back-to-back with your hands on your heart. The tassels on your dress flow in time with the sultry swirls of your hips.

A few more beats, and the intricate solo dwindles into the main riff that marks the true beginning of your set, to the audible gasps of the crowd. Look, you liked jazz as much as anyone—well, maybe not someone—but this was still your song. Your stage. And you were here to wake it up! As good as the player was, you had hypothetical sex to sing about.

So the trumpet fades out, replaced by a poppy trap beat. Between each drum hit, your female dancers crowd you, tearing off the edges of your dress until you’re left in a shimmering red bodysuit.

Strutting across the stage, you work through the lyrics of the first verse, eyeing the audience as you sing for someone special to come and take what he wants from you.

The way you prowl from edge to edge is suggestive, inviting. The screams of the fans drown out the sound in your earpiece, but the winks you give them are only for show. You’d decided a week ago that you’d be a bad idol tonight. You’d make up for it later—a giveaway, follow spree, or something—but tonight, your focus was reserved for one man.

As you ease into the chorus, your muscles glint under the twinkling lights, flexing in time with fluid spreads of your arms and gentle footwork. A siren song is what you’re singing, rhythmic pleas for a partner to make good on his promise falling from your lips.

The next verse brings a slowdown in the melody that you meet with sensual rolls of your hips. Twisting your frame, you slide a purposeful hand down to rest just above your pelvis, tangling the other in your hair.

The beat picks back up as you lead a line of men down the steps and into the audience, playfully evading their touches. It’s a calculated game of cat and mouse—one you’d hoped would pique the interest of the man you’d done this for. And as you parade right behind his row, boldly ghosting a hand over his shoulder in the dim crowd lighting, the tension in his muscles tells you you’d been right.

You can’t see his face, but the thought of him suffering right now is so satisfying, you have to fight to keep the vindictive smile off your face. Revitalized, you flounce back onstage right as the bridge melts into the final chorus—your favorite part of the show.

Because while you’d been working the crowd, the crew had lined up seven shiny motorcycles at the front of the stage. Six were for your dancers, of course, but the seventh? That one was special. You’d gone through hell to get that bike on time—the same luxury model that was plastered all over Sylus Qin’s Instagram. The seventh bike was yours.

Taking your place in the center, you swing a leg over the seat and lower your hips gracefully, snapping back into the final moves of the choreography.

With a daring raise of your eyebrow, you glance at his massive frame in the second row. He’s relaxed now, body no longer rigid with surprise. A bit too relaxed, you think, with the way his legs are spread apart, thumb swiping lazily across his smirking mouth. His gaze locks onto the familiar brand etched into the side of the bike before traveling up to yours, and the half a second of eye contact sends a shudder down your spine.

Between hazy, hopefully covert blinks, you hum out the last note of the song to thunderous applause. When you release your ending pose, waving to the sea of cheering faces, your eyes find his seat once more.

But Sylus Qin is gone.

VI. THE AFTERMATH

The moment you step backstage, a flood of congratulations greets you.

Dancers, friends, and strangers huddle all around you, whooping with joy at your undeniable triumph.

But between the friendly pats on your shoulders, sweaty hugs, and heaving breaths, you wonder if tonight can be called a success at all.

Hours and hours of mourning your young career. Of research that, in any other circumstance, probably would have gotten you on a watchlist. Of hard work, of pivoting, of betting your entire future on the hope that he’d break. And he’d just…left.

You were never one to stop a celebration early, but the burning pangs of defeat are too much to bear. With a tight smile and a flick of your card into the nearest hand—drinks are on you tonight—you trudge back to the solace of your dressing room.

And the scent of leather and spice hits you a second too late.

Because in all his wicked glory, Sylus Qin is in your empty dressing room, lounging in your chair like he owns the place.

Your initial reaction—a startled jump and a choked squeak—has his eyes sparkling in satisfaction, and you stalk up to the mirror with a scowl before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Feigning nonchalance, you remove your accessories one by one, starting with the feather in your hair. As you place it gently on the marble counter, a firm chest presses against your back, and you see his frame nearly swallow yours in the glass before you.

“If I were a bolder man, I’d think you were trying to send me a message just now,” he purrs into your ear.

Glancing at his reflection, you shrug noncommittally. “Did you like it?”

You receive a soft hum in response.

As you continue your act with trembling hands, Sylus cages you against the hard edge of the counter, admiring the remaining pieces of your costume with light, teasing touches.

Once you make no effort to stop him, a large hand rises to close loosely around your throat. When his thumb brushes your bottom lip, you bite it hard enough to sting, and his deep chuckle worsens the throbbing between your legs.

“I’m enough of a man to admit when I’m wrong. I underestimated you, it seems.” The low admission sends blood rushing through your ears, and you lean into him with a quiet gasp. “You have me right where you want me now, right? Then tell me—how did you come up with your little stunt?”

Tense seconds tick by as you debate your options. How humiliating it’d be to come clean in his arms. But then again, humiliated had been your main emotion as of late. With a deep exhale and slight tuck of your head, you begin your confession.

“I just wanted you to change your mind,” you whisper, watching as he unravels the satin ribbons on your bodysuit.

“I was so proud of that album, Sylus. Took me months to feel good enough to release it. And then I wake up to see the most respected voice in music calling it worthless.”

Your voice wobbles at the mention of his review, and his fingers freeze on the lowest ribbon.

“I thought my career was over. That’s what you do, right?” you ask, eyes flashing up at him. “Ruin people like me.”

Checking your teary gaze in the mirror, he has the decency to press a kiss to the skin between your neck and shoulder.

“My manager had to do a wellness check,” you add with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I could barely get out of bed. But then he told me…I’d have a chance to see you that night. And I guess the anxiety of impending doom was enough of a motivator. So I got up, and I watched.”

As your voice steadies, it grants him permission to undo the final ribbon. It loosens with a firm tug, and the slackened fabric sags around your body, waiting to be removed entirely.

“I really did want to change your mind. To prove myself to you. But then I saw that stupid fucking interview…saw you for the first time, and I…”

“You what, sweetie?” he murmurs into your neck, spurring you on with a gentle kiss.

“I wanted you, too.”

As he sucks in a breath, you take the moment to step out of your costume, tossing it to the floor below. You’re nearly bare before him, now, save for the thin tights and thong still blocking you from his sight.

“That’s what all this was for,” you reveal, gesturing to the fallen fabric. “I wanted your attention—all of it—in any way I could get it. So you were right. I wanted to end up right here, with you.”

For several seconds, his labored sighs are the only sounds in the room. You, unfortunately, are too afraid to breathe. But before long, warm hands grasp your hips, pulling you flush against his hardened lower half.

Catching your ear between sharp teeth, he floods your senses with a smooth whisper. “It seems you got what you wanted, then. Why don’t I tell you what I thought?”

And the second the “please” escapes your lips, he tears the thin layers left on your hips clean off your body.

He uses your shock to his advantage, taking the chance to free his swollen cock and glide it across your slit, teasing your clenching hole with the pulsing length. When he’s coated in your wetness, he surges into you with a firm thrust, groaning at the squeeze of your fluttering walls.

Allowing you a moment to adjust to the stretch, he gropes the fat of your hip before continuing.

“You obviously did your research,” he rumbles, pumping in and out of you at a steady tempo. “Speakeasies were the home of jazz, for a time.”

As the curve of his tip hits deep inside you, you wish you’d gotten a look at him. You’d expected him to be big, if the rest of his body was any indication, but the sheer fullness in your core feels like it should be illegal.

“And the arrangement…paying homage with a modern twist. It was admirable. Bold,” he grits out, hissing as your cunt tightens at the compliment.

Locking eyes with him in the mirror, you meet his thrusts with a high-pitched whine, asking for more—more pressure, more praise, more of all he could give.

With a patronizing tsk, Sylus grips your jaw in one hand, pulling your face close to his. “How many ratings of mine did you read to pull this off? I wouldn't think you knew what real instruments were, based on that album.”

The barb snaps you out of docility, and you try to twist away from him with a sneer and grumble. But Sylus only pulls you back into his quickening strokes, a fond, terrorizing chuckle enveloping you.

“Don’t run, sweetie. I’m flattered, really. Like I was when you got on that bike—my bike—and I wanted to pull you down from that stage,” he breathes, circling two fingers around your throbbing clit. “Because I knew in that moment, you were mine.”

As his claim rings through the air, he pinches your sensitive flesh and ups his pace, kissing your cervix with brutal strokes as the lewd slaps of skin on skin echo around you. Shaky breaths and soft whimpers leave your mouth, and you rut back into him as much as his firm grip on your hips allows.

“This was all for me, hm? For my attention, you said? Now you have it,” he murmurs huskily, and a sharp scratch of teeth against the pulse in your throat has you spilling over the edge with a desperate moan.

Somewhere in the haze of your orgasm, he pulls out with a groan of his own, leaving you empty and shivering until you feel his warm release coat the curve of your back.

With the last of his strength, he turns your face to his and captures your lips in a heated kiss, your tongues tangling unhurriedly. You’re forced to pull away first, already more than drained of your stamina for the night. When you slump forward in exhaustion, he falls into you, folding you over the counter with his heavy weight.

You groan at the impact but welcome the soothing pressure, and for a while, your heaving exhales mingle in the quiet of the room.

Once his breathing evens out, his low drawl—raspier than usual—eclipses the silence. “So,” he begins, and you can tell he’s smirking above you without even seeing his face. “How would you rate my performance tonight?”

Too tired to scoff, you settle for a mocking hum. “Hmm…an 8. I’d say a 9, but you just lost a point for that line,” you smile softly. “The pacing was good, but the feeling was lacking. It felt a little…uninspired.”

VII. THE EPILOGUE

You can’t feel your limbs the next morning.

You can’t feel your limbs, but your phone is ringing—has been for a few minutes now, you think groggily.

With a pained grunt, you roll over and over in bed until the screen is within reach and put the call on speaker.

“Check your texts!” Devon yells excitedly, damn near blasting your ears off.

“What? What are you talking about?” you grumble. “And you know not to wake me up until at least 4 p.m. after a show.”

“Sure, girl, fire me if you want. Just check your texts!” he repeats, voice climbing to a near screech.

“Fine, just give me a—”

Your jaw drops. It has no choice but to drop.

Because sitting in your inbox, right there at the top, is an updated link to Sylus Qin’s review of your album.

And right there, where that dreaded 4.7 had stared you down, is a giant, boldface 8.

1K notes · View notes

luludeluluramblings · 25 days ago

Note

I just came from the sims 4 manor post and now I need a neglected reader fic where the only reason she hasn’t crashed out is she takes it out on the Batfam sims repeatedly. Like something sets her off and now she’s in the sims burning down the manor and her sim is outside eating ice cream. For once this isn’t a yandere Batfam. This is a Batfam where someone happens across her coping mechanism and out of fear decides to be a little nicer.

(I personally always choose Duke as my go to because as the newest adopted Wayne sibling he still has a chance)

But once they get to know her and they start playing the sims they realize as crazy as it sounds torturing the sims is a nice outlet for frustrations.

So now you got beef with a sibling? Go put them in a pool and build walls around their sim. Minor annoyance? Well guess what your sim pissed themselves in front of their crush. The siblings all slowly adopt this method and arguments drop to 10% (They still have petty arguments and get mad when they know the other sibling is gonna do something to their version of their sim). And they all learned from a single sibling but still don’t realize they got it from Neglected sibling.

Bruce is confused cause an argument between him and Jason almost broke out. But Jason took a breath, said whatever and walked away (He’s gotta go spend hours making an exact replica of Bruce in Create a Sim. Just so he can make sim Bruce exercise to death).

So Bruce is investigating why his children aren’t fighting each other. And when he discovers what is going on, he’s wondering how this started. And Bruce’s investigating peaks the other kids interest and they all know they got it from (insert sibling). But where is (insert sibling).

Meanwhile (insert sibling) is with Neglected sibling both ranting about prices of the new packs sims is releasing. And yeah they’re rich, yeah they have tech that can run sims and mods at the highest settings. But it’s the principle. Both are plotting how to get Wayne Industries to acquire EA to stop releasing broken packs that are just cash grabs, whilst also discussing random drama going on in their sims worlds

Sul Sul ~

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Image from Miiko's Ghibli clouds in Henford-on-Bagley mod.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Neglected!Influencer!Reader plays with the Bat Family's sims as an unhealthy coping mechanism.

Warnings: GN!Reader, Crack, Sims bullshit.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

"Hey, y'all welcome to my channel. And, I have something a bit special planned." You start off into the camera for you’re not so imaginary audience.

Your attire for this evening, a conglomeration of things you feel comfortable in and things that show of your aesthetic. The most noticeable part of you though with the cheeky grin on your lips as you practically cackle over the fun you’re about to have filming your livestream.

"Sooooo, I've spent the last few days painstakingly recreating my family and my biological father's house in the Sims for us to have a lil’ bit of fun with. Murder, mayhem, or babies. Whatever may suit our fancy this evening.” Already the chaos you could create in your own little word with the family that ignored you filled you with giddiness. You really shouldn’t be left to your own devices.

“Now, y’all might not know, or believe me, but my sperm doanner happens to be the illustrious Bruce Wayne.” You announce only to watch the chat fill with chatter that makes you laugh and cringe.

“And— Chat, stop thirsting over him. Y’all, stop! Oh, my god! He’s not a DILF! He’s an ass! Stop talking about wanting to ride his dick, please. My Momma did that and wouldn’t recommend, it, I’d bet.” You can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of you from the sheer ridiculousness of people.

Tears in the corner of your eyes as you struggle to breathe as one person says it would be an honor to ride the same dick your mother rode and another saying that they would peg him for your mental health.

“My Momma up in heaven fightin’ for her life tryin’ save me a seat cause of y’all…” You wheeze out before continuing.

“Anyway, yeah, I made my entire family, including myself. Plus, I went in and gave everyone their skills already and made their rooms. Which felt kinda creepy, but I also live with Tim and that guys way fucking weirder then me.” You comment, getting the game loaded while you play with one of the knickknacks on your desk and watch the chat.

Some people clearly don’t believe you’re a Wayne, which is fine. The media wasn’t really allowed to talk about you, which was less due to Bruce’s influence and more to the blanket protection he had for Damian. Which was also fine. You’d given up caring and just started coping.

In some strange ways, though.

‘Does this mean you built your fancy house????’

“Yes. Or, least I tried. Secret wine cellar included. Bruce spends a lotta time in there. Man likes his liquor.” Inwardly you cackle. The wine cellar was just to cover for where the Batcave was, but you couldn’t resist painting good ol’ Brucie Wayne as a man who liked fancy wine.

‘Will it be available for download?’

“Yes, everything will be available for download on my Patron later. In case y’all wanna cause mayhem y’allselves or if y’all wanna get freaky-deaky with my own sim. I know I got some freaks in this chat.” You make sure to lean forward and give the screen a look that screams you know exactly what their up to as you watch the Chat get soaked with raised hand emojis and a few suggestive comments that make your cheeks heat up.

As you shake the flush in your face away, the game if fully loaded. Your computer sounding like it’s about to take flight with how hard it’s running. But, it’s literally built to handle crime solving, so it can handle some mods.

“Okay. Okay. That’s enough. Let’s get this party started.” You say as you pull up your Sim family.

‘Did you seriously add your dead sibling?!’

“Oh, Jason’s not dead. He just rebelled against the system and didn’t wanna go to college. But, don’t let that fool you, man’s a nerd.”

‘A nerd I’d let fold me into a pretzel and season me with some baby batter.’

“Horny jail!” You make sure to hit your custom buzzer. Already sensing you’re going to be getting a lot of use out of it tonight.

“Alright, let us begin.” Comes your own little cackle as your rub your hands together like a fly. Cause you’re about to start some shit.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

“Oh my god, starting off strong we have Stephanie literally attracted to everyone’s sim. Like everyone. Even mine. God, that’s gonna come in handy.”

“Okay, so first things first, my strategy. I’ll let chaos reign until I can get Damian to age up. I’d could age him up with a cake, but that would involve having a sims make him a cake. And, I will deny the little shit the joy of sugary love and affection.”

“Oh, shit, I forgot Stephanie was vegan and I’m watching her sim demolish sushi. Shit, does fish count, Chat? Oh, who cares. Moving on!”

“Why is Jason obsessing over yoga and the cooking channel? You know, what go for it. He needs a healthy outlet.”

“Tim’s depressed and about to piss himself while playing video games… Let him, maybe he’ll die of embarrassment!”

“So, Cass was the first to die. Holy shit, she had the most maxed skills in athletics?! How the hell…”

“Duke is literally doing everything he can to befriend my sim. You know what, I like him now. We’re gonna make Dick get a girlfriend and let Duke steal her from him. Y’all know, for science.”

“Bruce… keeps getting… abducted by… aliens…. There are so many layers behind that, my dear Chat… God, it hurts to breathe from how hard I’ve been laughing…”

“Barbara keeps disappearing and I have no idea where— Why is her sim flirting with ALFRED’S!! Ah— ha— fuck, I’m choking!”

“Bruce is pregnant with an alien baby! Bruce is pregnant with an alien baby! I’m keep that motherfucker too! Not gonna abandon my sibling like you did me, asshole…”

“Stephanie just electrocuted herself and is trying to rizz up Death… Acurate!”

“Jason’s scared of Stephanie’s ghost which is also accurate cause I’d be scared too of someone who fucked Death.”

“Oh, God, Damian is scared of the dark. Nope, not accurate. Little shit is the dark. The abyss fears him and his annoying ass.”

“I just heard the baby making noise again, who woohooed? Fuck, which one of y’all woohooed— AH!! NO! Why is my sim in bed with DICK’S! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Which of us is pregnant?!! He was supposed to date someone else and then Duke steal his girl!”

“Tim’s sim is flirting with Duke’s…. And, Duke’s sim is getting the ick. God, yes! Babygirl, know your worth!”

“Bruce’s aim is pregnant again, and turns out it was my sim that got pregnant…. Damn it, Bruce really gotta be stealing my thunder. Don't you have enough kids!”

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Little did you know across the house, playing live in some of the rooms on either phones, laptops, computers, or tablets, was the very people you were playing with. Either pissed or losing their shit laughing along with you.

The shenanigans seemed to go on for hours, and in the back of your mind you had a few thoughts.

This was probably the most fun you’d ever had with your family since moving into the Manor and it wasn’t even really them. Second, you would probably get in trouble with the Wayne family PR team, but it was going to be worth it.

As you logged off for the night, saying your closing remarks as you stretch and grinning to yourself, you are thoroughly satisfied with yourself. Enjoying the comments and donations from your followers before you curl into bed.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

“Mr. Wayne, good evening. Apologies for bothering you, sir. But, did you intentionally mean to spend $10,000 on... EA Games, it looks like?”

“Is that a video game company? Did I buy stock in the company?”

“No, sir. It appears you bought, roughly, seven versions of one game.”

“What game cost that much?”

“The Sims 4, sir.”

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Technically, I could do Yandere stuff in part two, which would be fun. Or, we could just have fun thinking about what the Batfamily would do with Sim Reader.

A/N: This was a challenge cause I don't actually watch any streamers... So, I hope this hit the mark! I know a lot of people liked Influencer!Reader!

Kofi Link

#luluramblings #answered asks #batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #dc x reader #batfamily #yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #yandere dc #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #batfam #dc batfam #influencer!reader

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whirlybirbs · 3 months ago

Text

— BURNER CELL ; 3 ; DABI ; 荼毗

summary: a night out with dabi. pairing: dabi / f!reader ; quirkless word count: 4.6k tag: humor, maladjusted dabi meets normal adult woman, flirting, canon-based world building, texting as a plot device, slight au, univeristy student!reader, marijuana mention, drinking, blowjob mention, public sex mention, dabi is a guard dog a/n: i know that everyone is always like "yes daddy dabi mmm fuck me yea he's a hard dom" but i for one think he is so scarred that the idea of intimacy floods touya with absolute panic. like, pleasure???? he barely knows that when it's by his own hand. ANNNND we WILL be talking about that! ← previous | the tag

You do end up getting a good grade on that paper.

Which, frankly, is a relief, because ever since you decided to text Dabi, life has been weird. Like... weird-weird. It wasn't the catastrophic derailment you feared, but a slow burn (ha, get it?) of weirdness you feel in your bones.

I mean, Dabi is weird. He is consistently inconsistent in his texting. Bursts of haptic feedback frequently interrupt your focus in lectures that week, and you find yourself being Pavlov-dogged into checking after two or more vibrations break through the usual iMessage silence. He acts like he's known you for years. He's weird.

He's a terminal triple-texter. He's a chronic user of text emojis that went out of style years ago. Weird.

→ dabi ; 9:34am ya idk princess i think i might kms public execution sounds soooo hot rn i am so fuckin hungover what r u up 2 o wait it's tues. ur in class rn aren't u lmfao :p

← bar girl ; 9:36am why are you hungover on a tuesday

→ dabi ; 9:36am depression idfk

He's weird. Sorta funny. And he's clingy.

Clingy if clingy means vying for your attention — and clingy if clingy means texting you again if you don't respond after an hour and a half of silence. God forbid you overlook his texts in favor of doing the dishes, brushing Mizu, or even showering.

Friday evening rolls around and Dabi is still texting you.

→ dabi ; 6:56pm ...i asked you a question it's friday r u going out with nuri + the rest of blackpink or nah :/

You exhale tightly, sweeping the towel closer and ignoring the gathering water droplets on your phone as you hammer back a quick reply.

← bar girl ; 6:57pm i am begging you to let me shower in peace

He's typing.

→ dabi ; 6:57pm what do u want me to say to that. "aha without me????? :p" stfu i don't care about ur shower giran said ur going out.

It does make you laugh — one thing about Dabi is that the flirting is rudimentary and blunt, and he always extinguishes it before you even react. It's sort of refreshing... in a confusing way. A weird way.

He can't help it.

You're kinda fun. In a weird way.

Touya doesn't know what the fuck he's doing if he's being honest with himself. It's not like this is his thing. He didn't think this would turn into a weird, big deal — not that it is... But, his body and brain feel like it is because he likes texting you and hates when you don't respond. Whatever. He didn't think you'd seriously take his number at the bar. No one is ever stupid enough to take him up on that offer.

You're just some stupid college girl who happens to be nice and honest and has a cute cat. A dime a dozen. He can ignore you, leave you on read, and dump you for the next item whenever he wants. Any day now.

Just... Not today.

Your text lights up his lock screen. A scarred thumb swipes it open with ease.

← bar girl ; 7:01pm yes, dabi, i'm going out with them

His smirk is crooked and it pulls at the staples in his cheeks. It's enough for him — and now that he's gotten the reply he wants, he drifts into that sudden radio silence that confuses you.

You're getting ready, phone charging, and find yourself hovering back into your bedroom between hair and make-up — you tap your phone awake, and each time: there's nothing.

It's not until you're in the back of the Uber, shouldered between Nuri and the others, that he finally responds. You squint in the dark at the notification, scoffing to yourself.

→ dabi ; 9:44pm where r u

Something ignites in the back of your mind — the culmination of weirdness. Dabi's looking for you at the bar. Of course, he is.

You hammer back a reply, the two shots you took in the kitchen with the girls — before getting in the rideshare — are creeping in. The glow of your text illuminates your heavy liner and lash.

← bar girl ; 9:45pm relax hot stuff

His reply is almost instant.

→ dabi ; 9:46pm just bc ur pretty doesn't mean u can tell me what 2 do now let's try that again princess where r u

His texts tingle something in the back of your mind. It's the weirdness. It's back. You don't hate it, but it flusters you — just enough that you're quick to respond.

← bar girl ; 9:46pm two min away

Again, his reply is instantaneous.

→ dabi ; 9:47pm :)

And unsettling.

When the ride pulls up to the bar, everyone is quick to thank the driver as they pile out of the back seat and into the crisp evening air. It's getting colder. As you give the Uber driver another kind goodbye and shut the door, you can hear Nuri squealing — a telltale sign that she's found her man of the hour. Or week. Or month. You don't know.

According to Nuri, Giran isn't as shitty as you originally thought.

After all, that new (and expensive) purse on her arm is a gift from The Broker himself.

The acrid smell of tobacco and a touch of something else curls around you in greeting as you turn and blink into the blaring neon signs of the bar. By the edge of the building, Giran is hugging Nuri while smoke curls from his nose like a dragon.

The lean, tall figure in all black beside him puffs quietly on the shared cigarette.

So much for quitting.

Giran insisted on stepping out for a smoke — and well, Dabi was bribed with the offer of a fresh hand-roll. He's got his vices. He hasn't smoked in, like, three weeks. Cut him some fucking slack. S'not like it's a Marlboro. And it's definitelynot that shit Splinter smoked him out with — that horrifying strain that nearly killed both him and Shigaraki one night.

It's a shitty, cheap spliff.

His eyes, cutting and blue, pin you where you stand. He takes another purposeful drag as his turquoise eyes rake over your figure. You look good. Real good.

Pretty.

Between the wisps of smoke, there's something floral, sweet, and soft in the air.

Your perfume.

You ignore the creeping feeling of becoming prey and instead, heed Nuri's laughter and smiles as she waves you over to meet Giran formally. You do as you're told, toddling beside the others as you shake Giran's hand. His dark eyes flicker with something like recognition before drifting sideward to Dabi.

"We're going to head in — I'll grab us all drinks," he grins, the look a little lopsided; Nuri coos and the others hardly protest. Giran takes one last drag of his hand-roll before passing it back to Dabi with a wink; his smile unsettles you, "You two finish that for me, yeah?"

With that, you're left outside the bar with Dabi and his cigarette.

He tugs on the hood over his head a little, sniffling and rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb as he balances the burning gift between his fingers. His eyes haven't left you once.

You take the opportunity to look him over. Ripped jeans, a broken-in pair of Doc Martens. There's a black t-shirt hem poking out from under the baggy, black hoodie on his shoulders. Some scraggly, nearly illegible metal band name is embossed into the material.

There's a black face mask tugged around his chin as he aims to finish the cigarette. He flicks the embers into the wet pavement in a practiced move. The burning butt hangs between two long and deft fingers.

"You're starin'."

You cross your arms, tilting your head as you meet his gaze. "I thought you told me you quit."

His laugh is a raspy, dangerous wheeze. Dabi leans back against the building's black brick. Beneath his hood, you can see his blue eyes narrow.

"Don't get yer panties in a twist," Dabi murmurs as he swallows and exhales, "It's a single spliff. S'nothin'."

Ah, so that explains it.

Arms still crossed, you gesture easily for a hit. You crook two fingers, black nail polish glinting in the neon lights. Dabi hesitates, the dwindling cigarette perched between his lips.

"No," he denies the request, smacking your hand down and away, "M'not corrupting you."

"Corrupting me?" you laugh, tucking your hand back under your armpit to stay warm. You're regretting not bringing a jacket. You just didn't want to deal with coat check, "Seriously?"

It's bad enough he's dragged you into his shit.

"Giran's shit sucks anyways," Dabi explains away roughly, flicking the butt of the remainder of the roach, "S'barely enough to get a rat high."

"Perfect. I love rats," you chirp back; your grin is slow, "I'm a one-hit wonder anyways."

Suddenly, Dabi feels the need to protect you surge inside of him. He puts greater distance between you and the spliff on instinct.

What the fuck is happening?

"I'm not getting you high," Dabi says firmly, taking one last drag, "And I'm not giving you any drunk cigarettes either. S' against my glimmering, perfect morals."

"Riiiight," you nod; the weirdness is ebbing away. Right now, it feels like another night of texting. Easy. Fun. You sigh and shake your head, "Must be hard being such a perfect guy."

"You've got no fuckin' idea," he drops the roach to the pavement as he exhales long and hard before gesturing to his lonely state outside the bar, "Gotta beat th' girls offa me."

"Is this you wallowing?" you ask in good humor as Dabi cracks his neck.

"No, this was me waitin' fer you t' show," he corrects before lobbing one long arm around your shoulders and tugging you close to his side, "Cuz' m'gonna have t' beat the guys offa you."

He smells like fire and tobacco and a little bit of weed, but also laundry detergent and crisp, sporty deodorant. Like a real person, and not like some mythic League of Villains member who needs to hide his face to even be here.

He tugs the face mask back up his jaw, the hood still on.

You're back to feeling weird. Like prey. But, less like the rabbit in his snapping maw, and more like the treasured kill. Is that what this feeling is? He feels it too. He's been feelin' it.

Is he catching feelings?

Are you?

This is why he asked if you were going out, isn't it? So he could keep an eye on you. So he could keep anyone else away from you.

Clingy.

You don't say anything, only slip him a curious look when he tosses the bouncer a crinkled wad of yen from a well-worn wallet for your cover charge. You allow him to lead you into the bar, and you allow his arm to stay around your shoulders. The tall, dark-haired arsonist weaves easily through the chatter, music, and dancing — and easy as breathing, his arm slips from your shoulders and down your arm. He doesn't hold your hand — but he does tug on your wrist as the crowd bunches together near the bustling bar.

The back of him cuts an intimidating figure.

Dabi is tall.

Wordlessly, he manages to make enough room at the bar. There's an open seat. He nudges his chin towards it, allowing you to slip up onto the stool. It feels like you've got your own guard dog of sorts.

You don't know how to feel now.

The weirdness is back on your tongue.

Dabi is fiddling with his dangling, silver earring as he speaks. It's loud in here. Busy. Lots of bodies. The thrum of the bass is heady and heavy in your chest. He has to lean down — to get close to your ear — for you to hear him.

"Whaddaya want t' drink?" he calls over the baseline, his arm leaned on the back of your seat.

You turn your cheek, wondering if you should milk this whole guard dog act. You make a move for the small purse hanging on your shoulder. Dabi waves you off, looking non-plussed.

It's a peace offering, he reasons. For blowing your phone up this whole week... Right? Not like he has to apologize. That's what people do. They fuckin' text one another. S'whatever.

"Just lemme buy you a fuckin' drink, will ya? Don't make it a thing," he says again, tugging off the black face mask and stuffing it into his back pocket.

He doesn't really need to worry about anyone clocking who he is in here — it's dark enough, and not exactly the best bar in Kamino Ward. Dabi tugs his hood down and runs a palm through his thick, black hair. He's fixing his cowlick, trying his best to hide the creep of shyness.

Don't make it a thing.

Isn't this a thing? This whole thing?

You sit up a little straighter, leaning in to speak up over the music. At your cue, Dabi leans down again and your nose nearly brushes the staples crawling up his cheeks. "Fine. Get me a rum and coke."

It's confusing. You're... fine with being this close to him. No one is ever this fine with being close to him. He's mangled and scarred and fucked up, and usually fear makes people bite. You haven't done that.

You've treated him like a normal fucking person.

He scoffs. He turns his face and you can smell the cigarette on his breath. And mint. The echos of chewing gum.

"No need t' be frugal about it, princess."

Your eyes narrow incrementally, trying to sus out what the everloving fuck is happening right now. Is this real? Is he real? Are you seriously here, letting Dabi buy you a drink after allowing him to blow your phone up with nonsensical texts all week? The Dabi. The League of Villains' Favorite Fire Starter, Dabi.

Texting him was a bad idea.

Letting him buy you a drink is an even worse one.

Your rum and coke and his shitty beer are traded for another wad of wrinkled yen with the bartender. You accept the bought drink, gathering the straw before knocking back a strong sip. Dabi swigs his beer, but his blue eyes stick on you in the swiveling strobes of the bar. Blue eyes connect with yours and you find your gaze hitching on the way his Adam's apple bobs as he drinks.

You never considered Dabi handsome.

Not until this moment.

Maybe that's where you went wrong with all this. Maybe you fucked up by assuming you'd never be swallowing down a wad of attraction as heavy as a magnet. It's so apparent you almost choke.

His pierced brow quirks as he side-eyes you.

What the fuck is going on tonight?

It's fine. You smother the thoughts blaring in the back of your mind like a fire alarm with another longer sip of the rum and coke in your hands. The condensation is cold and wet. Grounding. Remember who you are. Not a villain.

He can eat you alive.

But, Dabi... He... doesn't really want to.

You're squeezing the lime into your drink when Dabi leans in again.

"What's the deal with Giran an' Nuri, huh?"

You follow his eye-line and spot the two in question at the far end of the bar. They're mirroring you and Dabi except for the distinct amount of touching. Nuri can hardly keep her hands off of Giran. The Broker doesn't seem to mind. You lean into Dabi's personal space as you respond. Both of your gazes remain on the two.

"I told you," you remind him, "She thinks she can fix him."

Dabi's laugh is dry in your ear. "Is gettin' in his pants part of her plan?"

You roll your eyes at him, turning to lean a bit closer. "He bought her that Hermès bag. I don't really blame her for wanting to sleep with him after that."

It's a joke.

Dabi smirks into his beer. "What, is buyin' you a drink not enough? I gotta go designer now?"

You're impressed that you don't stutter; liquid courage be damned. "Is that an offer?"

Dabi sneers. He shoves you with his elbow albeit lightly. It's a signal — drop it. Just like how he extinguishes any flirting over text, he does it now in person.

"S' dedication on his part."

"Maybe it's love," you coo as you take another sip and look up at him, "Maybe they're meant for one another."

Touya drums his knuckles on the back of your bar stool as he rolls his jaw. He's quiet for a while — busy dragging his eyes around the establishment. Seems like everyone here has someone with them. Someone they care about. How the fuck do they do that? How do people trust like that? Touya's blue eyes narrow in on Giran and Nuri once more, only to feel like he's intruding. The sight of a long kiss shared makes Dabi drag his eyes away from the two at the end of the bar. A pang of longing strikes up his core, only to be worsened when he looks down and sees you staring at him again in the darkness of the bar.

"What?"

"You're high," you say with a growing smirk, "Aren't you?"

"Fuck off—"

"—I knew it."

"M'not high," Dabi counters, realizing as he speaks that he is. Just a little bit. Not enough for it to be a problem, "Shut up."

You feel a little bit like you've won a game. The rules were never clearly defined, never agreed upon — you watch him inhale sharply through his nose as his eyes dart around the bar behind him.

"Then why'd you get so quiet about that?" you pry, leaning against the cool, damp counter as you swivel in your stool. Your knees brush his thigh.

Maybe if you pretend that attraction isn't there, it will go away.

Maybe it will die a lonely death in the pit of your heart.

"About what?" he grits out, leaning onto his elbow. He crosses his boots at the ankle, trying to ignore the burn of your body pressed against his in the closeness of this bar. Dabi's fingers pick at the label of his beer absently.

"About looooove," you yammer on, waggling your head and leaning closer, "What, does Mr. Bad Boy not believe in love?"

Dabi scoffs in your face. "You're drunk."

Your lips part. You look offended — but he can see a smile tugging at the corners of your lips regardless. You press a palm to your chest as you speak, "I'm fine."

"Fine enough for another rum 'n' coke?" he asks as he nods towards your empty glass. The ice is melting. Dabi'ssmirking.

You flatten your look. "I'm buying it."

"Nope," he pops the 'p'. He's wrangling for his wallet again and digging it out of the back pocket well-worn pair of skinny jeans. His fingers are quick, flipping the torn and half-destroyed wallet open as he flags the bartender down, "I told you. Don't make it a thing. Do y' want another one, or nah?"

You squint at him.

Then, you concede.

"One more."

Dabi's grin breaks across his face like a lightning strike. Dangerous. "Good girl. Was that so hard?"

The weirdness gives way — it burns. Your chest feels like it's on fire. If Dabi notices, he doesn't say shit. You're glad. You don't know if you'd ever be able to come back from it if he did.

There's a part of him that knows what he's doing. There's a part, deep down, that knows this will end up hurting worse than anything imaginable, he's sure. But, whatever. So it goes. Touya doesn't give a shit. Hurting makes him feel human.

That rum and coke arrives just as some clean-cut, dopey-looking fucker strides up the bar beside you. He's got a patterned button-up on and a watch that looks too heavy for his wrist. Dabi is paying, jutting his jaw out in thanks to the bartender, when Mr. Perfect tries to strike up a conversation with you.

His teeth are eerily white in the bar's dark as he tries to get your attention.

You try to hide a wince when the stranger's hand touches your shoulder.

(You don't wince when he touches you, Dabi realizes smugly.)

Before the man can even talk to you, there's a pair of turquoise eyes boring a hole into the man's skull.

"Hey, pal," comes the rasped crackle of Dabi's voice over your shoulder, "She ain't interested."

You haven't heard this tone from him before — it's flat and hollow and sharp, almost like being on the receiving end could make you bleed. It takes a moment for it to register, and when you blink up at Dabi, you realize that he's angry.

Your fingers tighten around your drink.

The man doesn't seem to get it. He just laughs — and tries to brush off the attempted cock block by doubling down.

Bad idea.

You can't help but freeze when Dabi moves, sliding behind you and cornering the man against the bar. Suddenly, the resident arsonist's poor posture is forgotten. His height unfolds a wave of intimidation as he roots his fist in the back of the guy's collar.

"You know," Dabi grits with a flash of his eyes as he leans into the man's personal space; the expression could be mistaken for a smile, but you know better, "I really fuckin' hate it when I have to repeat myself."

You tighten your jaw. You take a sip of your drink and try to ignore the tension developing beside you. You sip your rum and coke and pray this doesn't become a bigger scene than it needs to be.

One hard shove displaces the unwanted attention — and now Dabi has assumed the spot on the other side of you. He leans on the bar, both elbows planted, and then tips back his beer. The victor.

Your eyes dart over your shoulder. The man is gone, lost in the flood of bouncing bodies on the dance floor.

Morally speaking, you're on the ropes. You're a grown woman. You can take care of yourself. You know how to say no. You know how to tell a man to fuck off and eat shit. You can do it, and... you would. You were about to—

"Stop makin' it a thing."

Dabi's voice cuts through your thoughts. You blink back at him and realize he's avoiding eye contact.

You cross your legs, exhale, and rub the spot between your brows.

This bastard is giving you a headache. But, y'know, nothing new there.

"I could've handled that on my own, y'know—"

Dabi scoffs. He taps his finished beer down onto the counter before pushing back upright and turning to look at you. His hair hangs in his eyes.

"—That's nice. I don't care—"

"—But, thank you."

You pin him with a look that's all too unamused, and Dabi doesn't like that his heart does some weird fuckin' stutter thing. The villain's brows knit for a moment as he tries to sort out what the fuck is happening, and then he rolls his jaw and shrugs. He goes a little rigid at the thank you.

"...It's whatever."

It's cute.

Your expression softens. You settle into your seat and take a sip of your drink. Dabi's stare is off a thousand yards, rooted somewhere between the drink coaster and your thighs.

"Stop making it a thing," you parrot back at him, nudging him with your elbow.

It drags him back to earth. Dabi snorts through his nose, then winds his arms around himself as he makes a point of scouring the bar. His voice is dry. "It's not a thing."

Right.

For once, you're thankful for the interruption of your friends begging you to come dance.

The three of them are beaming brightly, their hands tugging on your arms and shoulders as they swarm you at the bar. You have to laugh; they're insisting the song that's playing is your song but you have no recollection of ever even liking this artist. It's a ploy, you know, to get you to let loose.

You glance towards Dabi.

You swear he's almost smiling.

"I don't dance," he rasps, leaning lazily against the bar, "So don't ask."

"Fine," you murmur, wriggling down from the stool and taking a brave, long sip after tugging your skirt down; you brush your shoulder against Dabi's as you step away from the bar, "Suit yourself."

Your friends are cheering, tugging you into the fray. And Dabi is left there, leaning against the bartop, watching you disappear into the crowd.

Maybe you should have known, then, that this exact predicament was bound to happen.

It happens four songs in — right after you finish the rum and coke that was delivered right into your hands when your darling Nuri made her appearance. The lights sway, slow to catch up to the bob of your head as you let loose.

You smell that cologne first.

Then, there are hands on your waist.

A big watch, no doubt a fake, snakes around the front of your waist. Your brows knot together as your mouth curls into an angered scowl. You're about to stomp on the guy's foot, you're about to throw the watered-down dredges of your drink in the guy's face.

But, as quick as the touch came, it was gone.

Then, the smell of fire on the night air.

The new hands that fall on your hips are decidedly more conscious. They don't tug or pull, they simply curl around the soft curve there. The owner of the hands leans in, his chest pressed to your back, as he's jostled by the crowd. The studs on his belt are cool against the skin above your lower back where your shirt has ridden up.

When you look back, familiar turquoise eyes are staring.

He leans closer, your stride in the dance unbroken, and raises his voice over the bass.

"Don't make it a thing."

The position is entirely too intimate for you to even register. Then, his eyes flick a little lower, and you lean your head back a bit against his chest. Your hips rock a bit, only enough to keep the beat, as you tilt your chin and lean to speak into his ear. Your nose brushes his scars and his entire body reacts.

"I thought you didn't dance?"

If your hips roll against him again, you try to tell yourself it was on accident.

And just like that, he's swooping your finished drink out of your hand and he's gone.

He doesn't dance. He... He doesn't... feel things. He could walk out of this bar and feel nothing. He could dump his burner in the harbor and never look back, and there would be no skin off his back.

Just... Not today.

Not today, he tells himself as he steps outside with a bummed cigarette in hand trying to adjust himself in his jeans. It dangles between his lips as he grunts, puffs, and the keys on his belt jingle. Touya rubs his palm against his eye as he tries to get a grip.

You're just some stupid college girl who happens to be pretty and kind and has a nice ass. A dime a dozen. He can fuck you, leave you on read, and dump you for the next item whenever he wants. Any day now.

So why doesn't he?

He could buck the fuck up, head back in there, and drag you to the bathroom.

He could. H-He could. Give him ten minutes, and he could make a mess across your face like he keeps havin' those dreams about. Give him some time and he'll have you screamin' his name — and no one would even hear it over the music.

Touya tugs at his hair.

He could.

That doesn't mean he wants to, though.

Fuck.

#burner cell #dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #touya x reader #touya x you #touya todoroki imagine #dabi imagine #bnha imagine #mha imagine #I LOOOOVE MY EMO BOY I AM JUST SAYIINNGGGG

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pathologicalreid · 5 months ago

Text

spring into summer | s.r.

in which Spencer pursues a relationship with you. you try to resist every advance - for your own protection.

[previously] | [next]

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angsty content warnings: blowing smoke part tew, at a bar but it's not specified whether or not reader drinks alcohol, kissing, if you have a problem with my bar music keep it to yourself, maeve as a plot device, love confessions, not edited word count: 2.25k a/n: y'all i wasn't gonna do this, but listening to this song... yeah i had to.

“Spencer’s here!” Penelope exclaimed from her bar stool, her heels clicking on her way to the front of the bar, hoping to lead Spencer through the crowd to where the team had decided to set up shop.

Your head snapped up in alarm, tilting your head to the side and trying to get JJ’s attention, “I didn’t think Spencer was coming out tonight.”

She frowned slightly, placing her glass on the bar and shrugging, “It was an open invite.”

An open invite that you extended to the guy you’re seeing. You huffed, pulling the strap of your dress back over your shoulder and flagging down the bartender, hoping to get a drink before you need to play defense against Spencer.

“Hey,” Ethan said from behind you, a cute guy from counterterrorism that Penelope had introduced you to. His hand sat comfortably on your waist as you got the bartender’s attention again, letting him know that you’d actually need two drinks.

You smiled back at him, panicking slightly when he leaned in to kiss you. Evading his kiss, you let his lips land on your cheek, turning your head so that you were facing Spencer.

The two of you had as little contact as you could manage in the past two months, ever since Spencer’s attempt to ask you out had gone completely awry. Of course, ceasing all contact was unavoidable, between work and Spencer’s continued pursuance, you continuously found yourself under his net.

Ethan squeezed your waist gently, taking the glass that the bartender had placed in front of him and grabbing a straw for yours. You thanked him, crushing the straw wrapper against the bar and taking a sip.

Admittedly, you weren’t interested in the guy in the slightest. The second time you went out together, he’d gotten your name wrong, but he was friends with Penelope’s crush, so you were trying to be a good sport.

It felt like the world was playing a cruel joke on you, pairing you with someone who couldn’t be bothered to remember your name while you were trying to shut out a guy who remembered your favorite flower from a conversation three years ago. Yesterday, you’d found a bouquet on your desk for the third Thursday in a row.

Every time you read the card that he sends with the arrangement, you almost forget yourself. It would be a waste for you to get rid of them, which is the only reason you’ve kept them on your desk.

Or so you keep telling yourself.

“You look nice,” Spencer whispered to you, reaching between you and JJ so he could grab his drink from the bar. He looked good, you noticed him against your better judgment, even the embroidery on his tie managed to catch your attention.

Before you could collect yourself enough to respond to him, Morgan had already pulled him back to a booth, putting an arm around his shoulders and pointing out different girls in the bar while Savannah rolled her eyes. His hair was growing out from the undercut that he’d debuted in the fall, falling in front of his eyes until he inevitably flicked the stray hairs away.

Peeling your eyes off of him, you looked back at Ethan, who’d already made his way through half his drink. His eyes were glued to the baseball game being displayed above the bar. If your date had noticed you ogling your coworker, he didn’t show it.

Tentatively, you tapped his stool gently with your toe, “Hey,” you tried to get his attention, batting your eyelashes. “Do you wanna go over to the jukebox with me? We can pick a song together,” you offered.

He frowned and shook his head, “Nah, the Nationals game is on.” He nodded his head up to the TV, refraining from sparing you a glance.

You looked up at the screen, they were at the bottom of the second inning, and you were in for an exhausting night. “Right,” you said flatly, “I’ll be right back.”

Sharing a look with Penelope, who shot you a supportive thumbs up from the other side of the bar, you got off your stool and adjusted your purse over your shoulder. You liked that this bar still had a real jukebox, as opposed to the updated touchscreens commonly found in bars nowadays. You dug through your purse for a quarter, half paying attention to your rummaging and using the rest of your brain power to study the available songs.

A few things caught your eye, most of the available tracks were classics—Journey, Queen, and a Meatloaf track that was suspiciously out of order. Probably because the song was over eight minutes long. “Here,” the familiar voice—that you’d been trying to avoid—spoke.

Spencer held a quarter out for you, leaving the coin displayed in his palm until you graciously accepted it. “Thanks,” you said, “Do you have any suggestions?” You expertly dodged his attempt at eye contact, sliding the quarter into its slot and reading through the titles again. Pressing your lips in a thin line while you ignored the way he was leaning over the jukebox.

“Why did you ask him to come out?” He asked, pointing at one of the songs and chuckling when you shook your head. He should’ve known better than to actually make a request. After all, you were just being polite.

You squinted at a title, worn with time, and you distracted yourself with the task of reading it. “I didn’t know you were coming with us,” you muttered, refusing to let your curiosity get the better of you and resisting the urge to just select the worn button. “You don’t usually like this bar,” you reminded him. You couldn’t remember the last time Spencer went out to a bar that wasn’t O’Keefe’s.

He hummed next to you, standing so close that you could feel his body heat intermingling with your own. “So,” he started, “You wouldn’t have asked him to go out if you had known I was going to be here.”

“I didn’t say that,” you told him, your eyes flickering to the side. Not enough to see his face, but enough to notice that he’d taken off his suit jacket, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“You might as well have,” he returned, watching as you finally chose a Fleetwood Mac song, concluding that you’d either have to choose a song you didn’t want or waste Spencer’s quarter.

You peeked around him, your date still preoccupied with the sporting event. Even so, you tried to make your way around Spencer, but he grabbed your elbow and held you back.

There was nothing forceful in his action. If you wanted to snatch your arm away and stalk away from him, he wasn’t going to stop you, but you found yourself interested in staying with him. It would be worth your while to stay with someone who was begging for your attention rather than return to the bar to beg for someone else’s.

Spencer looked around, mindful of the members of your team who were still in earshot while he led you away from the crowds. He tucked you away, resting your back against a shiplap wall in a corner, perfectly concealed from curious profilers. “I want to talk to you,” he whispered, leaning against the wall.

You crossed your arms in front of your chest in preemptive defense, making sure he stayed at least a foot away from you. “I’ve said everything there is to say to you,” you made no effort to avert his gaze, no attempt to duck away from the conversation.

“I haven’t,” he responded immediately, his voice steady despite the noticeable pounding of his carotid. It was almost as if he’d practiced this speech before, going through every permutation of the conversation in his mirror before meeting you out.

Raising your eyebrows, you looked up at him; the sun was setting, the orange light reflecting in his brown irises while he studied you like it was the last time he’d ever see you. “Spence,” you breathed, waiting expectantly for him to continue.

“You never actively pursued me, how was I meant to know you were interested?” His question made you want to scoff, but the earnest look in his eyes gave you pause. “Admittedly, social cues aren’t my strong suit, and I know you know that.”

Your shoulders relaxed, “So, because I never actively pursued you, it’s my fault that we never ended up together? Was I supposed to declare my intentions to you?”

He shook his head, sending strands of wavy brown hair tumbling in front of his forehead. In another life, you would’ve reached out to fix his hair. “No, I’m saying that while you never actively pursued me, I am actively pursuing you. I just want to make sure you know what page I’m on,” he told you, nervously picking at his nails.

“Spencer,” you sighed his name, “I already told you I couldn’t do it.” You’d cried it to him, actually. You expected this conversation to be more of the same, pleading with Spencer to understand your perspective on the situation while he relentlessly begged you to reconsider.

Reaching out, he touched your arm gently, nothing more than a graze of his fingertips across your bare skin, “And I want to prove to you that we can do this. I can be the guy that you want.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to push yourself further into the wall until you phased right through it, “I can’t take the back and forth.” You needed something stable, but what you needed would never be reflective of what you wanted. The most brutal truth of all was that you still wanted Spencer. You considered him your first love, and no one ever gets over their first love.

Just like he’d never get over his.

“There are just too many years between us, Spencer. It’s too complicated,” you told him, trying to keep your breathing steady. It would be exhausting to explain your tearful look to the rest of the team.

He waved your reasoning away, “It’s not. It’s not complicated. I love you and you love me. So, why can’t we be together?”

Your lips parted, staring up at him with wide eyes as your brain frantically tried to catch up with the situation at hand. Each beat of your heart was like a repetition of the word—love, love, love.

Spencer took your silence for rejection, “Maybe it’s just me then.”

“It’s not,” you croaked, fear and love and sorrow causing your throat to strangle your words. You looked up at him and wondered how long he’d been sitting on that confession. You wondered how long he’d known you loved him. You wondered if he still dreamed about Maeve. For whatever reason, that’s the only curiosity that you voiced, “Do you still dream about her?”

“I only dream about you these days,” he answered, his voice soft in the cacophony of the bar, keeping the conversation private despite your public stage.

“You can’t mean that,” you murmured, your face warming in response to his confession.

Your response only seemed to encourage him further, leaning his head down to allow himself contact. He pressed his lips to yours gently, and you found yourself leaning into him more than you’d like, each movement of his lips reminiscent of a chisel against the wall that you had constructed between the two of you.

Reaching your arms up, you propped one over his shoulder and used your free hand to weave your fingers in his hair—just as silky as you had always imagined it would be. His lips were soft against yours, and you knew you were fighting a battle that you could never win. You’d always run back to him.

Even when you pried yourself away from him, there wasn’t an ounce of regret in your bloodstream, but there was an outpour of sorrow. “Spence,” you breathed, blinking tears from your eyes while he pressed his forehead against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he responded, “I shouldn’t have done that.” His tone didn’t reflect his words in the slightest, there was no remorse in his eyes when you met them for the first time in a new light.

You shook your head instantly, “It’s okay.” You understood why he had done it. Telling you he loved you. Kissing you. He hadn’t done either of those things with Maeve. Spencer was trying to make a statement with you; he wanted his actions to speak louder than words.

He frowned, “You’re crying. I’m so sorry.”

Your lips parted to respond, but you hesitated for a moment. Curiosity was rapping at your door, wanting to know if the last person he had kissed was Diane. “I’m not crying because I didn’t want you to kiss me,” you admitted, hoping that your candor would serve to bring him some comfort.

“Oh,” he breathed, “Oh.”

You nodded, confirming his suspicions, “But I meant it when I told you I can’t do this. I just… not right now.” You needed time to come to terms with the fact that the love you never expected was right around the corner, and you needed time so that Maeve wasn’t the first person you thought over after kissing him.

“Okay,” he said, taking a small step away from you, “But you… you’ll let me know?”

Your head bobbed, “I’ll let you know.”

"I love you and I always will and I am sorry. What a useless word." - Ernest Hemingway

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot

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mochacoda · 4 months ago

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night d(r)ive | yjh

Pairing: Yoon Jeonghan x GN!Reader

Synopsis: As a close friend of the most sought-after man on campus, you’d like to think that you know Jeonghan well enough to predict his thoughts on romance and his territoriality over ramen. (Spoiler: You don't.)

Content: Angst, Fluff, Comfort | Friends to Lovers | College AU

Tags: short hair jeonghan, extreme pining, liking ramen as a plot device, crying, being losers for each other, insecure reader, lots of konglish w/ translations, overly indulgent kissing, no "y/n,” this is for everyone who voted jeonghan in the poll <3

Word Count: 5.8K

You‘d like to think that you know Yoon Jeonghan well. Surely, you do! Over the years, you‘ve come across—and committed to memory—dozens, if not hundreds, of his little oddities. You’ve witnessed his personality change with the length of his hair, and learned the hard way that cheating at card games is like second nature to him. At this point, you can recite more information about his pet rock than ramen, which is somewhat terrifying if you dwell on it for too long, considering that ramen is your favorite food.

But despite Jeonghan’s chaotic personality, you also know that he’s incredibly smart, having sat next to him in countless college lectures and trivia events.

Honestly, it can’t possibly be a stretch to say that you know the man too well, can't it? And at times, it feels a bit unfair that you can only reply, “oh, I know him,” when people fleetingly mention him in conversation. It hurts that you can’t clarify that you know him—that you can’t ramble on about how he made the stupidest joke to make you laugh when you were upset about your most recent midterm, or handmade you the sweetest present for your birthday, or let you choose your favorite film for movie night for the third time in a row—because no one wants to nor needs to hear about it.

But, unfortunately, that’s all you can think about these days.

Because, unfortunately, Yoon Jeonghan is simultaneously the funniest, weirdest, kindest, and most devastatingly handsome man you’ve ever met.

Yoon Jeonghan is the kind of guy who would drive 40 minutes out of his way just to pick you up, but also wouldn’t yield the last ramen at the local convenience store to you. Though he gives into his internal demands for petty possessiveness quite often, he cares deeply for his friends.

He’s also the kind of guy people are quick to fall for, only to get crushed by his nonchalant but somewhat firm indifference for dating. You’ve witnessed him casually turn down far too many objectively gorgeous and incredibly intelligent people, which has convinced you that his standards are impossibly high. And if you were honest with yourself, based on the people he’d already rejected, it would be laughable for you to even think about confessing to him.

And so, as a close friend of the most sought-after man on campus, you’d like to think you know Jeonghan well enough to predict his thoughts on romance and his territoriality over ramen.

In fact, you’re sure about the ramen issue, because you’re witnessing it happen right now.

You’re staring at his smirking face in the instant food aisle of the convenience store, both of you gripping the last Neoguri cup like it’s a trophy.

“You gotta learn patience,” Jeonghan tuts, his lips upturned infuriatingly at one corner.

“No, you should learn patience. 손 빼, [Take your hand off,]” you demand, grasping the cup tighter.

“싫은데? [Don’t wanna,]” he says in a sing-song voice, raising his chin in defiance.

The ramen cup creaks slightly under the pressure of your combined grip, and a terrible thought forms in your head. Your hand is sandwiched between his hand and the cup, making you feel the heat radiating from his body. It’s something you’re afraid you could get used to.

You narrow your eyes, targeting his ridiculous, perfect lazy smile. “Take it off while I’m being nice.”

“Nah,” he replies immediately, smiling wider, his tongue sliding to the right.

Your heart lurches at the sight.

“치사하게 진짜 이럴 거야? [You’re so petty, are you really going to be like this?]” You chew on your bottom lip, eyes flitting between his face and his hand.

Jeonghan tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes sharp and steady on yours. He’s not really looking at the ramen anymore, and the intensity of his gaze makes your cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

“내가 여기서 이 옷을 입고 있는데, [I’m wearing these clothes here,]” he says, using his free hand to pinch the fabric of the expensive suit he always wears at his internship. “굳이 라면 하나 때문에 나랑 싸운다고? 그냥 빨리 가자, 음? [You’re really gonna fight with me over just one ramen cup? Let’s just go now, hmm?]”

You press your lips together and jut your chin in defiance.

He sighs dramatically, shaking his head. His shaggy, dark hair flows with it, and you can’t help but think that he looks princely like this, standing in the middle of this convenience store with his stupidly gorgeous face, and that dumb suit and tie.

“양보해. [Give it up.] I’ll give you whatever you want,” he says, his voice dipping lower. It feels less like an offer and more like a taunt, a challenge. His tone sends a small shiver through you, and for a second, you’re not sure if he’s teasing or serious.

You have to take a slow, deep breath to calm yourself down before even considering what to say next. You’re grateful for the ride (and his company), of course, but that doesn’t mean he can steal your rightful claim under your nose, in the same casual manner he has when letting one of his fans down.

You’ve always given into him. Because he means everything to you, of course.

But you’ve had enough of letting him have his way so easily, not with your precious ramen at risk.

You boldly step closer to him, cutting the distance between the two of you in half. You’re close enough to see your reflection in his eyes, now.

“I’m not letting go, 하니 [Hannie].” You firmly shake your head. You wouldn’t let him win this time. “I don’t want anything but this,” you add, stubbornly.

Tugging hard, you try to pull the cup toward you, but it frustratingly remains stuck on the shelf between the two of you. Looking back up, you see that he isn’t even straining to keep the ramen in place! You frown, wondering when your best friend got so strong.

He leans in just a fraction closer. “Keep trying,” he murmurs, and he’s so close that you can feel his warm breath tickling your face.

The world narrows to Jeonghan, and the faint scent of the cologne he only wears on weekends. It’s dizzying.

“야아아! [Hey!] I was here first!” you weakly defend, voice embarrassingly squeaky.

And then Jeonghan does something that completely short-circuits your brain.

His free hand lifts and brushes your hair away to your back, before resting on the divot between your neck and collarbone, where his thumb caresses the side of your neck. Feather-light, his touch is gentle, and his fingers are impossibly warm, a stark contrast to this slightly chilly convenience store. You just about choke on your surprise, your heart kicking into overdrive at the sheer intimacy of the gesture.

God, how is it that you never get a rest day with Jeonghan? How is it that he’s always flirting, always disregarding the boundaries of platonic and romantic love, always making you confused? And how is it that you just let it happen, that you just take whatever affection he gives you? How is it that you’re drawn into his dangerous touch like a moth to a flame? Except that analogy doesn’t really work, because at least moths don’t know that they’re in danger when they reach fire—you know what you’re getting into, and you know all too well that Jeonghan will never be yours.

“Please?” he whispers.

Your breath hitches, suddenly aware that even for your overly-touchy friend, this level of skinship is extreme.

Does he know? Has he found out that you’re in love with him, that you’ve been keeping this ungodly secret from him for far too long? Does he know that every time he lets someone down, that every time he complains to you about people confessing and crying over him, you give him superficial laughs as you swallow your own feelings?

Does he know that you feel like sinking into the ground every time he entertains a random girl flirting with him, and that every time he crosses boundaries with you, it hammers in the fact that he thinks you’re a joke?

Does he know that you’ve spent over a year trying to convince yourself that you don’t have feelings for him, only to fail miserably, because there is no such thing as cutting Yoon Jeonghan out of your life, because he makes you feel so, so alive?

He must know. He must be making fun of you, now.

Your eyes widen, frantically searching his face for an ounce of malice. And you expect to see the look he always has when shredding the hearts of the brave people who confess to him, the face he makes when he casually tells someone that he doesn’t feel the same way. You expect to see an almost-cruel, blank stare paired with apologetic lips pressed together.

You expect him to crush your heart.

But instead, he’s staring at you with a gaze so, so, very soft, you wonder if you’ve hallucinated it. Shining eyes, raised eyebrows, mouth parted—he looks devastatingly beautiful.

You can’t even bring yourself to blink, afraid that it might disappear before you can commit it to memory.

Technically, he’s looked like this before—you’ve seen it a handful of times on movie nights when you leaned against his shoulder, sleepily rambling about the bad decisions the main character had made. You’ve always figured that it was just the face he made when he was running on eight percent battery, tired and only half-registering the words coming out of your mouth.

But now, seeing this version of Jeonghan out of its usual context, your heart stops.

Your grip slackens.

In an instant, Jeonghan takes advantage of your daze. He snatches the ramen, links his arm through yours, and drags you to the counter. Your feet stumble, but his hold on you is firm, keeping you stable throughout the entire sudden exchange. He sets a bill on the counter, and then you’re being ushered out of the convenience store.

The freezing cold bites at your cheeks as you stand in a haze of confusion by the passenger seat of Jeonghan’s car, unable to do anything but just watch as he starts the engine and unlocks the door. He stares at you through the window, waiting.

If you could move a muscle on your face, you’d furrow your brows, wondering what he’s waiting for. But you’re still frozen, and before you can really think about it, Jeonghan gets tired of waiting.

He gets out of the car and walks over to you, squeezing your shoulders as he shifts you a little to the left. Withdrawing one of his hands from your shoulders, he opens the door, and then maneuvers you inside, using the same hand to cover the top frame of the door. You bump your forehead slightly against it, and he buckles you into the passenger seat—all without a word.

When you blink owlishly at him, he just ruffles your hair and shuts the door carefully, then walks over to the driver’s side.

Dazed, you literally have nothing to say.

When Jeonghan gets back into the car, he looks over at you with an unreadable gaze, then reaches his hand over the console to you, this time holding an object out. Your eyes flicker downward, then shoot up at him immediately.

The ramen?

You squint at his outstretched hand, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief.

Jeonghan never yields.

“Take it,” he says simply, airily, as if his giving up was obvious all along.

You hesitate, finger lightly tracing the top of the cup.

“Come on,” he insists, his eyes still intensely trained on yours. “I… it was always yours.”

Your fingers close over the cup, brushing his hand. He exhales softly, the corners of his lips twitching.

Averting your eyes from him and his strange actions, you drop the ramen in your lap, then settle for staring outside the window at the night sky, finding it unbearable to look at him. Drumming your fingers against the border of the window, you get lost in thought. You’re not sure you can handle it if Jeonghan tries to flirt with you again. Every time he does it, it just hammers in the crushing idea that you’re nothing but a friend to him. That you’re just someone to practice on while he waits for the goddess of his dreams to appear, or something.

And then a strange thought occurs to you. A silly thought, really. When Jeonghan said that the ramen was always yours, he didn’t use the “ih” sound that the word “it” has. No, he used the pronoun “I” first, before correcting himself. A faint, pitiful smile makes its way to your lips as your heart pangs.

Just what would you give to hear him say “I was always yours” someday?

Oh, maybe everything.

────୨ৎ────

The gentle hum of the car engine fills the silence from the lack of conversation between the two of you. The moon and the stars are beautiful tonight, and you’re content with staring at them instead of the man driving the car. You prop your head up with your elbow against the window, closing your eyes with every lull of the engine. If Jeonghan ever looked over at you at a red light, you wouldn’t know, preoccupied with pretending to be asleep.

When you feel the car come to a complete stop, you’re still feigning sleep, but you can’t help but furrow your eyebrows slightly. Surely, 40 minutes haven’t already passed? It seems way too soon. Had you actually dozed off at some point between staring out the window and faking sleep?

You peek one eye open, only to startle at Jeonghan’s gaze trained on you already, immediately opening the other. He seems completely at ease, with one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other resting on the gear shift. He stretches his fingers, accentuating the veins on his forearms, and you have to avert your eyes for a moment.

“잘 잤니? [Sleep well?]” he asks casually.

You look back at him, and see a strand of his dark hair fall into his eyes. Fingers twitching, you fight the urge to brush it behind his ear.

You answer him with a nod and flush, wondering if he could tell you were acting the entire time. Hands itching for something to do, you fiddle with your seatbelt.

“야, 나 좀 보고 말해봐, 음? [Hey, can’t you look at me and talk, hmm?]”

You glance at Jeonghan out of the corner of your eye, then shy away again. He looks too good right now, too much like a doting boyfriend. You pick at a loose thread from the bottom hem of your shirt.

“자꾸 나를 안 보니까 섭섭하네. [You keep not looking at me, I’m sad.]”

You faintly laugh. In all your years of knowing the man, you’ve yet to see Yoon Jeonghan truly sad. He’s always, always composed. He never says anything without thinking about it first, and he doesn’t have to lift a single finger that he doesn’t want to, because he knows that people will jump just to fall at his feet. It’s funny that Jeonghan now just assumes that with a few pretty words, he’ll get his way.

But your resentment is growing. It started with the ramen, and built up with how he won at the end of the fight. And it peaked when he gloated under the guise of kindly yielding the cup to you, leaving you stranded in your confusion, leaving you to sort out your racing mind and heart. What’s worse is, he has a history of doing this to you. But you never learn. Because he also has a history of giving the best, warmest, longest hugs. And he tells you all the time that he wants to be with you forever, that even when you’re 80 and wrinkly, he’ll come over every day to sing duets using your karaoke machine. And he has a bad habit of staring into your eyes with so much adoration, that you mistake it for real love.

He has a history of making you think that his flirting might actually mean something real to him. But he never confesses any feelings, because they don’t exist, and you feel the pain of being used as romantic practice all the same.

You’ve tried to convince yourself to just accept his affections as platonic love, but it has become increasingly more difficult to ignore it. How can you, when you get a rush of serotonin from seeing how bright his smile is when he whispers an inside joke to you in the middle of your fatally boring math discussion? How can you, when Jeonghan insists on picking you up from work even though it’s a waste of time and gas for him to make the far drive here and back? Your heart has grown to accommodate, and even expect, the constant fluttering it feels in his presence.

So, to be exact, it’s not that you feel resentment toward him—it’s resentment for your lack of a backbone when it comes to all things Yoon Jeonghan. It happens all the time; you get mad at him, and the consequences last for all of five seconds before your will caves.

“근대, 안 섭섭하잖아, [You’re not sad, though],” you softly say, eyes now tracing the glow of the crescent moon.

Jeonghan shifts in his seat, questioning your words. ”What? Why would you say that?”

“아니야, [No,] forget it.” You sigh, eyes falling to your hands again. Picking at a hangnail, you inhale deeply.

“Why wouldn’t I be sad? I love talking to you.” He removes his hands from the wheel and gear shift, then reaches out for yours.

You flinch, and he freezes.

“Hey, did I… do something wrong?” His voice shakes, suddenly sounding strained. It’s the complete opposite of how he was just three seconds ago.

You swallow thickly. No, he didn’t do anything wrong. “아니, [No,] it’s my fault.”

He frowns. “What did I do? Please, tell me. I’m sorry, whatever it is, I can fix it, I promise.” He looks at you so earnestly, your heart sinks.

“그건 불가능해, 정한아. [That’s not possible, Jeonghan.]” The words come out slowly and breathily, as if it’s taken you half of your life force to say them. You stare out the window again, this time at the stars, and add, “We should really get back, now. Why’d you stop here, anyway?”

“I figured you didn’t eat yet,” he says carefully. “I thought you’d want to get Thai. When you’re hangry, you yell at the TV more, and I get complaints from my neighbors.”

You blink, turning your attention down to the stores lining the street rather than the night sky. Jeonghan really had driven to your favorite Thai restaurant. “Oh. I didn’t know I did that, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he replies softly. “I never liked my neighbors anyway.”

Your eyes close, remembering when one of your classmates, who happened to be his neighbor, confessed to him. He had vented to you about friends needing to understand when not to cross lines. The memory makes you smile weakly again, acknowledging how strong you’ve been for managing not to confess so far.

Jeonghan continues, “But hey, your neighbors don’t like me, either. Remember when they banged on your door because we were singing too loud?”

You laugh this time, and it’s fleeting but it’s not forced. “언제 쯤 얘기야? [How long ago was that?] That was like two years ago.”

Jeonghan smiles. “You were wearing those teddy bear pajama pants, and I had my Cookie Monster pants on. They were like 70, and told us to stop being childish and grow up.”

“Maybe they had a point,” you say with a sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I didn’t know that you paid attention to those things,” you add offhandedly.

“Pay attention to what?”

“You know, just… the stuff I wear, the random shit I do,” you say, picking at your split ends.

Jeonghan’s wide eyes narrow, and you feel too hot under his intense gaze.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, voice deep and tinged with something you can’t quite put a finger on. The question feels strangely charged. With what, you don’t know.

You gnaw on your lip.

“Answer me. Why shouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, feeling put on the spot. “I’m just your friend. Shouldn’t you be spending your energy remembering weird stuff about a girlfriend? Like a serious romantic partner, or something?”

Jeonghan groans, running a hand through his hair, before it comes down on the console with a light thud. Your eyes widen at his unexpected physical display of emotion, taking in his clenched fists and heaving chest.

“하니? [Hannie?]” you say softly, concerned. He doesn’t normally resort to physical exertions when frustrated, probably because he doesn’t get frustrated very often at all.

Your hand reaches out to his right bicep, where you rub the muscle soothingly.

“Now you’re calling me 하니 [Hannie] again,” he says with a marginally more relieved, deep sigh.

You furrow your brows. “What?”

“Now you’re calling me 하니 [Hannie] again,” he repeats. “Please, don’t call me 정한 [Jeonghan]. Only 하니 [Hannie].”

“Okay?” you say tentatively, unsure where this is going.

“You know I love you, right?” he says suddenly, staring at his hands.

You blink rapidly. “Of course. I love you, too.” He’s your best friend, but you’re probably not his best friend.

Jeonghan jolts, looking at you directly in the eyes now. “You know I love you more, right?”

He looks a bit crazed like this, his frantic chocolate brown eyes searching deeply for something in your face. At a loss for words, you gape your mouth at him like a fish out of water.

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” you manage to say. “I bet I love you a lot more.”

The statement is accompanied by a rather self-deprecating laugh from you, the kind that digs deep into your heart even as you try your best to seem casual.

“No, no,” he says, reaching with his left hand to grasp the hand you’ve been patting his right bicep with. This time, you don’t pull away. “You don’t get it. I love you.”

What?

Your heartbeat begins to beat so loudly that the sound of it pumping overwhelms your thoughts. Your chest tightens, and you’re half-sure that you just hallucinated it.

“뭐라고? [What did you just say?]”

“사랑한다고, [That I love you,]” he chokes out, his voice thick with the one emotion you’ve been dreaming of him reciprocating.

You gasp.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

Oh.

Crestfallen, your heart drops. You pull your hand away from him.

This must be his new way to get you to relieve your “anger.” He doesn’t actually love you romantically, he just wants you to go back to acting like you normally do. He’ll never feel the same way that you do, in the crushing way that drives you insane every day, in the way that—

“설마, 나를 지금 무시하는 거야? [No way, are you ignoring me right now?]” Jeonghan’s wounded gaze strikes you like lightning. “아니면, 나를 못 믿는거야? [Or, are you not believing me?]”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Is this real? A dream, maybe? The real Jeonghan would never say this. He would never, ever entertain the idea that you could ever be more than—

“내가 사랑한다고 했는데, 왜 아무 말이 없어? [I just said I love you, why won’t you say anything?]” Jeonghan’s voice quakes, and you’re taken aback by his pained, strained eyebrows and glittering eyes.

Jeonghan’s eyes well with tears. He swallows thickly, “나… 아니야? [Am I… not it for you?]”

Your breath catches. He’s crying. Yoon Jeonghan—Yoon Jeonghan is crying? You’ve never even seen him sad, let alone crying. He’s always been untouchable, effortless in the way he teases and flirts with you, so sure of himself. So nonchalant and casual with his affection, that you’d always thought he never truly meant anything by it. But here he is, raw and vulnerable in front of you, holding his heart out with both hands—eyes rimmed red, voice breaking, mouth trembling. All because of you?

He really means it, huh? The realization slams into you so hard you feel like you can’t breathe, let alone speak, your chest constricting like you’re having a heart attack. All those lingering touches, all these years. The way he’s always made you the center of his jokes, how he has the softest shifts in his voice when someone mentions your name—it wasn’t all a game to him? It was never just practice for someone else, for someone better?

It was love?

God, you had been so overwhelmed with self doubt and insecurity that you’d convinced yourself that you had no chance, all while he was giving you clues through his proud affections, every day.

The man in question looks at you like you’ve just shattered his fragile heart, tears fully trailing down to his chin, now.

Feeling like your entire body has been engulfed in flames, you reach a trembling hand out past the gear shift. It trembles despite yourself as your arm extends to caress his cheek, where you carefully rub his tears away.

Jeonghan shudders when your hand touches him, and he shuts his eyes. More tears fall.

“하니, [Hannie],” you breathe shallowly, still feeling an immense pressure in your chest. “Look at me.” When he doesn’t open his eyes, you swallow roughly. “하니, [Hannie], please?”

Stubbornly, Jeonghan keeps his eyes closed, and you shakily sigh. You want to tell him—no, you need to tell him that you love him with every fiber of your being, but you need to see his eyes to register whether he understands you. He needs to open those beautiful, brown eyes of his.

You’ve never told him that you love him in Korean before. Something about it always felt too intimate, while “I love you” in English felt less charged. But you think he needs to hear it now.

Withdrawing your hand from his cheek, you unbuckle your seatbelt at last. Finally freed, you shift your legs until you're sitting on the back of your calves, facing the stunning, devastated man in the driver’s seat.

“하니야, [Hannie],” you say softly, his name a prayer on your lips, your face coming near his.

You raise your hands up to tenderly brush the tears away from the soft tissue right under his eyes. Trembling, your right hand brushes a strand of hair out of his face, then rests on the back of his neck.

Heart threatening to jump out of your chest, you hesitantly move closer, and closer, until your lips gently meet his forehead in a kiss so light, you foolishly wonder if he even feels your lips there at all.

“하니야, 사랑해. [Hannie, I love you.]”

Jeonghan stills immediately. You can feel his hot breath catch against your neck, and you feel a shiver come down your spine.

“I don’t want anyone else. Just you,” you say choppily, each word spilling out before you can think about what you really just said.

When you retreat an inch or two back from his forehead, you can see that he has finally opened his eyes.

“You mean it?” he asks, voice high-pitched in disbelief.

Not trusting your voice, you nod three times.

“Say it again,” he begs, his red-rimmed eyes downturned.

“사랑해, 하니야 [I love you, Hannie]. I tried so hard not to. 내 마음을 접고 다른 사람을 바라보고 싶었어. 싶었는데… [I wanted to let go of my feelings for you and search for someone else. That’s what I wanted, but…]”

Jeonghan inhales sharply. Distressed, his Adam's apple bobs up and down. Your heart aches at the sight of him so exposed, and your thumb moves to rub soothing circles by his collarbone.

You assure him, “근데 그게 진짜 그냥 안 된거야. 도저히 너를 포기할 수 없었어. [But that really just didn’t work. There was no way I could bring myself to give you up.]”

Your fingers close to his neck, you feel Jeonghan’s pulse racing. Trying to help his heart settle down, you press another light kiss to his forehead, cradling the back of his head with your other hand. His breath shudders against your cheek.

“마음이 하니한테 만 끌리니까, 뭐… 포기하려고 노력을 했는데 소용이 없었어. [My heart was only drawn to you, Hannie, and well… no matter how hard I tried to give you up, it was no use.]”

Jeonghan blinks up at you with watery eyes.

“You’re it for me, 하니 [Hannie]. Okay?” Sheepish, you feel a bit embarrassed at having been so honest.

Now that you’ve bared your heart and soul to him, you take the opportunity to really look at him, since you were distracted with telling your part for the past few minutes—and, oh.

His pupils are so dilated, his eyes look almost black. His breathing has slowed down compared to earlier, but his fists are still clenched, like he’s holding something back.

In a low voice, so deep that it wouldn’t have been audible if you weren’t practically pressed against him, Jeonghan finally responds to your confession.

“You love me,” he says hesitantly, like he’s asking to confirm.

The corners up your lip turn up, and he grins. “You love me,” he says again, only louder this time, and then he’s leaning forward into you.

His hands find you first, clinging to your neck and waist sweetly yet firmly, like he’s afraid to let you go now that he finally has you.

When his lips meet yours, you melt into the kiss. His lips are warm, softer than you expected, moving against yours with an aching tenderness. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt as his hands tighten around your waist, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

He tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and a shiver runs down your spine when his thumb brushes along the curve of your jaw. The touch is so careful, so reverent, like he’s memorizing every part of you.

Then, he pulls back just an inch—just enough for his breath to fan across your lips, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes, dark and unreadable, search yours as if needing confirmation.

"You love me? 진심이지? [You’re serious, right?]" His voice is barely above a whisper.

Your chest tightens at the sheer vulnerability in his expression. You cup his cheek, brushing your thumb against his damp skin, and nod. "사랑해, 하니야. [I love you, Hannie.] 진짜, [Really,] I always have."

A sound escapes him—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh of relief—before he leans in again, kissing you with more urgency this time. His hands tangle into your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your neck as he presses you impossibly closer. The kiss is deeper now, more certain. He parts his lips slightly, and you do the same, the heat between you growing into something undeniable.

Your hands wander—one slipping into his hair, the other trailing down his shoulder. He shudders under your touch, and you feel the tension slowly unraveling from his body, like he’s finally letting himself believe this is real.

When you finally part for air, he lets out a shaky laugh, thumb ghosting over your kiss-swollen lips. "You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this," he murmurs, his voice husky.

Your heart swells at the confession. "Actually, I think I do," you whisper back before pulling him into another kiss, this time knowing—without a doubt—that neither of you are going anywhere.

────୨ৎ────

“하니, [Hannie,]” you say, leaning against him on the sofa in your apartment, drawing random shapes on his chest with your right hand. “We should go on a drive again.”

“Mm, a drive?” he says, distracted by his fascination with observing your left hand, holding it like a precious gem.

“Yeah, 바람 좀 새자 [let’s get some air]. A night drive.”

His hands stall, lips curling up at the corners. “Oh, a night drive, huh? 역사적인 거네. [How historic.]”

You bury your face in his chest. “Mmh,” you say to his shirt.

“You know, you said 사랑해 [I love you] to me for the first time on a night drive,” he says casually. His hands let go of your left hand, then make their way to your head, patting your hair gently.

You prop your chin up on his stomach, expecting to see Jeonghan’s pure smile. But instead, he’s smirking at you.

“You wanted me so bad.” He sighs dramatically. “What else could I do, but accept your love?”

You can’t help but smile. “I think you’re misremembering things a little, 하니 [Hannie].”

“Oh, am I?” he gasps, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

If he were anyone else, he’d look stupid feigning ignorance. Fortunately for you, though, he isn’t anyone else—he’s the love of your life, and he makes everything look good.

“Ugh,” you say, eyes shining. “You look dumb, stop it.”

“You love it,” he says cheekily, arms falling from your head to wrap around you in a big hug.

“Mmfph,” you say in response, relishing in the warmth radiating from his body.

“Not denying it, I see,” he says. “Overwhelmed by your love for me, you dove at my poor, innocent self in the car, kissing me all over!”

“Pfft,” you laugh. “No, that was you!”

“No,” Jeonghan pouts.

“I happen to remember a little crybaby confessing first,” you say with an upside down smile, hugging him tighter.

Jeonghan’s eyes look up at the ceiling. “무슨 말인지… [I don’t know what you’re talking about…]”

“야아! [Hey!]” your hand slaps his chest lightly. “나 좀 봐봐, 음? [Look at me, hmm?]”

“싫은데? [Don’t wanna,]” he says, pouting.

“사랑해도 안 볼 거야? 섭섭하네… [Even if I love you, you won’t look at me? I’m sad…]” you huff, burying your face into the sofa pillows instead of Jeonghan’s chest. “하니가 안 사랑해주면 난 갈 거야. [If you don’t love me I’m gonna leave.]”

Jeonghan laughs, “가긴 어딜가, 여기 너네 집이잖아. [Leave? What do you mean, leave? This is your house.]”

Jeonghan hugs you tighter, then suddenly sits up, taking you with him.

“사랑해, [I love you,]” he says earnestly, staring deeply into your eyes, as if he wants to dive into the depths of your iris. Your name leaves his lips fervently, like a prayer.

“사랑해, 하니야, [I love you, Hannie,]” you say back, and you mean it.

Because Yoon Jeonghan is simultaneously the funniest, weirdest, kindest, most devastatingly handsome man you’ve ever met. And he’s yours.

Masterlist

Author's Note: here’s a big literary hug <3

Disclaimer: nothing i write is representative of how svt acts off camera, take their names as stand-ins for oc's!!

Taglist: @syluslittlecrows - @junplusone - @fragmentof-indifference - @junniesoleilkth - @woncheecks - @peachypie97 - @viciousdarlings - @11zzyy

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angelbarelywritesslashers · 4 months ago

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♡ leather and lace | thomas hewitt x reader

♡ fandoms; Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003 + 2006)

♡ characters; Thomas Brown Hewitt

♡ reader; second person pov + gender neutral language- you wear a dress but this is absolutely still for my masc and fellow nb slasher fans too

♡cw; stockholm syndrome ass relationship, very suggestive content, horny reader?? lol

♡ notes; we are so back. maybe sort of, i feel like this might actually suck.

the title is silly and very straightforward but i like stevie nicks and thought it was cute <3

also the vibe of the dress, thin ass sundresses are such a good plot device 😩

also also i wasn’t sure where to end this so it’s kind of a cliffhanger for a potential smutty sequel?? lmk if you even want more tommy ig

okay mwah love you goodbye

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

“It’s kind of big on me,” You told Luda Mae softly, swishing the skirt slightly. The dress hung past your knees and the straps wanted to slip off your shoulders “Ionno if it looks good.”

You felt vulnerable. Naked, in such a thin, loose white gown. You didn’t like that Monty and Hoyt would see you in it. Or…the other one. Thomas. The one that made your cheeks feel hot and your stomach twist in knots. He looked at you like you were food when you’d first encountered him…but now you’d been there a few days, he avoided you, like you made him nervous in one way or another.

“Oh, nonsense, you look lovely. I’m sure Tommy will love it. Besides, I can take it in at the waist if you really need, maybe find you a nice ribbon to go ‘round it.” She pinched the fabric to make it hug your form tighter and you went red.

“I think it’s good like this. But. Um, it’s kind of cool in here. Maybe I can wear a shawl...”

“Don’t you worry about that- you’re going to go outside and get some sun. Tommy has chores to do but I’ve got work. Can’t have you by yourself all day.” She affectionately pinched your cheek.

You gave a soft noise but knew complaint was futile. At least it wasn’t the Sheriff- even Luda wanted you kept far from his leering gaze. You followed her, barefoot in the soft grass until you got to a small clearing. There was a shed, and a barn, and lumber waiting to be chopped.

You thought you’d get out of it as she sat you down, maybe Tommy was busy. Maybe he was looking for coeds to kill somewhere else, and Luda would let you stay in your quiet little room where you could pretend you weren’t a hostage. Heavy footsteps told you were wrong after a long moment.

You twisted a blade of grass in your hands as Luda whispered sternly to him. Something about “stay” and “take” and “sooner rather than later”. You tried not to think about it. The man huffed exasperatedly and his mother swatted him softly before she marched off - his back still to you as she disappeared over the hill. You were grateful he ignored you and yet unnerved by the fact.

Thomas kept his head down, face obstructed by his hair even more than usual as he grabbed a few large branches from the lumber pile and brought them to a sturdy oak stump. Still eyeing him warily you leaned back, naturally on guard but also curious. He was so strong it seemed impossible. He was bulky-obviously- but in the real way lumberjacks and construction workers were with thick arms and a soft stomach. His hair was nice. Dark and thick, and not greasy like you’d expect. You’d been close enough when he’d slung you over his shoulder to tell it was soft. And his hands were huge and calloused - you knew that from way he’d held onto you then, massive palm on your thigh to keep you steady. You had been wearing shorts and…

You gave a soft sigh, not realizing you were still staring at him until his head whipped around at the sound. You felt your ears burn and coughed, looking away. He was down to just an undershirt as he’d started chopping the lumber - ironically using an axe instead of that chainsaw he’d been swinging around a few nights back. “Sorry- I- don’t stop on account of….”

Your voice died in your throat as he walked towards you, stopping barely a foot away. He looked concerned- more so as he knelt and you flinched. God you still couldn’t tell if you wanted him on top of you or a thousand miles away. He brushed your hair back and— you giggled quietly. He was checking your forehead, thinking you were sick.

Thomas scowled a bit at you, sitting back as you looked up at him “I shouldn’t laugh. But that was sweet. I’m not sick- don’t think so, at least.”

He tilted his head at you. He really didn’t talk. That’d make things difficult…at least at first.

“It’s just kind of hot out…plus- um- oh—“ You blinked as his hand brushed the hem of the dress, where you’d just been rubbing your fingers against the lace “…it’s not my usual style. But it’s a pretty dress.”

He grunted and nodded, looking over your body quite shamelessly. In the sunlight you were sure he was able to see much more than considered appropriate. Fuck it, you thought. He was hot, his mama wanted him to like you, and most importantly he could protect you from the Sheriff and whatever weird bullshit was yet to come.

You hummed and shifted to sit back a bit more, taking his hand before he could pull away fully “…you have big hands…I can tell you work with them…but you made your mask right?”

He hesitated, staring at what almost seemed like disbelief at you before slowly nodding. You hummed and touched his cheek, rubbing a thumb on the leather. It was surprisingly soft, and so was his gaze. Whatever he was covering didn’t matter or even really interest you- you just cared you that you could see his chapped lips beneath it.

“…Tommy?” You cooed. He startled but met your eye. “Can I kiss you?”

He gave a swift and silent answer, pressing his lips to yours with a fervor that stole your breath. He was clumsy and rough, but so desperate that you couldn’t help but draw him closer, to give him what he needed. If you were touch starved he was a thousand times so, holding on to you so tight you were afraid your hips might bruise. Afraid was a strong word- you’d proudly wear any mark from that man.

As soon as you’d thought you had some control there he had you, dazed and unkempt straddling his lap. He ran a thumb over your lower lip, admiring your addled state with a contented grunt.

“…we…we should go inside. Your mom might be home soon.”

He shook his head and suddenly pulled you down- not to pin you, but to be held, his face buried your neck and his mask rubbing against your skin. As he toyed with the hem of the dress again you hummed a tune and played with his hair.

“Tommy?”

He looked up.

“…do you think they want us to go steady?”

He hesitated then tapped his left ring finger. You went red as you suddenly realized what he meant- they wanted you to get married.

“Ah…well— how about steady first?”

He nodded quickly and nuzzled your neck again.

“Good. Cuz I think steady would still cover slippin’ into the shed to have more fun before your mama gets home.”

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poetsandqueens · 8 months ago

Text

Hot damn this is a take and I’m so here for it!

i have a theory that most p*tekeys fall into one of the following three categories:

people who are casual fob fans who don't really know any deep lore. just see some memes and shit on the internet and go, "yeah haha geeze pete was down bad! anyways..."

people who just enjoy the ship for funsies and don't actually see it as real person fact. just playing with their dolls in their sandbox minding their business.

people who can't comprehend that pre-h pete wentz would find pre-h patrick stump attractive and that certainly all his yearning must have been for a conventionally attractive skinny guy.

#people in categories 1 and 2 tend to get a pass from me #people in category 3 however...#to put it nicely - fuck you #fall out boy #when I write petekey purely as a plot device so petrick can be end game

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httpknjoon · 3 months ago

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the boy is mine! | myg

plot | that time when rumors about bassist!yoongi went around that popstar!yn cannot really stop herself from addressing it.

w.c | 1.1k

pairing | bass guitarist!yoongi x popstar!reader

genre | enemies to lovers, popstar x bassist

note | slightly angsty, but enjoy!

main masterlist | series masterlist | want to request?

DAY 283: MILAN, ITALY

There is this warmth forming in you, specifically in your face. You tried to ignore it, giving your attention to your phone while you waited for the rehearsals to start.

But in hindsight, you looked irritated, annoyed, and sulking in one corner of the stage. Your left hand is literally gripping on the device while you puffed every minute passes, Everyone around you can feel it, they just won't talk about it while you're still around. Cal, your assistant, has been on her phone since last night to talk with your tour publicist after the news that went around last night. Art stood in front of the band with his arms crossed.

The band members were already in their designated spaces. Akio had her lips pursed as she awkwardly looked back to the rest of the present members. Noah, Fred, and Akio joined in this wordless, eyes-only conversation. Fred shrugged his shoulders. The youngest scratched the back of her head, dumbfounded. Noah sighed, rolling his eyes.

Art spoke again as he pushed back his glasses up his nose, "Where is Yoongi?"

It was only day two after you arrived in Milan from your show in Barcelona when you learned about a piece of news through a fan who saw you while strolling around the city. You just came from a lunch with the other band members except Yoongi, who probably went solo touring around. He didn't really say anything about his itinerary.

"I just have to ask..." the fan who stopped you began after you took a couple of selfies. "Is the rumor true?"

Your eyebrows scrunched together before chuckling, "Hon, I need you to be more specific with the rumor. I have many of them."

The fan embarrassed, laughed before trying not to stutter with her next sentence, "Okay, of course, uhm... Is it true that Yoongi is leaving the tour?"

Your smile almost dropped. There was a brief pause as you still processed the unexpected rumor. But you tried to shield any reaction as you pushed the sunglasses that were covering your eyes.

"Well," you chuckled, more awkward this time as what you just heard was unexpected. "I didn't know that. I'm sure my bassist too. That rumor definitely came from the left field."

You said that sentence like an assurance to yourself even though you have not really talked with Yoongi about that. Hell, you two barely have any serious conversation again. But it didn't feel like he had plans of leaving your band despite being petty and childish around each other most of the time.

The fan went on, "Yoongi was literally seen in Verona yesterday with Kylie."

Every background noise faded for a second. Your throat suddenly felt dry and tight. You feel like clenching your teeth, but you don't want to give any reaction that a fan might notice.

Kylie? Like the pop star, you went head-to-head on for number one on Billboard 200 last year? The one you usually chat with during major music events? She's nice and kind. But why is he with her? In Italy? Are they-

"Girl, let's go."

Thankfully, Noah, who was watching everything happen from your table, got up and tapped on your shoulder. He didn't really hear anything because of the other members talking, but he noticed how your mood shifted. So he knew you need to go.

It was like you were snapped out of your thoughts. You tried to smile at the fan again, maybe too tight, before letting yourself be pulled away by your friend. Fred and Akio followed behind you and Noah, who had his arm clung to yours.

Should I ask Yoongi? Text him? Call him? Fuck, why do I even care? He's my fucking bassist, that's why!

Your brain was swimming in questions and thoughts as you walked on the streets of Milan. But, your head is flying to someone who you heard was in Verona with someone. Noah was obviously trying to distract you as he pulled you from one shop to another. He points to every display you see while talking about how glamorous they are, but you cannot comprehend anything.

"So, what do you think?"

You blinked. Suddenly, you are sitting in front of Noah, who's holding two metal-colored tops, in a boutique. Your eyebrows raised as he waited for you to say something like he asked you something. But you barely registered anything.

"Oh. Uhm... The silver one." you acted like you caught up. But Noah looked at you for a second and shook his head, laughing. Lines formed between your brows, "What?"

"I was asking where should we go after this." He hung the clothes back to the rack before sitting next to you. "What's going on?"

You sighed, looking away before pursing your lips. "Is Yoongi leaving the band?"

For someone who only goes running once a week, Yoongi is still pretty fast with the way he is picking up his pace to get to the stage. He can feel the sweat forming at the edge of his forehead while every staff member who has seen him ever since he arrived quietly stares at him. Their eyes feel heavy on him, but the only reason he can think of is him being extremely late for today's rehearsal.

Yoongi could hear that the rehearsals already started and it was obvious that there was something missing. His chest heaves as he stopped near the entrance to the main stage, where Art and Cal stood.

"Where the hell were you?!"

Unexpectedly, it was Cal who seemed to be more stressed out than her fiance who stood there and simply nodded his chin at him.

"Why were you not in the hotel?!" Cal asked again, more tensed this time.

"I was in another city." Yoongi shortly replied. "I'm really, really sorry. I wasn't able to text, I lost my phone last night when I was with my friend in Ve-"

"Friend? You mean, Kylie?" she cuts him off.

Yoongi, unaware of how your assistant knew, dumbfoundedly nodded his head. He was about to ask but Art finally spoke.

"Just fo inside. We can just talk later."

Yoongi nods, "Okay, thank you. I'm sorry again."

He turned his head down as he made his way inside the arena. It was easy to find you in the center of the stage, lazily dancing while singing. He assumed you were just saving energy for the show later, but when you turned around and saw him. You paused. Your eyes met like magnets and suddenly, it's hard to pull away.

The rehearsal lasted longer than usual due to two main reasons. The first is because of the new changes to your setlist. Second, although no one will say it, it's because of your bassist being an hour late for no reason at all.

When you saw Yoongi standing just below the stage, you automatically stopped. Like you had to make sure that he really came today. Your tensed shoulders dropped slowly as the tightness in your chest loosened. Fuck. It would have been really easy to be mad and confront him in front of everyone right now if only you weren't just so relieved to see him. And if only he hadn't looked hot and sweaty.

You were a bundle of emotions and you felt like a mess. And you didn't like that it's because of the same guy you literally had a fight over water bottles with. He's just standing there, probably dating one of your colleagues, and you're here, having mixed feelings upon seeing him.

"Oh, fuck."

As you are the center of the show, everyone noticed when you stopped moving and decided to stop as well. You were too lost to remember that you have an in-ear microphone just under your lips that caught you cursing very clearly. You gasped as you looked around.

"I-I'm sorry."

Yoongi's eyes widened after you cursed while literally staring at him like he was a ghost. He cannot tell if you were pissed or mad at him when he looked into your eyes, but one thing he can tell. Something switched in you while having quiet eye contact with him.

"Come on!" Noah whispered-shouted at him while Akio signaled him to come up and joined them.

Yoongi nodded and jogged up to the stage and immediately put on his guitar. The rehearsals went on. Yoongi watched you from behind as always, but you never looked at him again. When Yoongi's guitar had an issue, you simply signed with your hand without turning around to him. Avoiding him all over again. He still got to play for an hour before the rehearsals concluded.

"Where were you, man?" Fred was the first to ask while everyone began leaving. Yoongi sees you talk with Cal as you walk out, making his jaw clench as he can feel you actively avoiding him again.

He turned back to his co-members, "I toured around Verona with my old friend-"

"Oh, how long have you been friends with Kylie?" the drummer was quick to ask.

"Huh?" Yoongi's brows scrunched together. "I don't really know her. My old friend is her producer though, he introduced me to her before but we barely talked. Why is everyone asking me about her?"

Yoongi hears a collective gasp from the band. Akio had her hand over her open mouth. Fred looked confused. Noah was quick to recover, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You've literally been in a dating rumor with her since last night," he told him.

Yoongi blinked, confused, "What?"

"Where the hell is your phone? It's everywhere." Akio chimed in.

That's why everyone is staring at me?! There was a sudden realization in Yoongi's head. The weird stares from the staff and Cal's reaction makes more sense.

"I lost it somewhere last night," he replied, still in shock and confusion. And that's why you were avoiding him. "I'm sorry, I need to go talk with YN."

The others didn't even get a chance to respond properly since Yoongi was already running off stage to get to you. He really hates running, but he's been doing it a lot today. But he knows he has to explain himself as soon as possible. He then found you in front of your dressing room, talking with Art about your concerns about the stage. Art notices him quickly and can tell that Yoongi needs something from you, so he wordlessly nods his chin behind you before walking away with Cal.

"Can I help you with anything?"

You tried to act normal because that's what your head is telling you to do. But with all honesty, you felt like your stomach was doing cartwheels over and over again as he stood before you, catching his breath. You wondered why was he breathless.

"Can we talk?" he asked, gulping.

"About what?" you replied unbothered or that was trying to be perceived.

But Yoongi already knows what you are trying to do, so he just went straight to the point. "I am not dating anyone."

A second passed before your right brow raised, "And what do you want me to do about it? Congratulate you?"

Just like your mini, childish banter, you acted sarcastic and you expected Yoongi to maybe fight back. But instead, all you got is him looking at you or maybe your soul. Because you felt like he is reading through you again.

Yoongi knows that you're probably deflecting. You talked about this before, but he wondered if you think he already forgot about it.

"What would you say if I tell you I'm dating someone?" he asked, just out of curiosity, since he knows that you won't really talk seriously with him.

You didn't let his serious tone affect you. You shrugged your shoulders, "Congratulations, I guess."

"Okay." If that is how you want to play this game. Yoongi turned his back.

Getting that unexpected reply, you asked, "What do you mean by that?"

Turning around for the last time, Yoongi shrugged his shoulders, "Okay."

"How's everybody doing tonight?"

In contrast to your mood earlier today and the day before, you asked your fans full of energy and excitement. You were jumping around, dancing, and skipping on stage as you performed your songs along with the band and backup dancers. The fans matched your energy, screaming, even though that is what they have been doing the last hour. You took the time to sip some water and look around the audience and their homemade signs. Your eyes widened as you spotted a particular one.

You put down the water bottle at the edge of the stage before pointing your finger to the fan, "Can I have that?"

The fan excitedly nodded while the others cheered and helped her sign to get to you. One of the guards handed it to you. You immediately pressed the carton sign to your body to hide what was written on it.

"What's your name?" you asked the fan.

She was jumping, "Sammie!"

"Sammie, I think you just made the most relevant sign right now." you chuckled before turning the sign around.

YN PLS MAKE ME UR BASSIST IF YOONGI EVER LEAVES

You posed with it right in front of the camera, making sure that everyone in the arena would see it. Everyone laughed and cheered, including the band members. Yoongi, on the other hand, tries not to show much reaction. But when the camera lands on him, showing him on the big screens, he has a smug smirk on his lips while shaking his head. The arena was filled with cheers when you walked towards him.

"Well, what do you say? Any plans of leaving? Or even moving?" you asked, directly addressing the rumor that played with your emotions since yesterday.

Yoongi, who rarely speaks on stage, shook his head. He leaned closer to your mic, "Never even thought of it."

His voice was deep enough to make you shiver inside. You bite the inside of your cheeks to stop yourself from smiling too hard.

"That's your answer, Sammie. Sorry! Not looking for bassist right now. What's mine is mine, I guess."

note | thank you to the anons who requested this song! <3 this turned more angsty than what I expected haha

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