#ms access forms

[mr-cha-n]

Through the Lens

Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x fem!reader

Genres: Smut, fluff, photographer x model AU

Warnings: Swearing, alcohol, sexual content, penetration, nudity

Word Count: 12.5k

Summary: Six months. Full access. Intimate photos. A glimpse into the world of celebrity. And the last thing Jeon Wonwoo thought he was signing up for.

A/N: Publishing a draft, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

The email arrives at the most inconvenient time, as all important emails do. Wonwoo had spent the entire day at the studio, taking newborn photos of a client’s latest chow chow—"latest" being bolded because this was the third time this year that he’d been called in for this client’s endless stream of puppies. By the time he’d finished, his body was ached raw from awkward angles, and his mind was numb from a six-hour editing marathon. He only managed to drag himself back to his flat after the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, craving the sweet refuge of solitude. 

Alas, he was dragged through a two-hour catch-up session with his flatmate, Mingyu, who, with his never-ending supply of caffeine and chatter, somehow managed to convince him to watch a movie about a guy who falls in love with his childhood friend who is also a ghost. (No, it didn't make sense, but Mingyu enjoyed it, and Wonwoo had long given up trying to follow his logic.)

By the time he collapses onto the couch, half-dead from human interaction, the email is waiting. 

"Subject: Assignment Confirmation: (Y/n) (Y/l/n)."

He groans as he clicks it open, his finger hovering over the delete button, ready to toss the whole thing into the digital void. Then he reads the first line:

"Dear Mr. Jeon, we are pleased to confirm that you have been selected as the official photographer for the upcoming feature on (Y/n) (Y/l/n), world-renowned socialite and philanthropist."

"What in the world..." Wonwoo mutters. He doesn't even really remember submitting his name for this, and he's shocked he'd ever consider it. Wonwoo has long made a mental vow to avoid people like you - socialites, celebrities, influencers - whatever you call them. In the world of photography, they are all the same: walking photo opportunity with zero personality and way too much drama. Perfect for paparazzi, but not something he has time for. 

He's a quiet, detached observer of the world. He doesn't need to be a part of it.

But the email continues:

"We have full confidence in your ability to capture the raw and humanising side of Ms. (Y/l/n), giving our readers an intimate glimpse into her life, both public and private."

Raw? Humanising? Intimate? Which magazine is this again, the National Geographic?

His eyes flicker back up to the top of the email, growing wide as he sees the sender. Well, shit. Opus Magazine. He does remember applying for this, although, in his defence, they hadn't specified the subject of the op-ed when he'd submitted it. 

"We are excited to have you on board for this project, which will span the next six months. Your first shoot is scheduled for next Thursday, at 10 AM, at Ms. (Y/l/n)’s residence. We look forward to seeing how your unique perspective brings this project to life.

Thank you for your time and commitment.

Wonwoo leans back, tilting his head toward the ceiling as if the world would offer him an answer. It doesn’t.

Best regards,

The Editorial Team

Opus Magazine"

In all fairness, he has never actually met you before. But he's seen you everywhere. The perfectly curated Instagram feed. The charity galas. The interviews. The way you seem to be exactly what everyone wants you to be: flawless, effortless, untouchable.

A three-page approval form for every photo, he assumes. 

The door to the living room creaks open. "How are you not asleep yet?" Mingyu says cheerfully, poking his head in. Wonwoo glances at the clock on his screen: 2:43 am. He chooses not to point out that Mingyu's still awake too.

"I've been assigned to photograph (Y/n) (Y/l/n) for the next six months." Wonwoo grumbles, tapping his phone screen as if he could wipe away the whole thing with a swipe.

Mingyu's eyes widen in surprise. "Wait - (Y/n) (Y/l/n)? As in Forbes Under 30 (Y/n) (Y/l/n)?!"

"Yes. That one." Wonwoo replies flatly, eyes narrowing. "Six months. Full access. I'm going to want to die halfway through."

Mingyu looks delighted, clearly missing the gravity of the situation. "Ooh, this is going to be so fun! You're going to be all glamorous and -"

"No. No, I'm not," Wonwoo interrupts. "I'm going to hide behind my camera and take photos of her from so far away that she doesn't even know I'm there."

“Yeah, okay, Mr. Anti-Social. But—” Mingyu plops down beside him, grinning. “—what if she wants to get to know you?"

Wonwoo turns to him, unamused. "It's a professional gig to make her look good; she won't want me digging into her real life."

Mingyu, without missing a beat, grabs a bag of chips and shoves them into Wonwoo’s lap. “Just saying. People don’t come with Instagram models and high-profile gigs attached unless there’s something extra special about them, right? Maybe she’s a hidden gem.”

"Hidden gem?" Wonwoo scoffs. "Or a nightmare in designer shoes."

It doesn’t take long for Mingyu to bombard him with unsolicited advice. “... here’s my tip for you. Don’t just take boring photos. You know what’s going to make her stand out in the sea of perfect socialite portraits?” He paused dramatically. “Unfiltered moments. Catch her when she’s off guard. Capture her when she doesn’t know she’s being watched.”

Wonwoo shoots him a deadpan look. “What, you mean like stalking her?”

“I prefer the term artistic observation,” Mingyu replies, grinning mischievously. “Trust me. You’re going to fall in love with her vulnerability. You know, the real her. The one she hides behind all the glam.”

Wonwoo shakes his head, already regretting this conversation. He’s not even met you, and here Mingyu was, crafting an entire narrative of undiscovered depth based on nothing but a couple of well-lit photos.

Still, his finger hovers over the accept button. 

Six months. Full access. Intimate photos.

Maybe he should just ... get on with it.

Wonwoo hasn't actually met you yet and he's already regretting his decision. 

He's spent the past week alternating between panicking and ignoring the dozens of emails for your team, each one more frantic than the last. First, they sent a detailed itinerary of the shoot, followed by an even more detailed list of instructions on what he should wear, when to arrive, and what colour lens he should use for "optimal lighting" - as if he didn’t know how to work a camera by now.

9:00 AM, Inbox:

“Subject: URGENT: RE: Ms. (Y/l/n)’s Preferences for the Day”

“Good morning, Mr. Jeon,

I hope you're prepared for today’s shoot! Please note that Ms. (Y/l/n) prefers a soft light filter on all images, especially when she’s not directly posing. We’ve attached a sample of how she likes her candid photos to look (it’s very specific). Do ensure that you have the required lens, and if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to reach out.

Wonwoo stares at the email for a moment, blinking. Soft light filter? Do you breathe, or do you simply exist in a perpetual soft-focus glow? His finger hovers over the "delete" button, but he refrains. He already knows this is a battle he’s not going to win.

Best,

Assistant to Ms. (Y/l/n)’s PR Team.”

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to get up. He throws on his jacket, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him worse than when he submitted his final portfolio at college, and the project hasn't even begun yet. There's no escaping now. He has to do it - he's been hired for this. Paid for it, too, which means he's legally obliged to at least try.

He arrives at the shoot location just before 10 AM: a sprawling, minimalist mansion that looks like it's been pulled from the pages of an interior design magazine. It's sleek, modern, and incredibly intimidating. The atmosphere is slick with an 'unapproachable luxury' vibe, and Wonwoo can already feel the tension in his shoulders as he steps out of his car. 

A member of the PR team greets him immediately, smiling far too brightly for someone who's probably already been working since 5 AM. "Mr. Jeon! So glad you could make it. Please follow me inside, Ms. (Y/l/n) is just getting ready.”

Wonwoo nods, trying to maintain the calm he doesn't really feel, muttering a "thank you" in response.

Inside, everything is sleek and spotless - nothing out of place, nothing too personal. Like no one's ever lived here. He's brought to a sitting room where the lighting is admittedly perfect. Almost too perfect. He's not used to working in these conditions. He's used to having to fix things last minute, create something out of nothing, or use the imperfections to his advantage. A soft hum of quiet chatter fills the air, and a stylist is busy adjusting something behind the curtain.

He doesn't know what he's expecting as you walk out. Maybe someone a little more ordinary, a little less polished than the figure seen in magazines. He's worked with models before, and they've always been so normal outside of shoots. But when you step into the light, it's like the room takes a collective breath. You're impossibly beautiful, even he can admit that, in that "perfectly put together, but effortless charming" way. Your smile hits him like a tidal wave, all dazzling teeth and liquid confidence, and for a split second, he forgets why he's here. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but what comes out is a dry, “Hello.”

You tilt your head slightly, looking him up and down with eyes that seem to see everything. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Jeon,” you say, your voice smooth, almost teasing.

Wonwoo feels a flutter of unease in his chest, though he’s not sure why. It’s not like he hasn’t worked with famous people before, and yet something about you—something about the way you look at him—feels like an interrogation.

“Ah, well,” he stammers for a second, clearing his throat, “I… I hope it’s all positive.”

The smile on your lips doesn’t waver, but there’s something almost too sharp about it. The kind of smile that’s practised, like you’ve been wearing it since you were a child in front of mirrors, learning the exact angle for maximum charm.

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve got quite the reputation,” you say, as if it’s an afterthought. “They told me you’d be professional.”

Professional. Right. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s always professional, no matter how much he wants to roll his eyes at the utter insanity of the situation. 

He offers a stiff nod. “Good. That’s what I’m here for.”

You smile again, but this time it’s softer. There's a flicker of something in your eyes, almost like amusement, but also curiosity. For a moment, Wonwoo wonders if he's just a novelty to you, something to poke at for fun. Or maybe you think you’re the novelty here, and he's just another player in the game you're used to winning. Either way, he can feel the weight of that gaze, and it’s not entirely comfortable.

You take a step closer, and Wonwoo resists the urge to take a step back. It’s like you have this gravitational pull—magnetic, impossible to ignore. But he’s not going to let that faze him. His eyes stay focused on your face, trying not to let your presence throw him off his game.

“So,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “what’s your plan for today? I’m assuming I’m not just going to stand here all day and look pretty?”

It's a light question, but he can hear the expectation in your voice. He’s used to people expecting things. It’s just—well, usually, it’s an email with 10 bullet points, not an interrogation delivered with a smile.

“I’ll take a few shots first,” Wonwoo replies, keeping his tone neutral. “Get the feel of the lighting. Then we’ll see if we need anything more posed.”

You nod, and decide the conversation is over, floating back over to the set.

Wonwoo lifts his camera, adjusting the settings to give himself a moment to settle down.

You stand still, not quite posing, but perfectly aware of your body. Everything about you seems calculated. Even your fingers, relaxed at your sides, seem to fall into the right positions at just the right time. It’s strange, though, because you’re not the robotic kind of poised he’s used to. There's a subtle looseness to you, a humanity that he doesn't expect.

“How does this work?” you say after a beat. “You just take my picture and call it a day?”

Wonwoo focuses on adjusting the lens, trying to suppress the slight frustration that’s bubbling up. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to take your picture. All he wants is to get the job done and move on.

But instead, he clicks the shutter. One, two, three shots in rapid succession. The light catches your face in a way that’s almost too good to be real, too perfect for anyone to be this unfailingly photogenic.

“Relax,” he mutters more to himself than to you. “Just act natural.”

You tilt your head again, this time a little more playfully. “Natural?” You raise an eyebrow, a soft chuckle escaping you. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten what that is.”

Wonwoo’s finger freezes over the shutter, and he looks at you again, the barest hint of annoyance tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I’m sure you can manage."

You laugh then, a light, almost mythical sound, and for a moment, the tension in the room eases just enough for Wonwoo to breathe. “I’ll try. But no promises.”

He clicks another shot, and for the first time, something in his chest loosens. It’s not much—just a tiny shift—but it’s there. You’re... interesting.

“Tell me, Mr. Jeon,” you ask, your voice low. "I'm intrigued as to why you decided to do this shoot. What's your opinion on people like me?"

Wonwoo lowers the camera, the question catching him off guard. “What do you mean?”

You shrug, your gaze flicking toward the window, your expression momentarily unreadable. “People who live in the public eye. People who everyone thinks they know, but don’t. What’s your opinion on that?”

“People like you don’t need opinions,” he says, his voice flat, “because you already know how everyone feels about you.”

He’s being sharp. Cold, even. And he knows it. But he can’t help himself. This isn’t the first time he’s worked with someone who expects the world to revolve around them. It’s what they do. It’s why he keeps his distance.

You don’t react immediately. You just stare at him for a moment, your expression unreadable.

For a split second, he wonders if he’s crossed a line. But then your lips twitch, just the slightest hint of a smile.

“Well,” you finally say, your tone warm but still guarded, “I suppose that’s one way to see it.”

Wonwoo wants to say something else, maybe something witty or sarcastic, but he stops himself. Instead, he lifts the camera again, focusing on the next shot.

No matter how much he tries to bury it, Wonwoo can’t help but feel... a little intrigued by you.

Just a little.

The second shoot is at your apartment. 

Wonwoo had been floored when he'd found out - although the spotless nature of the first home had kind of given away that it wasn't actually yours. More than that, the fact that he, despite meaning to have creative control over the project, wasn't told that the purpose of the first shoot was to show a contrast between how people thought you lived and how you actually lived. Seemed like something he should have a say in.

As he arrives, the reality is different to what he'd imagined, and the opposite of the slick, minimalist mansion. 

Your apartment is, in a word, alive. The first thing that hits him is the colour. Bright hues of teal and mustard yellow leap off the walls, the kind of vibrant tones that feel like they belong in a 70s sitcom. The entire place seems to be a throwback to a cooler, bygone era, as if time itself was gently bent to live in this space. Mid-century modern furniture clashes with bold retro patterns—geometric prints, zigzags, and polka dots galore. 

The space is wide and open, but it’s not the sterile kind of open that’s all white walls and cold metal. No, this is a living, breathing room that demands attention with its quirk and charm. He prefers it.

The walls are covered in vintage posters from concerts, movies, and random ads from the 60s and 70s—faded, but still full of energy. One poster catches his eye in particular: it’s a photograph of an old jazz band in action, the colours almost washed out but still vibrant in their intensity. He notices that it’s not framed, just tacked on with mismatched pins as though it was thrown up without a second thought. It’s a detail that makes him think you probably chose it on a whim.

At the far side of the room, there's a vintage bar cart—wooden, with brass accents, stocked with various bottles and a large glass decanter that catches the light as though it’s waiting for its next cocktail to be poured. A small but proud collection of classic board games, with bright, cheerful colours that look like they belong on a childhood shelf, sits close next door. 

Despite the space being filled with vintage charm, there’s a kind of organised chaos to it all. The floor might have an old rug with faded patterns that don't quite match the couch, and the coffee table—half-full of magazines, books, and a stray mug—couldn’t be called tidy, but it’s the kind of mess that makes the space feel lived-in.

The thought makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

You lead him inside, wearing a loose, earthy sweater and faded denim jeans, a marked contrast to the polished image he’s gotten used to seeing in magazines. You still look beautiful, but comfortable. Not model-perfect. 

“You can set up wherever you’d like,” you say casually. Your voice is warm, and easy-going in a way that’s almost disarming.

Looking around, he realises for the first time that none of your team is here. And, weirdly, it unsettles him.

He finds himself pausing for a moment when he notices a worn book sitting on the coffee table, the edges curled with time. He’s always had a soft spot for books, the way their covers could tell so much about the person who owned them. And that book? It’s clearly one you’ve read over and over.

His fingers hover over his camera lens for a moment, and before he can stop himself, he mutters, “You read a lot?”

You glance over, surprised. “Hmm?”

“The book.” He gestures vaguely, “It looks well-loved.”

You laugh softly, a short, pleasant sound that makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t fully understand. “Oh, that? It’s nothing, really. Just something I found at a little bookstore in Paris. I’ve read it a million times, but... sometimes, it feels like you can always find something new in the pages, you know?”

Wonwoo opens his mouth, but no words come out. It's almost spinning his head around - the way that you're mixing together something so casual like a well-worn book with the detail that you got it in Paris. There's this weird grating of human and celebrity that he doesn't know how to deal with.

You seem to notice the shift in his gaze, your smile becoming a little softer. But instead of explaining more, you walk over to the window and lean against the frame, glancing outside. “So, how do you want to do this today?” you ask, clearly trying to get back on track.

Wonwoo nods, snapping himself back into work mode. “Let’s start with some natural shots,” he says briskly, pointing to the light streaming in through the window. “You can stay by the window, maybe. I’ll catch the light.”

You agree without hesitation, sitting down on the frame. 

The shots begin. You sit, your eyes thoughtful but distant, as if lost in some thought. He clicks the shutter a few times, and the room is silent except for the rhythmic sound of the camera.

The more he shoots, the more he finds himself paying attention to the small things. The way you absentmindedly twirl a lock of hair between your fingers. The way your posture softens after a few minutes, like you’re forgetting he’s there, and yet still poised.

The next shot clicks, and you look up at him, catching his eye. 

“Is that good?” you ask, breaking the silence.

He swallows, feeling a slight tension in his throat that wasn’t there before. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s perfect.”

The words come out without thinking, and he can feel his cheeks flush slightly at the sincerity with which he says them. He's fiddling with his camera settings again, trying to adjust the light for the shot, as you sidle over to the small vintage record player near the window. The soft crackling sound of a jazz record fills the air. 

He doesn’t expect it when you suddenly speak, your voice soft but with an underlying curiosity.

“So,” you say, not turning around, your fingers gently tapping against the edge of the record player, “I’ve been wondering… you’ve been pretty quiet this whole time. Not like the others. Why is that?”

Wonwoo glances up, caught off guard. “What do you mean?” He doesn’t look at you directly, still adjusting the focus on the lens, anything to avoid eye contact.

“I mean,” you laugh lightly, spinning the record player’s dial, “everyone else I work with is always talking. About work, about their lives, about whatever’s trending—people like to talk, especially when they’re nervous. You’re the only one who hasn’t said much about anything.”

There’s an open quality in your tone, no judgment, no pressure, just curiosity. And for some reason, that makes him feel even more exposed than if you had pried into his personal life directly.

“I guess I’m not a fan of small talk,” Wonwoo mutters, setting the camera down a little too abruptly, feeling a tightness in his chest. “I don’t really need to fill the silence.”

You turn to face him then, and for the first time, he notices how unguarded your expression is. There’s no fake smile or calculated pose—just an interested look.

"I get that," you say, your voice now quieter, almost thoughtful. "But... do you ever feel like you miss out? I mean, silence is... great, but it’s also really lonely sometimes, isn’t it?"

"Not really,” he says, not meeting your gaze. “I’m fine with being on my own. I’ve always preferred it.”

You tilt your head, studying him with an intensity that makes him shift uncomfortably. "You know," you say, taking a step toward him, your voice soft but deliberate, "I always thought I’d be fine alone too. It's funny how we get so used to being surrounded by people, by noise, by the ‘right’ kind of company—when, in the end, it’s really the silence that’s the most honest."

Your words sink into him, a little unexpected, a little disorienting. There's a weight to them—like you’ve really thought about this. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, his voice less guarded, almost teasing, but there’s an edge of curiosity there too.

You pause for a beat, a soft smile playing on your lips. There's something mischievous in the way your eyes twinkle. "Well," you begin, you're voice light, "what I mean is that maybe the real stuff gets lost when you get too good at hiding behind the quiet."

He raises an eyebrow, but before he can reply, you finish with a playful, almost theatric sigh: "Or maybe I'm just trying to get you to talk. You know, because I certainly don't want to be the only one in the spotlight in this room. It's exhausting, really."

He can't help it—he laughs. A quiet, breathy sound, but it’s real. Something about the absurdity of it all. Something about the way you deflect it all with that charming, nonchalant smile.

"You're a work in progress," you grin wider, eyes narrowing. "But I'm going to crack you open."

Wonwoo is still chuckling, a disbelieving snort of laughter he can't hide. He leans back in his chair, running his hand through his hair as he studies you with a wry smile. "Yeah, well, I’m not sure I’m the one who needs cracking open," he says, his tone half teasing, half resigned, as if he’s already lost the battle.

You pause for a moment, surprised that you've actually got him joining in on your jokes. But you don't press. Instead, you give him a sideways grin and lounge out over your statement, mustard couch. "Tell me, Mr Jeon - do you still think your opinion of me doesn't matter? Should I go back to hiding behind the perfect image for you to capture what everyone else already thinks of me?"

Wonwoo chuckles, shaking his head. He can’t deny that something about you has started to chip away at his carefully cultivated indifference. "I don’t think you could ever hide, even if you tried."

The jazz record continues to hum in the background, and Wonwoo starts to wonder if he's finally found something worth shooting beyond the lens. 

When he makes it back home, the camera bag feels heavier than usual, and the moment he closes his front door, he's hit when the familiar sense of quiet. 

He dumps the camera bag on the kitchen counter and heads straight for his desk, flipping open his laptop with the enthusiasm of someone who’s about to dive into hours of editing. The usual dread of looking through the pictures fades as he opens the files. He didn’t think he’d be so invested in this shoot, especially not with you, of all people. But the truth is, the moment he starts scrolling through the shots, he’s a little bit stunned.

There are candid moments of you, captured so naturally. Your hair falls in your face as you laugh at something he barely remembers, the light coming in through the window bathing you in that soft golden glow like you were born for this. The quiet, unguarded moments—your fingers absentmindedly tapping against the coffee table, your eyes softened with a thought he’ll never fully know.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the shot where you’re sitting by the window, gazing out at the street, completely oblivious to the lens. It’s raw. And weirdly, it’s beautiful in a way he didn’t anticipate.

With a sigh, he leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair.

And damn it, now he’s got to figure out how to keep it professional when all he wants to do is scroll back through these photos of you for the next few hours.

He grabs his coffee again, takes another sip, and mutters under his breath, "What’s the point of professionalism, anyway?"

Wonwoo is not thrilled about attending the gala. In fact, he's pretty sure if he could just get lost in the crowd and pretend he's not there, he would. But, alas, work. He's there, standing awkwardly by the hors d'oeuvres table, holding the camera like it's a shield. The entire place is dripping in opulence - golden chandeliers, champagne towers, and a sea of glittering gowns and tuxedos so shiny they could be mistaken for mirrors.  It's the kind of event where everyone’s either a billionaire or pretending to be one.

And then, of course, there’s you.

You move through the room like you've got a personal spotlight, laughing with people he's never heard of, shaking hands with people he has. The dress you're wearing is stunning, too, naturally - deep emerald green, with a neckline just high enough to make it look elegant but low enough to make him briefly question his entire career as a photographer. He should be focused on the job. But you're flashing that perfect smile, chatting with rich old men and influencers alike, completely different from the version of you he saw in your apartment just a week ago, laughing over a worn book.

He watches you interact with the other guests, a dance of small talk, well-placed compliments, and calculated interest, and suddenly, he feels like he’s been shrunk down to the size of a cockroach. If someone took a photo of him, An intruder in your world would be the title. The camera, which he thought would make him feel a little less out of place, feels heavy in his hands, as though it might give away the fact that he’s just not meant to be here.

You glance in his direction, catching his eye from across the room. He freezes. He can almost hear you sighing internally before you offer a small, knowing smile.

"Mr. Jeon!" Your voice floats toward him over the clink of glasses and high-pitched laughter. "How are we doing? Getting some good shots?"

He stares at you, blinking. You’re asking him in that casual, sweet tone that’s just different from your “public persona” voice. It’s like a crack in the glass, and he suddenly feels... disoriented. The contrast is so stark that for a second, he forgets how to respond.

"Uh—yeah, I mean, everything’s fine," he stammers, adjusting the camera lens like it might offer him some sort of escape from his discomfort. "Just, you know. Capturing the glamour." He motions vaguely at the glittering scene around him, feeling more awkward by the second. His fingers hover over the shutter button, but they hesitate.

You laugh, a polite, rehearsed sound. "Ah, yes. Glamour. The thing I do so well." You flash him a smile that could melt diamonds and suddenly he feels like he’s about two seconds away from accidentally snapping a picture of his own nervous breakdown.

The silence between you stretches just long enough for him to feel like the entire room is waiting for him to speak. He clears his throat. "It’s... different, isn’t it? Here?"

You tilt your head slightly, raising an eyebrow, as if trying to gauge whether he’s joking or not. "Different?" You laugh again, but this time it’s more self-deprecating. "I guess. But it’s what I’m used to. The lights, the faces. I mean, it’s all a bit much sometimes, but..." You trail off, and for a second, it feels like you're letting something slip.

But then someone else approaches you, pulling you into a conversation about some charity auction or art gala (he stops paying attention, realising he’s been trying to capture your attention too long), and just like that, the moment is over. You slip right back into the role, offering another perfect smile, your body language straightening, as if you’re suddenly filled with all the energy you didn’t seem to have a second ago.

The space feels suffocating all of a sudden, and Wonwoo wonders if he should have stayed home, maybe edited a few more of those photos, or gone for a walk—anything to avoid being a part of this gilded zoo. He looks through the lens, catching another shot of you laughing with an older gentleman, your hand resting lightly on his arm. 

A loud crash breaks through the air.

Wonwoo's head snaps in the direction of the sound, instinctively lifting the camera as if it's somehow going to make sense of the situation. 

He spots a waiter, wide-eyed and mortified, standing frozen next to a toppled champagne tower. Glasses are shattered everywhere, a sea of bubbly liquid spilling across the pristine white carpet like some kind of modern art installation.

The room falls into a hushed silence.

He can feel the collective tension, the people who’d been laughing and chatting a second ago suddenly stiffening in disapproval. Someone gasps—probably just for dramatic effect—but the truth is, everyone’s too rich, too important to react with anything other than mild disdain. A few uncomfortable glances are exchanged, and one of the older men starts muttering under his breath, his hands clutching his glass like it’s a lifeline.

And then, like someone flipping a switch, you’re there.

You glide through the crowd with a purposeful ease that makes everything else fade into the background. People part for you as though they know exactly what you’re about to do. The smile that had been plastered on your face during the earlier conversation is gone, replaced with a soft, serious expression, one that’s sharp in its concern.

"Excuse me," you say, your voice suddenly commanding but not unkind. Wonwoo can tell the waiter is waiting for the blowout, the yelling, the anger - but it's not there.

"It's alright, don't worry. It's just a few glasses. Are you hurt?"

The waiter shakes his head, and you kneel down beside him to start gathering up the broken shards of glass with careful motion. "Let me help, then."

The people around you are still hesitant, staring awkwardly, unsure whether they should step in or just stand back and pretend like nothing's happening. But you’re focused on the task at hand, moving with precision, completely unaffected by the sea of disapproving looks that surround you.

Wonwoo finds himself frozen again, his camera half-raised. His finger hesitates on the shutter button, unsure if he should capture the moment. You don’t seem to care about the image you're creating, not in the way you do for the cameras. Here, you’re just someone helping out, unbothered by the chaos unfolding around you. 

After you finish clearing up the last of the glass, you stand up and dust your hands off, flashing a quick smile to the waiter, who looks completely relieved. You stand tall, taking in the now-silent room with a playful glint in your eye.

“Well," you say, wiping your hands on your dress, "I always knew I was good at breaking the ice, but I didn’t think it’d be literal this time."

The room goes quiet for a beat, and then, just like that, a few people start to chuckle. Someone claps lightly, another offers a small cheer, and the tension evaporates into a burst of laughter.

You throw your hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, don’t all applaud at once. Just trying to keep things interesting around here."

With that, the conversation picks up again. The guests move, shift, and suddenly, the night feels like it’s back in motion. Wonwoo watches from a distance, surprised at how quickly the entire atmosphere shifted. You just defused the room with a smile and a joke, as if it had all been part of the plan.

"Hey," you're walking up to him, stepping into his personal space as the final whirlwind of flashing cameras wraps up an evening of too many glasses of champagne and handshakes that feel more like a chore than a greeting. "What are you doing after this?"

Wonwoo looks up, startled. "Uh, I… well, I was just going to head back. Got a few edits to finish up," he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck.

You tilt your head, studying him with a slight grin. "That sounds like fun," you tease. "But I’m guessing it’s not exactly going to be a good time."

He pauses, feeling almost embarrassed for a moment, before shrugging. "I guess I could skip it."

A small beat of silence passes between you, and then you speak again, quieter this time. "You know," you start, your voice softer than before, "if you don’t have anything better to do... I’d, uh, actually kind of like to go out. No fancy people, no cameras. Just… I don't know, something normal."

Wonwoo looks at you for a beat, wondering if you're asking him to go with him, as the corners of his lips twitch upwards. "You mean no red carpets and champagne?"

You laugh, soft and genuine. "Exactly," you say, your voice laced with a touch of vulnerability. "Just, you know, being normal for once."

The way you say "normal" almost makes it sound like a forbidden word in your world, and Wonwoo feels a flicker of something.

"I’m in," he says, the words slipping out before he can think too much about them.

You give him a small, almost shy smile. "Alright. You follow me."

It’s an hour later, and you’re driving through the city, the sound of the tyres on the road mixing with the faint hum of the radio. You didn’t tell him where you were going, just that it was "something fun." Wonwoo’s pretty sure you’ve never driven anywhere that didn’t require a driver, but here you are—on a small, crowded street near the heart of the city, pulling up to a diner with neon lights flickering like they haven’t been replaced in a decade.

"This place?" Wonwoo asks, looking out the window at the 24/7 diner with its retro sign and low-key vibe.

"Yep. We said normal, right? Well, this is as normal as it gets."

He raises an eyebrow, but before he can protest, you’re already getting out of the car, leaving him no choice but to follow.

Inside, it’s a whole different world. The diner smells faintly of coffee and fried food, and the clink of mugs and chatter of a few late-night patrons makes the place feel strangely cosy. There’s a jukebox in the corner, and despite the place being stuck in a time warp, you both sit down at a booth, the vinyl seats creaking under you as you slide in.

You both sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the normal kind of silence that feels more like breathing than awkwardness. And then, finally, you speak.

"You want to know something crazy?" You say, looking down at the menu, though you made it clear in the car that you've already memorised it. 

Wonwoo looks up, his brow furrowing slightly as he nods.

"This is probably the first time in a while I haven't felt like I have to perform. Which is, actually, crazy. Because I'm hanging out with a professional photographer who's being paid to capture every moment of my life." You let out a disbelieving scoff, your lips curling into a grimace-like smile.

"I get that," he replies, his voice softer than he expects. "It's different for me too. I'm not sure I remember the last time I spoke to any of my friends, other than my flatmate, who insists that we have a catch-up meeting every day."

You chuckle, the crinkles of your smile flattening out. 

The waitress arrives, interrupting for a moment, and you order a milkshake without hesitation. He orders something random, revelling in the thrill of not thinking too much about anything.

"I get lonely sometimes," you say after your order arrives, so quietly that Wonwoo almost misses it. "I know it’s weird, I mean, people are always around me. But it’s like... they don’t really see me. They only see the version of me they expect."

He's not sure if you're still tipsy, although the rosy flush of your cheeks suggests so, or if you now feel very comfortable with him. 

Wonwoo isn’t sure what to say, so he just lets the silence settle for a moment, letting your words hang in the air like a soft echo.

"You know," he says after a beat, his voice lighter than before, "I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who can juggle both a charity gala and a diner milkshake at 3 AM with such grace."

You snort, blowing bubbles into the drink that leave splashes of pink liquid sizzling on the diner table. The sight is enough to set Wonwoo off too, laughter spilling out of him in a way that's only possible in the early hours of the morning. 

"I should take a photo of that," he chuckles as you give him a large grin, the straw still sticking out of your teeth as you mop up the spilt drink. 

But he doesn't. Doesn't even think to take his camera out of its bag. 

Instead, he just watches you—really watches you—for the first time tonight, as you sit there, messy and unapologetic, with your eyes twinkling. And you're not the person everyone in the ballroom thought you were. 

"Maybe we should do this more often," you say, your voice unexpectedly soft as you look up at him. 

Wonwoo nods, the corner of his mouth curving up in the smallest of smiles. "Yeah. Maybe we should."

You've taken a surprising interest in Wonwoo’s regular work. Since you got him to admit that this project wasn’t really his usual gig, you've made it your personal mission to dig deeper. 70% of your questions have revolved around what he actually enjoys doing, the kind of work that doesn’t come with velvet ropes or high society guests. It’s a little like watching a puzzle slowly get pieced together—a mixture of curiosity and the way you just can't let go of something that intrigues you.

So, when you mention, "I think it's only fair you show me what you usually do," it’s not entirely out of the blue.

"Alight, alright," Wonwoo mutters, realising that he owes it to you to let you peek inside his world too. "But don't expect anything glamorous. Magazine spreads don't feature heavily."

Your eyebrows shoot up in an exaggerated gasp that has him rolling his eyes. "I'm not expecting you to change into a suit and tie, if that's what you're worried about." You grin. "but if you do, I'll totally snap some behind-the-scenes shots."

"Don't get any ideas," he mutters, but there's a soft laugh behind his words. 

You look like an archaeologist discovering ancient treasures as you step into the studio, and Wonwoo has to resist the urge to photograph the look on your face. He wasn't lying when he said it wasn't much, but it's quieter than the outside world, which is just the way Wonwoo likes it. The walls are lined with a few scattered prints, some framed, others just leaning against the wall, like they’ve been left to gather dust for the sake of catching a different light. The easel in the corner holds the remnants of his last attempt to paint, the workbench cluttered with film rolls, empty coffee cups, and a few stray brushes.

You pause in the doorway, taking it all in.

"So," you begin, "where's the real deal? Show me your favourites."

He shrugs and walks over to a table filled with various photo equipment, adjusting his glasses as he picks up a roll of film. "I’m not sure what you’d consider my 'thing,' but I mostly shoot for personal projects. I like experimental work. I mean..." He looks over at you, and for a second, there's a flicker of something more, something deeper. "I like showing things that don't get seen. Telling stories that don’t get told."

You step further into the room, your curiosity piqued. "The more I learn, the more I marvel at the fact that you chose to do photograph me," you tease. 

He looks back at you, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "It's good to try new things sometimes. And, well ... I'm not so sure you're story has been entirely captured yet."

He pulls a print down from a shelf, careful with the edges, and walks over to where you're sitting. "This," he says, sitting next to you, "is one of my newer pieces. It’s… different from the usual stuff I shoot. It’s a little raw, a little wild."

The picture is a little hard to make out - a blur of colours and light, like a dream caught in motion. There's an image of a figure - slightly distorted and bathed in neon blue and orange, wrapped in streaks of light that seem to bend and curve in ways that don't make sense. It almost looks like the figure is dissolving into the frame itself, as though they’re becoming part of the world rather than a separate subject within it.

"It’s a long exposure," he continues, "but I played with the focus to distort things more than I usually do. You can see the movement in it—like the person isn’t static. They’re not just there. They’re changing. Becoming."

You tilt your head, your gaze flickering back and forth as you try to make sense of the image.

"It’s unsettling," you say softly, more to yourself than to him.

Wonwoo nods, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "That’s what I like about it. People always expect something clear, something neat when they look at photos. But sometimes, the chaos is what’s real. The blur, the overlap of light, it’s how I see things."

"It’s like… you know when you try to hold onto a moment, but it keeps slipping away? That’s what this is. The image is still, but everything around it keeps moving. It doesn’t stay still, no matter how much you want it to."

You reach out, fingertips brushing the edge of the frame, tracing the glowing streaks of light. "It’s almost like you’re trying to capture the space between things."

He pauses, eyes flickering to yours as if reading your expression. "It’s like that with people, too, right? You think you know them, but then they change. Or maybe you change. And all of a sudden, you’re looking at them and wondering who they really are. Who they were. Who they’re becoming."

You’re silent for a moment, but your gaze hasn't left his and it's piercing into him with all of the unspoken words.

And then you're eyes snap to something behind him, and he feels a little empty in the void of your gaze. A small smile slips across your lips. And you're gone, moving quickly out of your seat to get a closer look at whatever has pulled you away from him.

Wonwoo's head swivels around, like if he loses sight of you, you'll disappear. 

"Now, this is unexpected."

Your voice is laced with that mischievous tone, and it snaps Wonwoo back into reality, his gaze darting to where you're now standing, eyes fixated on the shelf behind him.

He feels his cheeks heat up before he even registers why. The camera equipment on the shelf, partially obscured by a few stray photo albums, is a large, well-worn camera with an impressive lens. But it’s not the camera that’s got your attention—it’s the stack of photos beside it.

He swallows. "Oh, those. They're… um, just some old shoots,” he mutters, reaching for the pile as quickly as he can.

But you're already stepping closer, your grin widening as you grab one from the top of the stack. Your eyes light up as you hold it up, and it’s immediately clear why you’re grinning. 

The photo is a high-end fashion shot, one of those artsy ones. It features a model—clad in nothing but strategically placed shadows and some very expensive body paint, in what can only be described as sultry poses. The subject's entire form is captured with the kind of grace and sensuality you normally associate with glossy magazines and high-end ads.

You raise an eyebrow. “So… this is what you’re hiding in here?”

Wonwoo, face flushed to a shade of pink that doesn’t belong anywhere near a professional photographer, clears his throat awkwardly. “It’s not what you think. It was a concept shoot. A long time ago. For... art.”

“Art.” You repeat the word slowly, like you're savouring it. “A concept shoot. Right.” You peer closer at the picture, almost squinting like you’re studying the fine details. “Well, I have to say, I didn’t expect you to have such a niche portfolio.”

He snatches the photo from your hands, but you’re quicker than him, leaning in just a little too close for comfort. "Come on, don't be shy. I'm sure these shots went for a pretty penny. You should be proud of them."

 “It was a collaboration with a friend. We were experimenting with lighting and shadows. It wasn’t meant to be, like, that kind of shoot.”

You tilt your head and flash him a teasing smile. "Right. I'm sure it was all very tasteful."

“Stop it,” Wonwoo says, his voice a little more high-pitched than usual. He starts sorting through the other photos quickly, trying to hide the embarrassing ones. “There were plenty of clothes involved, okay? I mean, mostly clothed. Sometimes there weren’t.”

You laugh—genuine and loud—and Wonwoo has never felt more like a teenager caught in a lie.

"Don’t worry." You lean back casually, looking him up and down. “I’m not judging. Everyone needs a little fun with their camera work. Besides, I bet your models really appreciated your... attention to detail.”

“Oh my God, stop," he groans, hands covering his face.

"Oh, I know!" You jump up, the wideness of your grin setting of alarm bells in his head. Your body contorts into a lewd pose he's sure is captured in one of the photos. "Maybe you could shoot me like one of your French girls."

Wonwoo's brain is split in half between wanting to laugh at your stupid joke, and trying to stop his mind from digging any deeper into the way you look right now. He's never been more thankful for someone laughing so hard at their own joke that it gives him the time to remember to laugh too.

"Okay, okay, seriously though." You say, your words punctuated with breathy laughs. "I'd like to do a shoot in your style. Even if you don't use it for the feature, I'd like to have them - a little memory of the project."

He’s not sure what to make of it—after all, he’s never shot anything like that with someone like you. It’s one thing to let a stranger model for his more experimental projects, but someone who’s become... well, important to him? That complicates things.

You seem to sense his hesitation, so you quickly soften your expression, dropping the teasing tone. “I mean, no pressure. You don’t have to,” you add, but your smile stays. “I just think it would be fun, you know? Something a little out of the ordinary.”

He shifts on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to think of a way to deflect without sounding awkward.  But then, he catches the way you’re looking at him—expectant, yet light-hearted. And he knows there’s no way he can say no. And the idea of capturing you in his world - through his lens - is far too appealing.

"Alright," he finally says, "“I could set something up. But it won’t be anything like what you’re imagining,” he warns, though the faintest glimmer of a smile tugs at his lips. “You might hate it.”

"I highly doubt it." Your grin widens, and you step closer. "The camera loves me."

He struggles to disagree.

You follow Wonwoo into a dimly lit loft space. The high ceilings make the place feel vast and open, but the shadows, thick and heavy, seem to swallow any trace of warmth. The windows let in just enough light to make the space feel like it’s holding its breath. Concrete floors, industrial beams, exposed brick—this place is a world apart from the glamorous venues he's captured you in so far. 

There's no luxurious set, no artfully arranged props, no stylists running around with last-minute adjustments. Just you and him. And a collection of cameras, lenses, and other mysterious equipment scattered about the space.

"We'll start here," Wonwoo's voice is firmer than he intends, and he hopes you can hear the edge of excitement underneath his words. He’s already moving toward the equipment, setting up the camera on a tripod with a smooth, practised hand.

You take a deep breath, looking a little more nervous than he expected. "What's the concept? Just… me in a room full of shadows?” You try to make light of it, but your voice betrays a hint of apprehension.

He glances over his shoulder, catching your gaze for the briefest moment, and his lips curl into a faint smile. “Something like that. I want to capture you as you are, not as the world expects you to be.”

He steps toward you, then pauses. “But it’s up to you. You can be whoever you want to be in front of the camera.”

You take a breath, almost like you're accepting something, and step deeper into the room. Wonwoo can feel his pulse pick up just a little. Something about your movements makes it hard to look away, even as he tries to keep his focus on the camera. 

As his gaze probes deeper, Wonwoo realises something. You're so used to being a perfect image that now, here, in the quiet, you have no idea what to do with yourself.

His breath catches as he presses the shutter for the first time. The soft click breaks the silence, but he doesn't lower the camera. His eyes stay on you, unable to tear away; even if he should be focused on the technicalities - the lighting, the exposure, the composition - he's not. He's seeing the cracks. The little parts of you that you've been hiding. 

Another click. And another. His fingers move over the controls, adjusting the focus, framing you just so - but all the while, acutely aware of every tiny shift in your body. The way you inhale, the way you let go of something hidden, and your shoulders relax, just slightly. 

"Good," he murmurs, though he barely recognises his own voice. The words are soft, his tone low, almost like a breath rather than a command.

You shift again. There's no thought to it, just a fluid movement, as if you're letting go of some invisible restraint. It's an instinctive thing, Wonwoo realises. You're not really posing anymore.

The camera clicks again, capturing the stillness in you, the way you seem to dissolve into the shadows, becoming part of the room. Part of the moment. He knows instantly that it's going to be his favourite.

For a split second, he wonders if you know what you're doing to him. If you know how you're affecting him, even without meaning to. His heart beats a little faster. 

He doesn't lower the camera, not yet, not wanting to lose the moment.

"Okay, that's enough," he says finally, voice low and deliberate. Even as he says it, he's not sure if he wants to stop. He wants more. But it's not just the image he's chasing now. It's something else. 

You reemerge, the colour of your confidence returning as you step out of the camera frame. "Was that okay?"

Wonwoo isn't completely sure what to say in response. If he should tell you that he wants to restart the entire feature, or that he's never felt like he's seen anyone as much as he just did. So he nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I want you to see the full vision, so I'll show you once they're edited, but I think they're going to be the best ones."

A beaming smile is released onto your face. It's heart-wrenchingly endearing how proud you are of yourself. "I'm so glad. I don't know if you noticed, but I was a little nervous about this one."

He lets out a little chuckle, his head hanging slightly as he looks to the floor, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips. "I couldn't tell. You were," he clears his throat, hands moving to adjust the settings on the camera again, "perfect. And I mean it. It's ... not just the shot. It's you." The words come out in a rush, but even as he says them, he’s certain they’re true.

He wonders, fleetingly, if you hear the difference. If you sense the subtle change in his tone—the way he can’t quite look away from you now, the way his eyes linger just a little too long.

You don’t respond immediately, and for a brief, agonising second, he’s unsure of how you’ll take it. Will you laugh it off? Will you brush it aside with that carefree charm you wear like a second skin?

But then, your smile softens, your gaze a little less playful, and you step closer. "Do we need any more?"

"I don't think so," he pauses. "Unless there's anything you want to try?"

"Well..." You look nervous, like you're trying to make your mind up about something. Your fingers play absently with the sleeve of your shirt, tugging at the fabric as if it’s a lifeline. "Maybe ... maybe I could try something different?"

Wonwoo's eyes flicker up to meet yours. He's not quite sure what you're asking, and it both terrifies and excites him in ways he's not ready to admit. He leans back slightly, considering it.

"It's your shoot," he says softly, "If you want to do something different, we can. You sound like you've got something in mind?"

You exhale slowly, and the air feels thick, drawn tight with possibility. There’s a hesitation in the way you look at him, but then you take a step forward, your presence commanding yet gentle, a stark contrast to the vulnerability in your eyes.

"The photos in your studio," your voice is soft and low, as though the words themselves are a kind of confession. "The ones ... with no clothes." Your gaze flickers briefly, almost shy, before you steady yourself again. "I want to try that. I want to see what that feels like."

Wonwoo blinks at you, his breath hitching for just a second as the words register. His fingers instinctively tighten around the camera, but he doesn’t lower it. He can’t look away from you now.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice rougher than he intended, though it’s more a response to the sudden surge of emotions than anything else. The suggestion itself isn’t unfamiliar, but the weight of it, coming from you, catches him off guard.

You nod slowly. 

He breathes slowly, trying to steady himself, but the air feels tight, like his lungs have forgotten how to expand properly. Wonwoo clears his throat, suddenly aware of the weight of the camera in his hands—of how utterly out of place it feels now. He thought he had control of this situation, of this shoot, of everything. And now he feels entirely, completely, out of control.

"Okay," he says finally, voice low, his throat dry.

You exhale, a small, almost imperceptible breath of relief, and for a moment, you both just stand there. Wonwoo watches you, his gaze tracing the small movements of your fingers, the way you breathe, the slight shift in your posture. You’re standing there, raw and vulnerable in a way that no one else ever sees, and yet you’ve asked him to witness it.

His chest tightens.

"Whenever you're ready," he murmurs, trying to sound as professional as possible, but the words come out softer than he means. He takes a step back, his heart pounding louder now, but he’s not sure if it’s from the anticipation of the shot or something else entirely.

You move slowly, agonisingly slowly, towards the chair that's hidden in the corner of the room and pull it into the camera frame. The clip holding your hair back is the first thing to go, and even watching you shake the tresses free feels like a glimpse of something he's not meant to see. Wonwoo's breath hitches as your fingers hesitate against the buttons of your shirt.

You look up at him, eyes glittering in the light of the loft. "Can you talk me through it?"

Wonwoo gulps, his brain desperately trying to keep a tether to his thoughts. 

His voice is strained when he finally speaks, a quiet rasp that betrays his nerves. "I - uh - yeah. Sure." He clears his throat again, trying to steady himself. "Just take your time. There's no rush. I want you to feel comfortable."

You nod, but your gaze doesn’t leave him. It’s heavy, almost expectant, and Wonwoo feels it pressing down on him like the air in the room has thickened with each passing second.

His heart races, and he forces himself to look away from you, staring at the camera for a moment to regain some semblance of control. But when he finally glances back, there’s no denying it: you're not just in front of the camera. You're right there, your presence inescapable. The air crackles between you, an invisible thread pulling you closer despite the distance.

You slowly unbutton your shirt, each movement measured and deliberate. The soft rustle of fabric seems deafening in the silence. Wonwoo tries to focus on the camera - on the framing, the lighting - by the sight of you undoing the buttons is sending jolts through him, making it hard to concentrate.

"Wait, stop." He's struggling to get out more than a few words, but he realises he has to explain himself as your head whips around, alarmed. "That shot - if you push the shoulder down a little -"

"I'm not sure I quite get it," your voice is a quiet invitation. He doesn't know if its a test, or something far more dangerous than that. 

He moves slowly, not wanting to startle you. And, if he's being honest, not sure that he can handle being any closer. But he's started now, and he can't not go through with it just because he's nervous about seeing skin. Focusing on his task, Wonwoo's hands gingerly pull the loose fabric of your shirt, draping it down the side of your upper arm, the fabric slipping with an almost unbearable grace, revealing the curve of your shoulder, the soft line of your skin. Wonwoo feels his pulse spike, his breath coming in shallow bursts as his fingers brush against the bare skin of your arm. It’s delicate, unintentional contact, but it feels like an electric shock, jarring and intimate all at once.

You hold your breath, your gaze fixed on his hands, your body still. 

“Just like that,” he says, his voice quiet, as though speaking louder might shatter this delicate balance between you. “Now, tilt your head just a little to the left. Keep your eyes soft... like you're looking into something just out of reach.”

Your eyes flicker, a knowing glint passing through them. “Like I’m seeing something I shouldn’t?”

Wonwoo’s stomach tightens, a shiver creeping down his spine at the way you put it. His hands hover over the camera, but for a moment, he forgets the frame, forgets everything except the weight of the moment.

"Exactly," he breathes, almost afraid to admit it aloud, but the words escape him. He’s standing so close now, every muscle in his body taut, straining against the pull of something he doesn't know how to define.

You do as he asks, your eyes softening, lips parting ever so slightly, as if you’re leaning into the invitation.

The camera shakes in his hands, and for a second, he worries that you’ll notice the tremor, that you'll see how much this is affecting him. But you don’t. Your focus is unwavering.

“Can you… can you move your hand to your collarbone?” he murmurs, barely trusting himself to speak the request aloud. “Just… trace it, like it’s the only thing you’re focused on.”

You nod, and there’s an eerie stillness in the air as your fingers drift up to the curve of your neck. Wonwoo feels like he’s drowning, like every movement you make pulls him deeper into this quiet, dangerous place between photographer and subject, between the lens and the reality unfolding just beyond it.

Each click of the shutter feels like a bullet leaving a gun.

Your fingers are back on the buttons before he can realise that the moment has moved on, and you let the shirt fall, the fabric slipping to the floor with a soft whisper. He can’t breathe for a moment.

You stand before him, unguarded, vulnerable, and yet there’s something about the way you hold yourself—so composed, so intentional—that makes him swallow back every word that he tries to form.

Your eyes lock onto his again, and it’s like time stops. “How’s the lighting?” Your voice is steady, calm, but the tension in it is undeniable.

Wonwoo’s throat is dry as he forces himself to focus. "The light... it's perfect." He clears his throat, his voice tight. "You look perfect. Just... just keep moving, slowly. Let the camera catch it all."

You nod, your lips curling into that familiar smile that has him reeling.

Wonwoo’s pulse quickens, but he doesn’t dare look away. He’s caught in the gravity of your gaze, drawn into the quiet intensity of the moment. He raises the camera, his fingers trembling just slightly as he adjusts the lens. The click of the shutter still sounds harsh, but it doesn’t break the tension.

Wonwoo almost drops the camera when your fingers hook around the loops of your pants. 

You slide them off in fluid motion, far quicker than the shirt. The smile on your face is more playful now, taunting and teasing. "What were those poses again?" 

Wonwoo’s breath catches in his throat, his hands freezing just above the camera as the image of you in front of him—the subtle arch of your back, the way your skin catches the light—burns itself into his memory. He can’t look away, and it’s like everything in the room sharpens.

"Stop," he whispers, his voice shaking. "You’re—"

He cuts himself off, unsure of how to finish the sentence. How could he describe the storm he feels brewing inside of him? The way his pulse is beating in time with the shutter clicks. The way he’s watching you, but feels like he’s barely holding onto himself, like the space between him and you has closed to a point where it feels impossible to stay just the photographer.

“Stop?” you repeat, tilting your head, the playful glint in your eyes both a challenge and an invitation. "You want me to stop?"

"I—" He clears his throat, trying to force his words into something coherent. You take a step closer, and the words fail him. 

You stop a few inches away from him, your breath mingling with his, and for a split second, you both stand there, locked in a stare that feels like an eternity. Wonwoo's heart races, and he can hear the rush of blood in his ears, but the sound of your breath, shallow and steady, is louder than everything else.

“Wonwoo,” you whisper, and the way you say his name—so softly, so deliberately—has his chest tightening even more.

His heart stutters for a second, and before he can think about it, before he can second-guess himself, he lowers the camera, his hand almost involuntarily reaching for you.

“Are you sure?” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, your fingers brush against the fabric of his shirt, dancing between the creases. The world seems to spin a little.

“I’m sure,” you reply, your voice steady but low. “Are you?”

Wonwoo’s pulse thunders in his ears, and he thinks he's nodding his head, but he's not sure. He swears he can feel the heat radiating off of you in waves. The tension is almost unbearable now, and his hands are shaking so badly that he’s not sure if he should step back or close the space completely.

Before he can decide, you close the gap for him, your lips brushing against his in the gentlest of kisses. It’s soft at first, tentative—like you’re both waiting for the other to pull away—but when Wonwoo doesn’t, you deepen it just enough to make his head spin.

Everything—his thoughts, his control, his self-restraint—fractures.

He pulls you closer, his hand finding the curve of your back as he deepens the kiss. He can feel you shiver as his warm hands trace the exposed skin. He has to hold back a guttural moan at the feeling of your body pressed against his.

Your hands have found his hair, tangling your fingers through the strands and feeding off of the reactions, tugging a little every time he grumbles against your lips. A small gasp leaves your lips as he pulls away from your mouth, burying into your neck, which stretches prettily with each biting kiss he leaves. 

"Is this how all your photo shoots go?" Even with your head tilted back, voice breathy as his fingers grasp onto your waist, you still find time to tease him. A small whine leaves you as his lips abandon your skin.

"You'll believe me if I say no?" His throat is scratchy, his voice raw, and it comes out more as a question. 

You laugh. "Yes - I, yes, I believe you."

The silence feels unbearably tension, like both of you are trying to blindly navigate the other's feelings. Neither comfortable enough to take the next step forward.

"What did -"

"I thought -"

Your words stumble together as you search for the right way to break the tension. Wonwoo stops, not pressing you to continue, but his grip tightens on your waist slightly, a silent question hanging in the air. 

"I was just - I wasn't sure you'd want to do this, too." You finally say. You still have that teasing smile, but your voice is small, almost unsure. 

"I do," his voice is low, rough, and there's something tender there too. "I really do."

Your lips twitch upwards, a fleeting smile curving the corners of your mouth as you move closer again. "Then, what happens next?"

Wonwoo's head darts around, looking around the dim loft. There's nothing there, other than his equipment and a few chairs - nothing particularly helpful in this scenario. Although, he should admit, he wasn't expecting anything like this when he'd set it up.

"We could go somewhere else, if that's what you want to do?"

Your eyes follow his gaze, realising the dilemma.

"But I'm already half undressed." You bat your eyelashes innocently, and he knows you're fully aware of what you're doing to him. Yet, that doesn't prevent his trousers from feeling way too tight. 

"I-" his breath catches, his fingers digging into your side. "I guess we'll have to stay here then."

"I guess so," you grin, and he wants nothing more than to pull you back in. So, he does. It's messy, primal, a tangle of limbs as your hands sloppily undo his shirt and his look for anything and everything he can reach. He doesn't miss your noise of appreciation when his shirt falls to the floor. 

Soon, his hands are wrapped around your thighs, pulling you up in one swift motion and carrying you until you hit the nearest wall. You're panting, your eyes wild and hair tangled as you grab at his neck, pulling his lips back to yours. 

It's not long before the rest of your clothes join the others on the floor. He feels a flutter of shyness as you take him in, eyes roaming across his body. But you're smiling, wide and joyful, the soft flesh of your thighs squeezing tighter on his hips. 

"Fuck, I always thought you were hot, but I can't believe you were hiding this underneath those baggy sweaters."

Wonwoo can feel the blush running up his neck like a schoolboy being complimented for the first time. His heart is hammering in his chest, a warm rush spreading through him from head to toe as he tries to work out what his eyes should be focusing on.

"I wasn’t expecting any of this. You... you’re making me nervous," he admits with a shy laugh, his hands feeling clammy against your skin. "I mean, I'm sure I'm not the first person to say you're beautiful, but I think you're so much more than what they see."

Your smile softens for a moment, and you reach forward, fingers grazing lightly over his arm, the touch sending a shiver down his spine. "I'd like you to know all of me."

The words are soft, tender, and you can probably hear his heart fluttering. And, all at the same time, the implication of them is making more than his heart flutter. 

"You're sure?" His body presses against yours even more, pushing your back further into the wall behind you. 

"Please," you nod breathily, and that's all he needs. "I want you."

His hips grind against you, head swirling at the feeling as your arms wrap around his neck for stability. "I don't have-" he manages to choke out. 

"It's fine, I'm on the pill. Just - just fuck me, please?"

His head buries into your shoulder, body twitching at your words. Pushing inside of you, the pleasure is immediate. Your hips are moving back onto him as far as you can against the wall, and his hands are firmly clenched around the flesh of your ass, holding you up in an iron grip. And you sound so good, and - more than that, you feel so good, so unbelievably good, that he's gasping out your name between thrusts.

Nonsensical words are babbling out of your mouth too; hot, dirty words of praise that only spur him on further. Your nails dig into his back, and then his hair, and then back again, like you can't pick which part of him you want to touch more. 

And fuck, you're so beautiful. Like a goddess in the low lighting of the room - but he's too scared to tell you that just yet. Soft and hard and warm against him, surrounding him, engulfing him. 

It's not long before he can feel you clenching around him, one hand clinging onto his shoulders and the other snaking between your legs. The muscles of his arms are burning slightly, but it feels too good to stop now. You're dragging him with you, panting moans with each pulse. You press your lips against his one more time, and it's all it takes to push you both over the edge.

After a few moments, he lifts his head from your shoulder and looks at you, a tender smile on his face. His lips press against yours gently, sighing with soft pants.

"Shit," You breathe, a small giggle bubbling out of you. The sound is so sweet it knocks any remaining wind out of him. 

Wonwoo chuckles, his thumb gently tracing the curve of your jaw as he holds you in place.

Your smile is warm and teasing, and you press your lips to his for a second longer. "If I had the camera, I'd capture that look forever."

[spaceofunknown]

This might be nothing but I think part of why we perceive love transcending severance for markhellyna and not markgemma is because markgemma’s connection is based on something very different from markhellyna’s.

For Mark and Helly, their connection comes from their shared sense of humour, which isn’t something that severance takes away. All versions of Hellyna can make all versions of Mark laugh fairly effortlessly, and vice versa. It’s a sense of humour that’s weird and dark and off-putting to other characters, which is why it works so well to build their chemistry. A normal person would be weirded out by Helena telling Mark he should meet her father, but not Mark. A normal person would be freaked out by Helly joking about wearing Mark’s face, or Helena wondering what Dieter’s dick turned into, but Mark just adds on to the joke on both occasions. I know we joke that he’s just laughing at her jokes because he’s horny, but I think we’re supposed to understand that he genuinely finds her hilarious. I think this is also why the argument that Mark loves Helly less because he couldn’t tell her apart from Helena doesn’t really work for me. He couldn’t tell her apart from Helena because he genuinely connected with Helena over the same thing he connected with Helly over; their sense of humour. She didn’t have to fake that, it was already a part of her.

I could be a bit off here because I only watched 2x07 once, but I believe Mark and Gemma’s connection comes from their shared passion for knowledge and and scholarly pursuits, which is something Lumon has taken from their innies entirely. We see how hungry for knowledge innie Mark is with the way he fixates on Rickon’s book. The innies don’t have access to any form of knowledge aside from Lumon’s propaganda, which is particularly tragic for Mark and Gemma’s innies, because the pursuit of knowledge is so fundamental to each of their identities. Thus, there’s no basis for Mark and Ms Casey to connect in the way that Mark and Gemma did, because Lumon stripped them of the thing they have in common.

[s1eepy-bear]

‧୨🌿୧ ₊˚ 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥・𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐

pairing: robert 'bob' reynolds x ex shield agent! f!reader

synopsis: it's your first day on duty and you bring donuts for the team. a silly morning encounter reveals bob's hidden vulnerabilities. you quickly developing an unexpected connection with him.

content: no y/n, silly, fluffy, cute, slow burn

warnings: MDNI! not proof read, bob's abs lol

a/n: i finally thought of a title for this series! i wonder if i'm getting too hung up on everyone else's interaction with the reader, should i focus more on her interactions with bob? let me know <3 Chapter 1

That night, a soft, balmy breeze billowed your open curtains, bringing with it the faint, persistent pulse of New York's distant hustle and bustle.

You lie in bed, soft sheets enveloping you as you try to drift into sleep. Behind your closed eyelids, a persistent image gnawed at you: Bob’s red, shy face. 

A sliver of guilt hangs heavy in your chest for having flustered him so abruptly. You now have a level of access to those in the spotlight that SHIELD had never granted you, and the excitement of your new proximity to the New Avengers had entirely swept you away. You must remain professional.

Just two years ago, Bob slowly inked New York City away into darkness, turning people into shadows one by one, causing severe damage to the city and resulted in numerous injuries.

With this in mind, flirting feels frivolous and irresponsible when confronted with the ghosts of his past. And if he is in a vulnerable head space, you don’t want to be the one to take advantage of it, even if it's unintentional. This isn’t the kind of crush you can afford to have.

With these thoughts plaguing your mind and the heavy exhaustion from the busy work day, you slowly drift off to sleep.

༉ ✧˚₊

The following morning, the sun drenched the landscape, laying a shimmering, translucent veil over everything. A gentle breeze dances through the air, the sun is still low on the horizon.

You woke up extra early to drop by the charming donut shop you frequent to grab breakfast for the whole team. You opted for something simple, sugar donuts, until you learn everyone’s preferences.

You walk into the tower from your car, the bag of donuts in hand, thoughtfully greeting the other workers maintaining the tower along the way.

The light above the sensor in the elevator beeps green when you touch the access key to it and whirs into motion, swiftly bringing you to your desired floor.

The common area where the team welcomed you yesterday is now dark due to the curtains being drawn. The space is quiet, spared from the steady, low hum of the air conditioner running. You check your watch: only 6:10. Most of them are probably asleep.

You decide to take this time to brew some fresh, actually hot, coffee. While the pot gurgles, you tidy up various spots in the common area and kitchen: throw pillows on the floor, a bag of Goldfish crackers left open, a few books and magazines scattered around, dishes in the sink, cereal pieces that didn’t make it to the mouth, expired things in the fridge.

The smell of the fresh brew fills the space as you continue to busy yourself with noting down numerous items, food, and snacks for restocking. You silently note to yourself to get everyone’s phone number so they can get ahold of you if they ever need something.

“Oh, good morning,” Yelena says as she walks out from a corridor, which you learned from her yesterday, leads to the gym.

Her face shiny from a thin sheen of sweat as she makes her way toward you, wiping the sweat off with the towel around her neck. Her short blonde hair is pushed back with a headband.

“Good morning, Ms. Belova,” you greet her back with a mellow murmur, the sound soft enough not to disturb the early morning quiet. 

“No, no, none of that,” she plops herself down on one of the leather bar stools by the kitchen island, the stool legs scraping faintly against the floor.

You tilt your head, a question forming in your head. The coffee maker gives a final satisfying beep, its brewing cycle complete.

“Just Yelena,” she clarifies. 

 You smile at that, “Well, Yelena, would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

You collect two mugs from the cabinet, the ceramic cool beneath your fingers, and fill them both with fresh coffee. Wisps of steam rose lazily from the dark liquid. The rich aroma blossoms in the air as you set one mug before her. She nods appreciatively.

“So, you think Bob is cute, huh?” Just as you take a sip out of your mug, Yelena inquires suddenly with a playful glint in her eyes. The unexpected question catches in your throat, forcing a sharp, spluttering cough.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” your initial serene expression crumples, replaced by a deep flush rising to your cheeks. You lower your cup to press your fingers between your eyebrows in a flustered manner.

Yelena laughs, a low, throaty sound, propping her elbows on the counter.

“Come on, you wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it.”

“It’s not that I didn’t mean it, it’s just…it was unprofessional,” you avert your gaze, suddenly the bleak marble counter looks very interesting. 

“Who cares!” She lightheartedly rolls her eyes. “We’re hardly a professional organization. You just said what was on your mind.”

“Still,” you insist softly, tracing the rim of your mug with your thumb, the ceramic now warmer due to your body heat and hot beverage.

The Watchtower's dormant systems hummed—a low, almost imperceptible sound that seemed to amplify the awkward quietness. Your downcast eyes catch the wrinkled paper bag of donuts—your saving grace.

“Anyways…care for a donut?” You ask as you hold up the bag. “I settled for something basic since I don’t know what everyone liked. Let me know if you have any preferences,” Yelena gives you a knowing look, taking a deliberate sip of her coffee to hide her lips twitching with suppressed amusement. She is letting you off the hook, for now.

Yelena reaches for the bag, her fingers lightly hover as she carefully chooses what must be the perfect one. She takes a huge bite and lets out a genuine, drawn-out groan of pleasure. “Mmm! This is good, actually good, better than whatever dad tries to make.” 

You let out a quick exhale of a laugh. The tight knot of tension in your chest finally loosens. You pluck a donut for yourself, not bothering with Yelena’s meticulous selection process.

Even with her teasing about Bob, a warm wave of relief washes over you. You've found a connection with at least one person on this team. Well, there's Alexei too, but Alexei is friendly right off the bat, like a big, boisterous golden retriever.

As you and Yelena enjoy your donuts, a quiet murmur of conversation and two pairs of footsteps draw steadily louder. 

“Wow, looks real tidy out here,” Walker’s voice announces from just around the corner.

“Smells real good too,” he steps fully into the kitchen, Bucky Barnes following close behind him. They both are in athletic gear, ready for a morning workout.

“Good morning, Mr. Walker, and nice to finally meet you, Mr. Barnes.” Your lips curve upward in a polite greeting. Bucky simply returns it with a nod and a small smile of his own, while Yelena tosses a casual, “What’s up, losers?” their way.

“Some coffee and donuts?” you offer, holding up the bag. Both of the super soldiers accept enthusiastically. While they chat with Yelena, you busy yourself with coffee and mugs.

"Maybe this secretary thing is awesome after all," Walker remarks complacently with a smirk, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement.

“Walker,” Bucky lectures, his voice a low, warning rumble—probably worrying about Walker's statement being rude.

You smile back at Walker as you set their coffee in front of them on the kitchen island.

"Just part of the job,”

You can’t deny that it feels good to have someone acknowledge and appreciate your work, even jokingly. 

༉ ✧˚₊

After a quick breakfast, the others begin to disperse. Yelena leaves to go take a shower, and Bucky and Walker make their way to the gym. 

You inhale your donut in a few quick bites and retrieve your company-issued tablet from your purse, flipping through various tabs, reviewing the team’s schedule today.

Although each person on the team is sent their own schedule, you keep everyone’s, so you can locate someone if you are looking for them, or if someone doesn’t make it somewhere on time, it’s your duty to check on them.  

A quick glance confirms the mission briefing for tomorrow: the whole team, minus Bob. It seems like Val is utilizing the new support staff—you, to keep him company while the team is deployed. While your role for most of the team is to respond when needed, your duties for Bob involve a slightly more active form of oversight. You have to make sure that he wakes up before noon and eats all his meals. 

For now, you sit in the common area with the curtains drawn open, as you review what would be stacks of paperwork if it weren’t digital. The Watchtower is brighter but not much more lively. Today is everyone’s day off; therefore, some go their separate ways to take care of business. You would usually find the quietness relaxing, but the lack of structure is unnerving. It’s not the kind of stressful, rigid work environment you're used to.

You officially met Ava Starr when she strolled past the common area on her way out. Her movement fluid and silent, as if gliding. Her ethereal, pale blue eyes remind you of a fairy.

With your introduction, she simply mutters, “finally, another girl.” A faint smile tugging at her lips.

“Want a donut?” 

How many times have you said the word ‘donut’ today?

“How thoughtful, don’t mind if I do,” Ava says, giving you a nod of thanks before she disappears.

A moment after Ava leaves, just when the air has settled, a soft padding of bare feet against the tiled floor catches your attention. Bob’s eyes are half closed, still lost somewhere in sleep, as he wobbles slowly across the common area toward the kitchen, oblivious to you. Strands of his brown hair stick out in different directions, appearing golden under the sun. You would alert him, but there’s something so captivating about watching Bob just existing, devoid of nervousness or uncertainty. 

He rubs his eye as he yawns tiredly, reaching a hand up under his shirt to scratch his stomach. The fabric rides up, revealing his abdomen. Your eyes widen, and your heart jolts against your ribcage. His baggy clothes make him look unassuming, even scrawny, but the reality is anything but. Beneath the fabric lay an expanse of taut, defined muscles that spoke quiet strength—a sharp contrast that stole your breath. You swallow thickly.

Fuck.

Still unaware of your presence, Bob's eyes finally open fully, drawn by something in the kitchen. His gaze falls on the last donut remaining on a plate. He absentmindedly grabs the pastry and starts feasting. Mid-chewing, he turns, locking eyes with you, and freezes.

“Oh shit,” he says incoherently, you almost didn’t make out his words. He swallows his bite, his eyes wide from surprise or panic, you’re not sure which, “uh, hey…that wasn’t yours, was it?”

You sputter, a fit of laughter hits you all at once, and you can’t seem to take a full breath. Maybe it was because of how carefree he was the second before, but reverted to his usual self in the snap of a finger, or the fact that there’s sugar on the side of his mouth.

Your laughter evokes a bashful smile from Bob, “So, was that a 'no, it wasn't yours,' or do you just enjoy my cluelessness?” He says, his tongue darts out briefly to lick away the sugar on the side of his mouth. 

“Maybe I do, and the donut is for you,” you say, still breathless from laughing. “You’re lucky that I’m here to make sure no one grabbed two.” 

“Thanks,” Bob lets out a sigh of relief, clearly still a bit embarrassed but grateful. "I…I didn’t know that you were going to be here today.”

“Well, Bob, I have a job here,” you tilt your head with an amused smile as you make your way to the kitchen, to him. “And I’ll be here every day.”

“Right, that makes sense…” His voice trails off. 

A quiet elation blossoms within him in your presence, like a breath of fresh spring air. You, with your gentle smile and disarming frankness, are a stark contrast from those who walk on eggshells around him, wary of rattling the Void. He doesn’t hold that against them, but it felt good being treated like he’s a normal person—no serum, no Sentry, no Void.

A tingly, warm feeling spreads across his chest, a feeling he didn’t even realize he missed. His bashful smile softens further, and his gaze, usually a little distant, settles on you with a warmth that matches the new feeling in his chest. He clears his throat gently. "So," he begins, “what exactly is your job with us…I mean, I know you are our uh, assistant or secretary, but what does that entail?”

“Well, just about anything, I can cook for you guys, get groceries, manage paperwork, clean, be good company,” you list, but pause, “speaking of groceries, you guys are very out. Would you come to the store with me? I’m not sure what everyone likes.”

“Oh, um…” Bob's face falls, his blue eyes clouding with sorrow. "The team doesn't like me going outside," he explains quietly. "Because the Void might come out, you know. And that's... not good."

“So you just…stay here all day?”

“Pretty much.”

You soften your gaze, speaking gently. "Val actually mentioned you're allowed to leave the Tower with a companion. You can't conquer the Void by being cooped up all day, Bob. Besides, we're only going to grab groceries, we'll come straight back if you'd like, and I'll be right there with you." You suggest, being careful not to pressure him into something he's uncomfortable with.

“Are you sure?” Bob fiddles with the sleeve of his sweatshirt—you learn that it’s a nervous habit of his.

“I believe in you. Do you believe in yourself?”

Bob seems to ponder it over in his head and eventually takes a deep breath. “Okay…I will at least try.”

“Alright,” you beamed, unable to stop the big smile spreading across your face. “That’s all I ask.”

Your smile lightened something in Bob, drawing a soft, answering smile to his lips.

Bob nodded, his gaze softening as he held your smile, “yeah…”

You tilt your head, a playful glint in your eye. "So, are you flying us or should I drive?"

button divider by @/bernardsbendystraws

[reiderwriter]

Four In Some Velvet Morning

Chapter Two of I Can't Help Myself

Summary: Civility in the office is equal to pettiness in all things, but when you help Spencer out in a sticky situation, it's all your mind can think about well into the early hours in the morning.

Warnings: Uncomfortable situation with a student (non-reciprocated), suggestive touching, fingering, unprotected sex, rough sex, soft dom! Spencer.

A/N: The second part is finally here!! I hope you enjoy the various office shenanigans of Spencer and our reader. Based on the results of our last chapter, I've made a taglist, which you can access through the link below! Have fun reading, and be sure to let me know what you think in the comments~♡

Masterlist || Add yourself to the taglist~♡

You loved Mondays, or you did love Mondays when they meant only a single teaching hour and a free office to catch up on however much work you'd put off the week before.

But, like everything in your life now, Mondays were ruined by Doctor Spencer Reid.

When you and your coffee arrived at 8:45 on Monday morning, he was right there. You heaved out a sigh of frustration, and he didn't respond, so you sank into an hours worth of annoyed sighs and silence.

“Hmmph,” you huffed, standing from your desk and making your bookshelves. Still ordered alphabetically, and topically, you tried your best to look for the reference guide you'd been annotating all semester. But with no helpful guide to which topics it was that he'd used, you found yourself turning around to address your silent, unwanted companion.

“Spencer, my reference book, where is it?”

You stared blankly at him for a few minutes as you watched him trace a finger down the page he was reading. Delicately, he turned the page and resumed reading the next one, stroking the page like it was a lover in a tender moment, his fingers trailing down to offer his intimacy.

“Spencer?” You said again, and he again ignored you.

“Spencer, there's no way you're reading that fast, cut the crap and answer my question.”

“I can read 20,000 words per minute. Thus, I am busy. And weren't you ignoring me?” You took a deep breath and counted to ten in your head before replying.

“I thought we were being civil, Spencer.”

“I am being civil. I'm very civil. Are you being civil, Ms. Y/N?”

“Doctor,” you spat out. “I may have only one to your three, but I did work hard for it.”

He stopped reading and looked up at you, noting the angry look on your face. Standing up quickly, he checked his watch, grabbed his bag and jacket, making sure to carefully slide the book he was molesting into his bag, and walked straight for the door.

“Spencer!” You said indignantly, and he turned back to you with a sarcastic smile, pulling the book you were searching for off the bookcase and throwing it in your direction, before stalking out of the room.

“Jackass!” You shouted behind him as he sent a wave over his shoulder.

Civility. Well, if that was his idea of civility, you could be just as civil. And you'd start by taking all of the books off of the bookshelves once again.

When three hours had elapsed and Spencer had concluded the day's work, he was disappointed to find the office empty. He didn't dwell on the feeling for long, though, as he flipped the light switch to utter chaos.

You'd pretty much gutted the entire shelf, leaving pretty piles stacked all across his desk, chair, and the floor surrounding it, making it near impossible to make his way to his desk without moving something.

The shelves weren't totally empty, though. You'd left roughly thirty books on the centre shelf, held in place by paper weights he recognised as his own acting as bookends.

A post-it was stuck to the first book.

“Ignore this,” you'd written, a lipstick kiss pressed into the paper as your only form of signature. For plausible deniability, of course. You'd never sign your name to a crime.

He sighed and lifted a hand to start taking some books down when he spotted it.

“D…o…n….t…,” he would've gotten further but for the grin spreading across his face as he read the first letter on each book spine. You'd spelt out five words, and he felt a vague sense of satisfaction knowing you'd spent so much time just trying to mess with him.

“DONT TOUCH MY SHIT, JACKASS,” you'd written. But he was absolutely going to touch your shit.

Much to his chagrin, you didn't return to the office that day, too busy with other duties to need to go back. You also wanted to give him a wide berth, hoping that he'd have time to simmer instead of immediately retaliate for all the shit you'd pulled that morning.

Which was why Spencer found himself at work at 6 a.m., getting an early start so he could see your reaction to his, honestly quite tame reply.

You'd acted like a toddler throwing toys out of your pram for no reason. And while he wasn't exactly acting mature himself, he could at least liken himself to a young child throwing the toys back in frustration.

Everything about sharing this office with you was going to be frustrating.

He opened his book again - War and Peace - and began reading through it as he waited for the sun to rise and you to arrive with it.

It was well worth it to catch the look on your face.

“Jackass,” you muttered under your breath as you walked in, coffees and pastries in hand.

He'd put the majority of the books back on the shelf in his order and system. But he'd also left out a large pile of books, blocking the narrow passage between your desk and the wall. It was taller than you and hardly stable, and since you did not want to get concussed on a Tuesday morning, there was no other route to your desk but squeezing behind his.

You huffed out a sigh, dropping what you'd hoped would be truce coffee and breakfast on his desk before standing to push past him. He blocked your way with his arm as he finished up reading a chapter.

“Password?” He asked, not looking up from his desk.

“Very funny, let me pass.”

“Incorrect,” he smiled, nodding towards the shelf where you'd left yesterday's message.

“Seriously?” You asked. His answering look supplied the answer you needed - try me.

“Don't touch my shit, jackass,” you said in a sarcastic tone, trying once again to push past. His damn arm was still too solid, and he pushed you back once again.

“I'm sorry, Y/N, but that was yesterday's password. You'll have to try again.”

Squinting down at him in confusion, you did your best not to dump his coffee over the top of his head as he nodded to the shelf again.

Your writing was still there, but one shelf down there was a new message.

“BUT… ILO…I LOVE… TOU-” You froze, your entire body going hot as you walked back over to him. He was taking a sip of his coffee, as you desperately avoided eye contact. You knew you were attractive, but you honestly didn't think that Spencer would be interested in you like that. And flirting like this, so out of the blue?

Something had to be wrong with him.

“Password?” He asked, taking another sip.

“B-But I love touching you,” you stammered out, cheeks aflame.

He somehow coughed and snorted at the same time, shooting out of his chair with wide eyes.

“More-” he coughed. “That's not… There's more.”

Your eyes went wide as saucers as you ran back over to the shelves, reading to what was actually the end of the message.

“But I love touching your shit,” you mumbled, and he didn't bother even raising a hand this time. He let you pass, and you sat in tense silence for the rest of the morning.

You got over the awkwardness soon, though, and began using the shelves to torture each other between classes.

You'd once replaced all three textbooks for his class with Russian language versions, back firing spectacularly as he smiled and began reading from them anyway.

He'd started putting important texts on the very top shelf and hiding the only step on the floor in some classroom or the other. Though he too had quit that when other members of staff grew frustrated at the steps disappearance.

You both kept up with the book messages.

“YOU'RE… TOO…LOUD”

“I DIDNT… DO…ANYTHING”

“YOU BREATHED”

“BOO HOO”

“COFFEE…PLEASE”

“IM NOT…YOUR…ASSISTANT”

“WITH THREE… SUGARS”

“I HOPE…. DIABETES… GETS YOU”

“SO…MATURE”

If you were being honest with yourself, you'd probably have realized that you were having a lot of fun hating Spencer Reid. Which made him a little bit harder to hate.

You wished he'd have been more mature about the whole thing, really, so you could despise him without laughing at his audacity every five minutes.

Thursday was the worst day for both of you. Thankfully, he'd taken your advice and scheduled his office hours around your classes.

What he hadn't taken into account was that on Thursdays, you had several classes on different disciplines and for different degree levels, meaning a truck load of resources you had to either cart around with you all day (impossible) or you'd have to drop into your office regularly to pick up your things.

You'd ended up in the same queue as the myriad of undergrads that were taking his course or just auditing and wanted to pick his brain on his off hours, and it was hell each time.

“God, isn't he just so fine. An 18-year age gap isn't noticeable, right?” One girl whispered to her friend as you turned the corner, books in hand, ready to use them as defence weapons should the need arise. The need to laugh and yell it was too much had you biting your tongue quickly. The man was 10 years older than even you, and even you had to pause at the age difference. These girls were practically children.

“And his hair? I just want to tangle my hair in it and pull him down to my-”

“Girls! Please remember this is a hallway, and your professors are still trying to get some work done.”

To their credit, the two first years did turn crimson in shame, sending each other panicked and dirty looks as they communicated their shared horror.

You stepped up to the small hall window at your office and peeked through the blinds.

Another student was inside with Spencer, and the panicked look on his face meant that his conversation was probably going similarly.

The students in the hall whispered and glanced at you every few seconds, and if you weren't in the biggest rush of your professional career, you'd take the time to ask them if you had something on your face.

Instead, you just tried to knock on the glass and hope Spencer would notice your plea for access.

When Spencer noticed you at the window, his eyes locked with yours, his mouth forming a simple plea as the undergrad inched closer to him.

“Help,” he mouthed.

You shrugged in reply, wondering what would possibly be so bad that he'd need your help of all things.

It was then that you noticed the undergrad had reached out a hand to play with the buttons of his jacket, stroking her hand along his chest as he cringed backwards.

You watched him take her hands off him, but she was tenacious, or just a downright creep, and she grabbed his thigh this time, pressing her chest forward. You couldn't see it yourself, but you knew from his reaction and instantly turned head that she was dangerously close to flashing him.

Or she was just doing it.

His eyes pleaded for help again, and you barged into the room with a large cough.

“Doctor Reid, if I could have a moment of your time? It's urgent.”

You dumped the books on your desk, and he jumped up to greet you, stepping out of the young students' grasp and almost shielding himself behind where you stood.

“Of course, yes, Y/N. It is urgent, so I'm sure the students will... be understanding."

He turned back to the student and gestured helpfully to show her the door, but her angry gaze was stuck on yours.

“Old ass skank,” you heard her whisper under her breath. From the hand on your arm and the furrowing of his brow you knew Spencer had as well.

“I'm sorry, what was that, Miss….?”

“Hmm? I'm sure I didn't say anything, Doctor Y/L/N.”

“You-” Spencer began but you silenced him with a hand on his chest.

Her gaze flicked to it, and she grew redder in the face, as if she were truly angry at this development. Interesting.

“Spencer,” you span around, totally ignoring the student now, wrapping your arms up and around his neck. He blinked in confusion once and then twice and hesitated, but let his hands land on your waist.

“It really is so urgent that we speak. Alone. I wouldn't want your precious students hearing anything I have to say to you.” You leaned in closer for the last words, letting your voice flow like honey, neatly seductive as you did your best to remind the student of her place.

Which was as far from a professor's bed as possible.

“She's just leaving, Y/N,” he whispered, equally as breathy as you, if not more. He didn't bother a glance over your shoulder to check, though, keeping his eyes on you as if you were a tiger preparing to pounce on him at any second.

The student grabbed her things and huffed out the door. As soon as the thing was shut, you pulled the blinds totally shut and detangled yourself from Spencer completely, giving yourself a wide berth after bringing yourself so close.

You hadn't realized how long and pretty his eyelashes were until you forced yourself to look at him, how nice his eyes were. The image of them burned into your brain - jealousy, probably. Men always had the best natural eyelashes. It was incredibly unfair.

“What the fuck was that?” You whispered, trying to contain your laugh as you knew the walls here were anything but soundproof.

“Shh,” he hissed, his ear pressed to the door as he listened to the remaining undergrads outside start talking. They obviously hadn't got the memo.

“Is this an official FBI strategy?” You teased.

“Shut up, would you? They're talking about us.”

You found yourself all of a sudden pressed against the door next to him, trying to listen in on the conversation outside.

“So it's true? He's really screwing her?” You slapped a hand over your mouth, both from shock and to stop the hysterical laugh bubbling up in your chest from jumping out. The girl sounded distraught. She sounded absolutely heartbroken. "The coffees every morning were suspicious, and they're always in the office so wrapped up with each other, but I didn't think they were seriously screwing."

“No wonder she was giving us dirty looks earlier,” the other girl whispered back.

“I heard he got her the job here. Pulled some strings, you know. And then, when it didn't look so suspicious, he started and asked for the shared office.”

“Gross! Total nepo hire!”

“No, Tiff, Nepo is when your parents get you the job. What she's doing is just called being a whore.”

Your mouth grew dry, and you pushed back off the wall, suddenly uninterested in anything else the girls had to say.

“Y/N…” Spencer took a sympathetic step your way, offering you an awkward smile as you started busying yourself organizing books.

“Nothing I haven't heard before, Spencer, don't bother,” you said, throwing some papers into your briefcase and keeping your hands moving.

“Though I will say they're getting more creative with their back stories since I have been working here half a year longer than you.”

He watched you work around the office, picking up items and tidying them away as you made a line of tidiness through the chaos of your desk.

“Do you think they all think that?” You asked, curiosity somehow piqued.

“That I got you the job?”

“That we’re screwing,” you said, finally turning to face him.

But the movement was a mistake - you hadn't heard him step closer, so as you turned his face was directly in front of yours, his nose practically touching your own as he looked down at you. It was enough so that the sharp intake of breath you took smelt like him, like he'd wrapped himself around your body and kept you there.

“Do you think they think we're screwing?” He asked, meaning to move away, or at least give you the space for you to do so.

“It doesn't matter to me what other people think,” you smiled up at him. “Because I wouldn't touch you with a tensed foot pole.”

You're thinking about the comment well into the evening, right until the moment your head hits the pillow.

You're thinking about the way his eyes dropped to your lips when you said those words, how he stepped closer and closer until you were backed up against the door.

“You were fine touching me earlier, Y/N. What is it now that makes it unappealing?” He whispered into your ear.

A hand came to your waist as your breath hitched.

“Is it the goosebumps I leave on your skin?” His hand pressed harder as it rose up to your chest. You gasped as he took one of your breasts in his hand, fondling it.

“Is it the way your heart beats uncomfortably hard when I'm close?”

His hand dropped again, falling down the plains of your stomach until he was stroking along the top of your pants, begging for entry.

“Or is it the way I make your cunt wet? It must be so hard pretending to hate me when you want my fingers stuffed inside of you.”

You gasped, but your tongue suddenly didn't work, as he slipped past your pants and his fingers were suddenly on your underwear, grinding the pads of his fingers against your slick pussy.

“You dont have to answer, I think I can tell just from feeling this. Shit, Y/N, I could probably slip into you right now with no resistance,” his fingers pushed inside of you as you gripped his arm for support. It was stronger than you expected, rigid as he tensed his arm.

You let him use your body, aware of your soft sighs and moans as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

His hands were inside you, then they pulled out, and somewhere in between his fingers and his cock filling you, you'd been pressed against the bookshelf, facing it and grabbing at the shelves for stability as he made good on his promise and pushed right into you without a care in the world.

“Spenc-Spencer, the books-”

“You know the books aren't a problem, Y/N,” he groaned into your ear as he pumped deep inside of you.

But the books were a problem, and they fell to the floor with each rough thrust, vibrating as they landed.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buz-

Your eyes shot open the next day, and you jolted out of your slumber, a pillow between your legs as you tried to find your release squirming and humping against it. You reached out for your vibration phone alarm, switching it off quickly to avoid the memory of those falling books from your fast fading dream.

Spencer hadn't touched you in that office. He'd taken your comment at face value and let you leave for your class, but it had stuck in your head.

You'd spent the entire night thinking about his hands on you, and you were entirely uncomfortable with the conclusion you were drawing.

Because now, you supposed, you'd quite enjoy the idea of Spencer Reid touching you wherever he damn well pleased.

🔖@stillhere197 @understandingsunrise

[jinjeriffic]

DCxDP Prophecy Universe Part 5

Part 4

After collecting their bags from the library lockers Jazz led him down the hallway until she found a small, unlocked, empty classroom. The room was barren except for desks and a whiteboard. I guess they don’t bother locking it if there’s nothing worth stealing.

Jazz sat her messenger bag down on the teacher’s desk and pulled a whiteboard marker out of a side pocket.

“Right,” Jazz began, “I don’t know how much you know about ecto-entities and since, as you said, the reports on them tend to be pretty biased, I’m just going to start from scratch. Sounds good?” she rambled.

Tim hopped up onto the front row desk and tried his best to look like an attentive teacher’s pet.

“Yes, Ms Fenton,” he said cheekily.

Jazz gave him an amused look.

“Careful Mr Taylor, or you’ll end up in detention,” she said lightly. She turned to the whiteboard and gathered her thoughts for a moment, then wrote ECTO-ENTITIES in large block letters, “Many people refer to all ecto-entities as ghosts, but this is actually a misnomer. Ghosts as most people think of them, i.e. the restless spirits of the dead, are only a small subset of the ectoplasmic population. There’s plenty of them that were never human to begin with,” higher up on the board, she wrote INFINITE REALMS, “Ecto-entities originate from a parallel dimension to ours, which is called the Infinite Realms by its inhabitants. Though my parents refer to it as the Ghost Zone, that name is woefully inadequate.” Jazz paused and glanced at him.

“Kinda like foreigners renaming places instead of using the one in the native language, gotcha,” Tim nodded. They had dealt with alternate realities before, so this wasn’t completely out of left field. He would go along with it for now. Jazz gave him a small smile.

“That’s right!” she said and tapped the whiteboard, “Now, the Infinite Realms and our dimension are closely interconnected, like two sides of the same coin. Large scale damage to one would cause similar devastation on the opposite side and vice versa,” she gave him a serious look.

“Which makes the hostile attitude of the paranormal research community rather worrying,” Tim mused, “If someone did something stupid the blowback would hit us too,” If he wasn’t trained to read people he would have missed the slight tightening around Jazz’s eyes.

“That’s the theory anyway. And it’s not like the US government ever dropped bombs on people just to see what would happen,” she chirped with false cheeriness.

There’s a story there, Tim thought, and not the kind you would find in a history book. What the hell has been going on?

“I’m guessing getting access to the Infinite Realms isn’t as easy as calling an Uber though,” he joked.

“You’d be surprised,” Jazz said wryly, receiving a raised eyebrow in response, “there are places where the barrier between worlds is naturally thin, allowing temporary rifts to form more easily, but they can pop up pretty much anywhere in the world. It’s what allows ecto-entities to enter our dimension. It’s also not unheard of for humans to stumble into the Realms either, though they’re lucky to return at all,” she twirled the marker between her fingers, “Time doesn’t seem to work the same way in the Realms as it does here. Just in case you ever come across one, make sure to leave through the same portal you entered. Otherwise you might find yourself stranded in the Middle Ages, or far in the future with everyone you know and love long dead.”

Tim had to fight to keep down a wince. The whole Bruce Lost In Time Debacle was still an emotional scar for the family, they really didn’t need a repeat performance.

“Duly noted.”

“Some entities are able to open and close rifts at will,” Jazz continued, unfazed by Tim’s dry tone, ”though that ability seems to be pretty rare. It probably requires an unusual level of power or incursions would be much more common.”

“That would explain the little disappearing trick Damian’s delivery guy pulled,” Jason murmured through Tim’s earpiece, “But does that mean we’re dealing with a fucking super ghost?”

Tim gave a thoughtful hum and drummed his fingers against the edge of the desk.

“Do you think humans could open a portal to the Realms?”

Jazz gave him a wry smile.

“You just summed up the bulk of my parents’ research over the last two decades. They managed to build a functioning portal about two years ago.”

Tim choked. Jason swore.

“What?! But that’s-! How is that not all over the news?!” Tim sputtered. Jazz just sighed.

“My parents have been ranting about ghosts since they were in college,” she said wearily, ”Most of the scientific community had written them off as crackpots years ago. It doesn’t help that large concentrations of ectoplasm generate some kind of interference that messes with recording equipment. Short of kidnapping the naysayers and shoving them bodily through the Fenton Ghost Portal it’s hard to prove anything. And thankfully even my parents aren’t that crazy,” she finished with an eye roll.

Tim buried his face in his hands. An interdimensional portal. What the fuck. He thought back on everything Jazz had told him so far.

“What’s ectoplasm?”

“You’ve been paying attention!” she smiled and added some notes to the whiteboard, “Ectoplasm is the basic building block of everything in the Infinite Realms, and by extension ecto-entities. Hence the name. It’s the equivalent of matter in our dimension; atoms, protons, quarks, etcetera. I’m not a physicist, so I can’t tell you exactly how it works, but that’s why ecto-entities are able to interact with our physical world in such fascinating ways. Flight, intangibility and invisibility are all common abilities for them.”

“Wow, what a fucking security nightmare. B is gonna freak,” Jason groused. Tim tuned him out to focus on Jazz’s continued explanation.

“My parents have been experimenting with using ectoplasm for power generation, but it’s proven extremely volatile. It seems like it’s affected by things like belief and emotion which is absolutely fascinating,” she said with a gleam in her eye, “not to mention its effects on organic tissue. Have you ever had your dinner come to life and try to eat you?”

Tim had a sudden, horrible suspicion.

“Can’t say that I have,” he managed to squeeze out past the lump in his throat, “Um… Jazz, what does ectoplasm look like?”

“Well that depends on what it’s been affected and shaped by but in its raw form it looks like a bright green, glowing liquid,” she tilted her head, “Why do you ask?”

Over the comms, Jason made a sound like someone had kicked him in the crotch.

“Lazarus water?! Is she talking about the fucking pits?!” he choked out.

Tim made a valiant effort to keep his own reaction in check.

“Oh, just wondering how I’ll recognize a ghost- er, ecto-entity when I see one,” he lied with fake casualness, “You mentioned something about powers?”

“Yes! All the entities we’ve encountered so far have exhibited powers which are common to their species, as well as additional powers that seem to depend on the individual core. I’ve theorized that powers develop as a response to stress related to either their Obsession or death trauma…” Jazz trailed off, “aaaaaand I’ve lost you.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, I know I have a tendency to ramble,” she said sheepishly and considered the bullet points she had written so far, “Let me backtrack a bit. Not all ecto-entities are ghosts. There’s personifications of concepts, which I theorize are formed through the collective consciousness of living beings. They are entities which represent Hope or Justice or-”

“Time?” Tim interjected. Jazz gave him a calculating look.

“...sure. They are among the most powerful entities and have powers related to what they represent. I suspect they may have even been worshipped as gods at some point. You definitely wouldn’t want to mess with them,” at Tim’s nod, she continued, “There’s also the Neverborn, which are formed when ecto-entities choose to reproduce. They are entirely of the Infinite Realms, and thus were never ‘born’ into our world.”

“Ghosts can have children?” he said, surprised.

“Yes, although I’ve never been able to get the details on how it works. They don’t like to discuss it with outsiders. And considering they can look like dragons or disembodied floating eyeballs I’m not sure I’d want to know the exact mechanics,” she joked.

“I’m sure there’s plenty of people who’d disagree with you on that,” Tim muttered, then paused. “Wait, dragons?”

Jazz waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. The point is that there’s way more to the other side than most people realize. There’s probably lots of things I’ve never even heard of. It’s quite exciting, really!”

Tim worried about it. A lot. Jason had also gone suspiciously quiet.

“So, ghosts are just the tip of the iceberg?” Tim hedged.

“Exactly. What sets them apart from other ecto-entities is that they are usually created upon the death of someone or something from our dimension, which gives them motivation to come back here,” Jazz added more notes and arrows to the whiteboard. “All entities have something they call a core; think of it as their central organ or brain. It houses their consciousness, and its nature affects what powers they get. There’s all kinds of elemental cores like fire and water, but also more esoteric ones like shadow or technology. An ecto-entity’s body is composed of ectoplasm and moulded by their core. Their physical form is malleable and heavily based on their self-perception. With experience they can change shape to suit their needs.”

Tim mentally added shapeshifting to the growing list of powers to worry about. So far it sounded a lot like a Martian’s.

“So can ecto-entities grow and age?”

“It depends. The Neverborn usually do, but a lot of ghosts have a bit of a Peter Pan thing going on where they don’t want to. They are often ‘stuck’ at the age they were when they died, physically and mentally. Though there’s always exceptions.”

Tim hummed thoughtfully. Something had been bothering him since ghosts had first entered the equation.

“Jazz, if ghosts don’t age or die, why aren’t they all over the place? Even if rifts are rare, shouldn’t there be hundreds of thousands of years worth of dead folks wandering the Earth?”

She gave him a sad smile.

“I never said ghosts couldn’t die, Adam,” she said carefully, ”And not everyone who dies comes back as a ghost. The ones who do typically have some unfinished business holding them back. Like an obsession they never got to fulfill, or a loved one they are watching over. Once they are done, they are free to move on to whatever Afterlife awaits them,” she sighed and crossed her arms, “It also takes a lot of energy for a ghost to do anything in our world. I think a majority of them never hit that level, or can’t keep it up for any significant amount of time. It’s also part of the reason my parents are so biased against them.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Think about it. Most ecto-entities are just like regular people, going about their business and keeping their heads down. The ones who are both motivated to cross into our world, powerful enough to manifest and tend to make themselves known are the troublemakers. It would be like an alien looking at the population of Belle Reve and concluding that the majority of humans must be super villains! It’s sample bias.”

Tim bit his lip. This all sounded worryingly plausible, which would mean a literal world of trouble about to come down on their heads. Fuck, just what we needed.

“You mentioned that ghosts can die. I assume you don’t mean from old age, right?” he queried. Jazz looked at him wearily.

“You’d be right. If an ecto-entity’s core is too badly damaged, they will cease to exist,” she said cautiously, “It doesn’t help that ghosts tend to maintain a strength based social hierarchy and are fiercely protective of their territory. Ecto-entities usually have a lair within the Infinite Realms, and those who cross over to our dimension often establish a haunt to call their own. Any intruders would be met with violence,” she sighed and rubbed her forehead, “My parents have also been developing weapons to fight ghosts with… varying degrees of success. A lot of their tech runs on ectoplasm which makes it pretty temperamental.”

Seeing Jazz’s obvious discomfort with the topic, Tim decided to switch tracks.

“Is there any way to tell for sure if my brother came back as a ghost?”

Relieved at the change, Jazz made a see-sawing motion with her hand.

“Kind of? My parents tried for ages to build a ghost detector but they never got it to work quite right. Too much ambient ectoplasm in Amity I guess,” she shrugged as if that statement wasn’t extremely worrying. “You could always grab a ouija board or something and try asking. Just… don’t ask a ghost about their death. It’s a major trauma for most of them and there’s no better way to send them into a frothing rage. If they volunteer the information that’s one thing, but to ask about it is like the social faux pas among ecto-entities.”

Tim nodded and made a mental note to get his hands on some Fenton tech. He had a feeling it was going to be a long week for him.

Jason and Tim didn’t speak until they were safely back in the car. Tim was mentally composing the report they would have to make to Bruce. He was not looking forward to his reaction.

“So,” Jason began with fake casualness, “an interdimensional portal in Illinois.”

“Yep.”

“Creatures made of fucking Lazarus Water.”

“Sounds like it.”

“And we still don’t know if our mystery meta is Bruce’s dead kid or not.”

Tim groaned.

“It all adds up though, doesn’t it? The camera glitching, the powers, the portal…”

“And that damned prophecy. The personification of Time, huh?”

Tim pinched his nose to stave off the growing headache. They contemplated the fucked up situation they had stumbled into in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Jason sighed and started up the engine.

“Rock-paper-scissors for who has to tell B?”

Part 6

[blazingpeter]

Piva Siblings!

I saw that one anon ask @sm-baby about OC siblings and I really wanted to make some for Piva!

⋄ Bibi and Agua tend to stick together a lot. Extroveter adopting the Introvert and all that.

⋄ They like each others texture you'll find them melding hands a lot!

⋄ Buttery tends to stick to the players, helping those who ask for it. She's aware of her sisters temper so she'll keep troublemakers out of Piva's hair.

⋄ Out of the four, Buttery is a fan favorite, garnering people to come ask her for photos. They take advantage of this by making people win certain games for the photo.

⋄ Ragatha thinks this is extortion, Buttery thinks its a way to keep the grounds moving and less problems for the sisters.

⋄ Bibi likes to join Pomni for some of her performances, much to Pomni's dismay (Absolutely no form or grace, its like watching a firecracker tied to a hotdog)

⋄ Agua's been dubbed the babysitter, keeping younger players company, kind of like a constant easy-mode/tutorial tips avatar.

⋄ Buttery makes herself shorter for the players by moving her access mass to fill out the skirt of her dress. She moves how a slug does, only much much faster.

First design in MS Paint

[archivlibrarianist]

"British researchers have discovered that a ‘copy’ of Magna Carta owned by Harvard Law School is in fact an extraordinarily rare original from 1300.

"...Considered a key step in the evolution of human rights against oppressive rulers, Magna Carta has formed the basis of constitutions around the world. It was influential in the founding of the United States, from the Declaration of Independence to the framing of the U.S. Constitution and the subsequent adoption of the Bill of Rights.

"The Harvard Law School Library bought the document known as ‘HLS MS 172’ in 1946 for a sum of $27.50, according to the library’s accession register. The auction catalogue described the manuscript as a “copy … made in 1327 … somewhat rubbed and damp-stained.” It had been purchased a month or so earlier by the London bookdealers Sweet & Maxwell, via Sotheby’s, from a Royal Air Force war hero for a mere £42."

[revxwrites]

Here we are again with my ms paint doodles (technically this is a continuation from last post)

Anyways sneek peek at my own personal Gene design but that doesn't matter

ONWARD WITH THE RAMBLE! /silly

cw mentions of cannibalism and gore-ish (?)

so, shadow knights scars glow when they're in their SK form, as well as their eyes going entirely red. their scars don't emit much light, but there's SK's like Sasha who are practically covered in head to toe with scars (mostly due to how she died) which makes her emit a decent amount of light to walk caves

silly thing i forgot to mention is that they also have fangs (as again mentioned in gene's story). this allows them to easily consume their carnivore diet easier.

with that said, when in SK form, incomplete shadow knights tend to go feral easier than immortal ones ie. Laurence during the werewolf wedding. zenix before he gained his immortality

FORGOT TO ADD!

the redder a shadow knights eyes are, the less humanity they retain, no shadow knight is truly inhumane, even after their immortality is reached. ie. gene still has a bit of blue in his eyes.

the only person of the shadow lord's army to be TRULY inhumane is Shad himself and it shows. using young people for his bidding (zenix, brian and zane to an extent), doing whatever is necessary to fulfill his goals.

---

also when i meant they're stinky, i meant it, they are reanimated walking corpses after all, they typically smell of either: rot, ash, sulphur or in very rare occasions metallic (makes sense if they died with armor)

their armor is still very much a work in progress for me because all armor i've designed so far is like- normal-ish?? chainmail, iron and such

fantasy armor isn't my strong suit :sob:

what i DO know is that sergeants have a lil bandana / arm band that shows their rank

netherite DOES exist in my rewrite but it's just another type of metal, more resistant to heat and the elements and such, but extremely hard to obtain since SK's don't have access to lots of gold since it's been mostly mined out close by their fortress, but even so no shadow knight knows how to properly work the metal

the only one that figured out was vylad, who learned from a traveling group of piglins one day in his usual 'disappear until i'm most needed TM' moments even so, since he's a guy light on his feet, and armor would weigh him down a lot, he only has some leg/knee guards and shoulder guards

[eagans]

“it’s not a binary did love transcend question”

@helenaeaganenjoyer i've been thinking about your tags and i just wanted to say, there's so much to chew on here. it's not a binary did love transcend question!!!! i've been trying to put my finger on why we see that question manifested differently in mark/helly/helena vs mark/gemma—and the thing about making sweeping statements on whether love transcended in either case is that: it ignores the fact that love is not one single, static thing. in mark (both innie and outie form) and helena's case, chemistry and attraction transcended. in (i)mark and ms casey's case, affinity and trust transcended—as well as between (o)mark and gemma's final innie. (i personally don't think it's just a matter of him being the first real person she sees; hell, that man is covered extensively in blood. we know gemma can be strong-willed and combative too—she tried to break dr mauer's fingers!—so there must've been something about mark that made her 'blank slate' innie trust him.) and the thing i keep going back to is—i think mark and gemma have both just changed too much as people. once we've gotten to know the 'real' gemma in 2.07, it's so obvious just how different ms casey is from who gemma was. how much of that is because of her extremely short 107 hours lifespan? hard to say, but considering that helly at her 'blank slate' woke up absolutely feral... just what else did they do to gemma to turn her into ms casey, who had this somewhat eerie, unnatural quality to her?

the other thing you mentioned here is individuation as time goes on, which is definitely more interesting to think about in the case of mark, who has been severed for much, much longer than hellyna. the s2 finale that took two whole seasons to build to culminates in the conflict between innie and outie mark, a conflict that stems from the fact that they have different and incompatible desires (which the show uses helly and gemma as shorthands for, but it's about so, so much more than that; it was never about 'helly vs gemma'). and all of this is caused by just how long mark's separate selves spent accumulating experiences in completely different and segregated environments, thus forming different (divergent) identities; how then, do you recombine two halves with edges that no longer fit together because they have been reshaped in independent ways? is this incompatibility what caused petey's reintegration sickness?

one thing i do want to add though, is that even given all this, i still don't think it makes the innies and outies different people, but just the same person with different identities; each identity possesses a full agency as any other human being does, of course, but this also largely has to do with the fact that these different identities can't coexist at the same time—only one is in control of the body at any given moment. the closest analogy we have to 'co-sharing' is when helena was impersonating helly at the beginning of the season. and, like you said, helena has the unique advantage of having access to her innie's memories via external means (security tapes). all of this, i think, is the basis for why we saw this 'natural reintegration' (converging of personalities) happen between helly and helena towards the end of the season. most important of all though, i LOVE the point you made about strong feelings being the key to reintegration—because we did see reghabi attempt to use shame as a trigger for mark's reintegration. except the thing is, like you said, there's no stronger feeling than being in love. love, in whatever form, is what bleeds through the severance barrier over and over. being in love is the catalyst for both helly and helena's transformation. of course it's love. it's always love.

[butterfwiesndinorawrs]

🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰

Hi everybunny! My name is Bo and I have a passion to help others grow! My friend Ms. Spark has the same passion to help but with her own spark and flare of art. Our human Misky has studied holistic healing and art/play therapy techniques for years and we've picked up a thing or two here and there. This is our opportunity to share what we've learned along our trails.

🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰

Identifying emotions in the body:

Have you ever noticed how sometimes our emotions show up in our bodies or how we can identify exactly where an emotion may "sit" within our bodies? Like how anxiety can give you a headache, or anger can make your tummy hurt as a few examples.. This is normal and emotions "sit" in different places of the body for different situations and for different people. It can be helpful to identify emotions and where they are in your own body so you can take the proper steps to address those emotions.

Doing this activity is easy, you need to draw something that represents you. That can be a physical shape of your body, or a simple shape or really anything you want that helps you identify this as your own body. Once you have your "body", identify the main emotion you're feeling and assign that emotion a color. Next you give that emotion a form where it sits in your body. This means drawing what it looks like or feels like to you. There are no wrong answers here. All of your emotions and how they interact with your body are valid. Afterward you find a solution that may help benefit the emotion and if possible that part of the body. Look to the examples below for a better idea of this activity.

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Examples:

We'll start with Misky's.

Feeling anxiety in the mind and the color chosen was a mix between purple and brown. Misky chose the mixed color because it suited the cause of anxiety, a mix of reasons. The form chosen was a ball of swirls to represent chaos. On the other side the intended outcome was a peaceful feeling in the mind so Misky decided to meditate.

After meditating Misky felt lighter and represented that with wings. Her mind felt more clear and she chose yellow beams to represent that. Misky also discovered her heart felt happier so she drew a heart to symbolize that as well.

Bo Bunny was feeling sadness in his heart so he chose to watch funny bunny videos. Afterward his heart felt happy, represented by the smiling heart. He laughed a lot which he drew with a big open smile and laugh lines coming out and he had stars in his eyes over the bunnies so he drew those as well.

Ms. Spark was feeling angry and she felt that in her tummy and it showed in her facial expressions. She decided to have a healthy snack and go for a run to get that access anger energy out. Afterward her tummy felt better, her facial expressions were more relaxed and she noticed her mind was more clear too so she added something to symbolize that as well.

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Reflection:

If you would like to take this a step further you can journal about this. Some promts you could use are:

What emotion was I feeling and what caused it?

Where did that emotion sit within my body?

The activity I choose to help overcome the emotion was...

Other activities I can try would be...

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Final Thoughts:

Your drawings don't have to be perfect. This isn't about making the next masterpiece (it's okay if you do though) the point of using art in a therapeutic setting is not about having a "pretty" outcome. It's about processing emotions in ways the brain cannot do so alone. We hope you find this activity helpful. Remember you can do this activity with any emotion, the examples here are just ideas to help guide you in your own activity. If you are open to sharing and showing your drawing we would love to see and hear about it! You can reblog and add your drawing, make your own post and tag this blog or you can submit to this blog if you'd like. Until next time be kind to yourself, be patient with yourself and show yourself lots and lots of love, you deserve it!

-Bo Bunny and Ms. Spark 💙🐰🧡

[tsukimefuku]

wardrobe malfunction ❖ nanami kento

summary: your cursed technique isn't exactly clothing-friendly, and when you find yourself in a less than ideal situation, you only had one person you could ask for help.

tags: jujutsu kaisen, f!reader, light nanami x reader, cursing, kind of suggestive but not exactly (?), second hand embarrassment is real, this is just pure crack to be honest, is reader lucky or unlucky? i fret, for i do not know, this is barely proofread because i wrote this absolute nonsense on a complete whim, i hope you have as much fun reading this as i did writing it.

wc: 1k

❖ collection of stories: "jujutsu partners au" → masterlist for fics listed in chronological order of events

You had just finished blowing up a grade 2 curse that lunged at you full-speed. Your chest heaved up and down with tiny droplets of sweat coming down, as you panted inside the abandoned apartment complex. For a while, the adrenaline pumping through your veins made it hard to assess your state, but then, as you began decelerating and looked at your body, you realized something.

“Oh, no. Not again.” 

Considering your innate cursed technique involved casting small bombs of cursed energy, they could blow up through many things, and when you didn’t manage to distance yourself from them before the impact… Well, safe to say that some things were bound to happen.

You pulled your phone ready to call… someone. Anyone, really. But the ancient piece of technology that you failed to replace in these past few weeks wouldn’t let you access your contacts list, providing you solely with your three last dialed numbers — Gojo, Yaga and Nanami.

Your fucking phone. Your damn, fucking phone.

Just thinking about this had you beyond mortified, but it was either this, or never leaving the building again. So you took a deep breath before pressing dial.

***

Nanami found Shoko to take care of some minor injuries on his arm, and as she was finished, his phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, and saw your name flashing on the screen.

As he answered, you stuttered for a moment before mustering up the courage to speak.

“So, Nanami, I need, uh, some assistance.” 

He found that to be odd, considering you knew he was on another mission today, and this was a solo endeavor for you.

“Has something happened?”

“So, you know how my technique works, right?”

That question had the sorcerer feeling somewhat puzzled, given he had seen you use it — and explain it — multiple times already.

“Of course, we've been on missions together, and you have explained it to me more than once.”

You sighed before proceeding. “So, here's the thing, I kind of blew myself up.” 

That quickly got his attention and he tensed up. Shoko had just finished removing her gloves and noticed it.

“Are you injured?” His usually impassive voice had a hint of worry to it.

“No, no. I'm fine. Sometimes this kind of happens, and I'm pretty used to blocking the impact and using RCT if needed.” 

Is it her? Is she okay? She better be, I need her tomorrow, Shoko whispered at Nanami as she walked around and sat on a bench in front of him.

He didn’t notice what she asked, as he was humming confusedly, given you still hadn’t clarified why you called.

Your voice kind of cracked up for a moment, as you violently blushed on the other side. At least, the phone is an imageless form of communication.

“So, I’m okay. But my clothes, they, uh… I blew them up.”

He slowly began taking in what exactly you were saying.

“That's it, that’s what happened. I… I need clothes, please. Can you bring me some, just so I can get out of here without getting arrested for public indecency?”

Nanami kept silent for some time, and felt a slight rush of heat run over his cheeks.

“Nanami?” 

He coughed slightly, tensing his posture as he did.

“Yes, of course. But wouldn't you rather someone else to do that for you, like Ms. Nitta, or one of the female students?” 

That caught Shoko’s attention, and she discreetly looked at the sorcerer while he was still on the phone with you.

You nearly gagged.

“No! No way. I… I'm mortified as is.”

Somebody please fucking kill me.

“I can't talk about this with anyone else. It's too damn embarrassing,”  you stated, letting your mind go to random facts in order to try lifting the mood. “I now understand why that student from Kyoto keeps taking his shirt off to fight, but that's beside the point.”

You were met at the wake of your failed joke.

“I-I mean… Just bring me something, please.” 

Nanami cleared his throat as he pulled on his tie and opened his shirt’s top button.

“Fine. Send me your location.”

You sighed, relieved.

“Great, you're the best, thank you!”

He switched his phone off and grounded himself for a moment.

“Is she alright?” 

“Yes, she is,” he answered, some words choking on their way up for a second. “Ms. Ieiri, do you happen to have any clothes around here?” 

“What? Why would you need that?”

He couldn’t muster up anything remotely feasible to say, and given that embarrassment is an infectious condition, it began creeping up on him, too.

Nanami resumed speaking. “… I'm sorry to bother you. I just remembered I can get an assistant's uniform.” 

He then walked towards the door to leave.

“Nanami…” Shoko began.

“Hm?” He asked, as turning around.

“… Are you blushing?”

“... Good afternoon,” he answered, before stepping out a little quicker than usual.

***

Nanami had just arrived, and you let him know you were upstairs. As he asked how you wanted to receive the clothes, you were insistent that he threw the bag over the steps, and being a reasonable and rational person, the sorcerer obviously declined to do that.

“Just throw the thing already!” you yelled from the top of the stairs, away from his sight.

“I’m not uncivilized,” he replied, sighing. “I’m going to put them down here, and wait for you outside.”  

Nanami was considerably less mortified than you would expect, but it was him, Mr. mature, after all. Also, this wasn’t the first embarrassing situation of yours that he had witnessed.

You were prone to setting yourself up for absurd shenanigans, it seemed.

As you heard him leave and close the door, you stepped your way down and flimsily put the black pants and white buttoned shirt, which didn’t match at all with the hiking boots you usually wore on missions.

You went outside, and were met by him, his usual impassiveness slightly disturbed by something you couldn’t quite yet identify.

“Thank you, Nanami,” you stated, sighing relieved.

“It’s no trouble,” he answered, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. 

You were both uncomfortably silent for a while.

“These kinds of unexpected things happ-”

“We will never talk about this again as long as I live, please, I can’t cope” you pleaded, voice simmering with desperation for this awkward moment to be over, “just, please.” 

He cleared his throat, mindlessly adjusting his tie around his neck. It strangely felt more tight than usual.

“Of course. I apologize.”

“No need. It’s fine. Let’s just go back to Jujutsu High and pretend this never happened.”

“I do not know what you’re talking about,” he said, sparing you a quick glance.

You smiled, amused and thankful.

“Right. Precisely.” 

[stari-hun]

Just wanna point out how different Jiu looks from Insight 1 (main story and her character story before then) to her form at the end of the main story (Insight 2).

Her Insight 1 outfit is the clothing she got from her guardian Ms Xu. It’s not only a symbol of her humanity but her ties to the world as well, and something a Xiangrui shouldn’t have. Even down to her embroidered bag with poetry on it about her, it's something she doesn't quite understand despite being a direct part of it. The bag is FOR her and about her, but she can't read it. Being literate is one of the most important things when it comes to interacting with society and a part of education. She wants to know about Xiangrui's, but she already is one. She can't learn about other people like her because she can't read, she has no access to knowledge apart from stories that are retold a hundred times and changed even more. Every connection to her mother and why she fell from the heavens for Jiu are things that she can only learn from other people, but at the same time she doesn't know what she's looking for because her world view isn't big enough to know where to look. Much like the way she memorizes the poems on her bag without directly being able to read them, she's going with the motions in an attempt to understand humans in the way she has from the start.

"A Xiangrui is not supposed to have any personal feelings. She fell because of you, because of the personal feeling. Remember that."

-

Then her Insight 2 outfit is very clearly an arcanist in all senses of the word. Even by the standards of Pei City which accepts arcanists as simply another kind of person, Jiu then appears clearly nonhuman in the same way Getian does. Her character story CG shows the way no one looks to her as a Xiangrui as she looks to the narration (player/camera). Jiu has let go of her personal feelings and attachment to acting as a normal arcanist in her last attempt to fulfill her duties as a Xiangrui and reverse the curse, but in return she's lost the things that made her happy with humans. Things that she already had as a Xiangrui who granted the wishes of the people in town. One of the cruelest parts yet is that Xiangrui's are likely like Meimengs where they can't grant wishes but simply have the knowledge and strength to help others.

"Be a Xiangrui, and then you will understand her."

Congratulations on becoming a Xiangrui, Jiu

[howlingday]

Ozpin: so let me get this straight. After getting in a "wizard war" you four.

Ozpin gestured to Jaune, Sun, Neptune, and Ren as all four were wearing robes.

Ozpin: decided to.. form a gang?

All four of the huntsmen in-training simply nodded.

Ozpin: and you call yourself the.. gods above I'm gonna have to say it, the -

Jaune: no need headmaster, we already rehearsed this.

Ozpin: rehearsed- oh no..

Sun: We are-

Neptune: shadow!

Ren: wizard!

Jaune: Money!

Sun: GANG!

Ozpin:.. and I assume Ms. Rose is involved as well?

Ruby: WE LOVE CASTING SPELLS!

Ozpin:... I'm going to need glynda and Qrow because I think my infinite well of patience is drying up.. and I need a drink.

Ozpin thought he was done with this. After the amount of effort it took to reverse the effects of last time, he certain his students had learned their lesson and would move forward with the intention of practicing safe magic. Perhaps he could even set a curriculum and have magic brought back into society with care, caution, and perhaps even the same amount of dignity he and Salem shared in their dabbling of the arcane.

"I don't even know how you children gained access to such magic."

"The shadow government." Ruby answered.

"The shadow government?"

"Yup."

"And the shadow government is in...?" Ozpin rolled his hand.

"The shadows."

Ozpin was going to just let it go at this point. "And what, dare I ask, is your intention with using magic?"

"Legalize nuclear bombs!" Jaune shouted with no shortage of enthusiasm.

"The return of the swag messiah!" Sun added, equally excited.

"Call the fire department!" Neptune chimed in.

"Call..." Ozpin was taken aback by the statement. "Why do I need to contact the fire department?"

"WE JUST NUKED THE BUILDING." Ren's eyes bore deep into the headmaster's. If one were to slow down time and pause each frame minute by minute and second by second, you could see Ozpin's face shift through the six stages of acceptance, with the sixth stage being wrapping his hands around each of the Shadow Wizard Money Gang's necks... at the same time.

"I understand now, Professor..." Ruby said, just before his fingers closed around her neck. He paused. "Smoking is bad for your health. Especially when it's your own flesh."

Ozpin stood over the lifeless corpses of his students. He gave a hefty sigh as he looked out the window to the now destroyed west wing of Beacon Academy. The good new was the west wing was being fumigated this week. The bad news was that he now had to add a hefty chunk of change to his repairs and renovations.

"Glynda, contact the council and tell them I need approximately 2500 gold pieces equivalent of lien. Then tell them I'm outlawing magic once and for all."

[hivemuthur]

What was that? - Ch. 12.

viktorxfemale!OFC mature

friends to lovers, co-workers, sexual tension up to the wazoo, pinning and banter that got me frustrated when I was writing it, attempt at humour, some angst and a slow burn with a happy ending and a classic Viktor for once

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6. | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.9. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.13. | Ch.14. | Ch.15.

word count: 5,1K

tag: #what was that

author’s note: @rennethen as beta reader

Cross-posted on AO3

—

The week was such a drag for Renly. With Heimerdinger buried in other projects, she had to deal with students panicking over their theses and exams. She had managed to steal only brief moments with Viktor—a quick kiss when Jayce wasn’t looking (and a quick shag when he went out to meet Mel once). Meanwhile, she was stuck at the academy, unable to focus on her actual work, while Viktor remained in the lab, diligently doing his.

They were scheduled for a lunch date, which was the only thing keeping her alive today. But as the hours dragged on, it began to seem less and less doable. A group of students had ambushed her after the lecture, shouting questions over one another and waving their papers in her face. Her breath hitched as she made yet another faint attempt to keep them in order, her head spinning slightly, when a distant, familiar voice cut through the chaos.

“I think it would prove more efficient if each of you signed up for Ms. Huxley’s office hours.”

Viktor was leaning in the doorframe of the lecture hall, his cane resting idly in front of him, as his sharp, unforgiving gaze swept over the group of desperate abusers. The room fell silent, save for a few faint protests echoing across the walls and the shuffle of about a dozen reluctant pairs of feet passing Viktor as they exited. His look of disapproval left no room for negotiation, his suggestion tinged with an aftertaste of threat that no one dared challenge.

Her heart wanted to run up to him and hug him in gratitude, but her body refused. She slumped into her chair and buried her head in her arms, covering her ears tightly. Seeing Renly undergo what looked like a system shutdown, Viktor walked up to her, propped his cane against the desk, and motioned for her to get up. Once she did, he settled into the chair and gently pulled her onto his lap.

“What do you need?” he whispered, cradling her form to his chest as his open palms rubbed her shoulders, warming her.

“Quiet,” Renly croaked, swallowing the lump in her throat as she wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled her face into his hair. “Thank you for saving me.”

“Give me your hands.” He patted her hands and squeezed them tightly in his, placing them between their chests. Resting his forehead against hers, he inhaled deeply, motioning for her to do the same. “Breathe. We are alone.”

Following his lead, she closed her eyes and took a long, steady breath through her nose. The warmth of his palms grounded her, his scent enveloped her abused senses.

“Can you feel my heartbeat?” he asked, pressing her palm to his chest.

She nodded, her eyes still closed.

“Breathe with it. What’s the fabric of my shirt?”

Renly swallowed, her fingers tracing the stitching of his button-up. Her brows furrowed in focus as she whispered, “Linen?”

“Well done. What do I smell of?” He leaned into her, granting her access to his collar.

Instead, she nuzzled into his neck, taking a long whiff. A smile tugged at her lips against his skin as she felt the shiver that travelled down his body. “Parchment. And… mint?”

“Correct. Can you tell when I last shaved?”

She opened her eyes, tracing her fingers along his cheek. “Yesterday.” It was a cheat—she’d watched him do it. Still, it brought her to a fragile state of peace, one that Viktor had gently guided her toward.

Viktor nodded with a smile. “How do you feel?” His hands cupped her face.

“Better. Calmer,” she exhaled with relief and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thank you,” she murmured, pressing her nose against his face.

When she pulled back to look at him properly for the first time today, her brows furrowed. “You look… pale. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he lied. It was a small lie, but he felt the burning weight of it settle in the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t the time to tell her that the medicine wasn’t working as well anymore. He would tell her. Later.

“Just long hours—you know how it is,” he said, pressing his lips to her forehead before she could probe further. “Do you want to get that lunch?”

“I do,” she replied, shooting him an inquisitive look. “But we’re not done talking about… this.” She motioned vaguely around him. She could tell his breath was more shallow and his eyes more sunken. She had seen him tired before, but somehow, this felt familiar in a way she didn’t like.

“Of course, officer. Just let me have my last meal with my woman.”

Renly giggled and let herself be led toward the cafeteria. Most people at the academy knew by now—mostly thanks to Jayce’s big mouth—so the secretive glances they were getting weren’t surprising to her anymore. What was surprising, and she scolded herself for it, was that they were mostly longing glances in Viktor’s direction, cast by their coworkers and students. Of course, how had she not seen it before?

A pang of insecurity ran through her as they sat at the table, chatting about nonsense. Two students approached, giggling like students would, to tell Viktor that they loved his lecture. It was a lie, of course—Renly knew Viktor’s lectures well, and they were unbearably boring and meticulous. Even though Viktor’s unwavering devotion left her with no doubt about his interest, she scolded herself again when she felt the urge to mark her territory.

“Darling, I’ll have to get back to class soon. But I’ll see you in the evening?” She meant the lab, but didn’t mention it. It worked. The girls left with pouty faces.

Viktor smirked immediately. “What was that?”

“What?” The word came out as innocently as she could muster, though it carried the tone of someone caught in the act—which, of course, was exactly the case.

“Darling? You’ve never called me that.” True. She hadn’t assigned him a pet name yet. Viktor’s grin was becoming unbearable as he leaned over the table and pulled her toward him by her neck.

“Would you like to let everyone know I’m yours?” He rubbed his nose against her face, making it flush red—part embarrassment, part something else entirely. “Or maybe I should let everyone know that you are mine, hmm? Lásko.” His smirk was merciless.

“Viktor—” It was the last word she managed before he kissed her gently, right in front of everyone. She felt her cheeks burn, but she closed her eyes, letting herself drown in the moment, even in this unfamiliar setting.

When the kiss broke, her eyes were still squeezed shut, and she couldn’t help the grin blooming on her face. “Is there anything you won’t notice?” she asked, her voice light but tinged with embarrassment as she buried her red face in her hands.

“I don’t think so. Especially not something like that.” Viktor’s tone was smooth, utterly unfazed. He returned to eating the rest of his lunch, the satisfied smirk still lingering on his face as he chewed. “It feels good to know that you don’t take me for granted.”

“I’m glad you’re entertained,” she replied with a huffed laugh, the blush still creeping down her neck. Her eyes flicked to him briefly before darting away again. “I meant every word of it, though!”

“Of course.” Viktor’s voice held a teasing lilt as he set down his fork and turned to her fully. “Just forgot to mention that you’ll see me at the lab, didn’t you?”

“Aren’t you lucky to be so desired that women have to fight over you in the cafeteria?” she shot back, crossing her arms but failing to hide the playful glint in her eyes.

“Eh, I suppose so.” He shrugged, his smirk softening as he leaned closer. “I hope you know there is only one woman I want, yes?”

“I do,” she said, her tone gentler now. Her lips quirked into a small smile, though her blush lingered. “But… I dare say, the kiss it just got me was completely worth the indignity.”

“I shall take note of that,” Viktor said with mock seriousness, his golden-brown eyes twinkling mischievously.

“What?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That you are willing to undergo some undignified practices for a proper reward,” he replied, his smirk widening.

“You are impossible,” she groaned, shaking her head, though her grin betrayed her.

***

“Eh, and what do you think?” Viktor asked, more to the room than directly to Jayce. His eyes were shielded by goggles, his brows furrowed as he searched for another rune combination. He stood in front of the device, his cane leaning against the workbench as he balanced on his good leg. Jayce lingered nearby, arms crossed, his face unusually tense as they both watched the Hexcore’s crystalline structure shift and pulse, almost alive.

“It’s stabilising,” Jayce said, though his voice carried little satisfaction. “At least for now. But it’s… changing. I’m not sure we fully understand what we’ve created.”

Viktor’s fingers hovered just above the surface of the glowing core. He felt the thrum of energy, like a heartbeat beneath his palm. “No,” he admitted, his voice soft, almost reverent. “It is evolving. Becoming something… more. Perhaps something we cannot control.”

Jayce let out a breath, running a hand through his hair as he leaned in closer. “Where do you think we can go with it?”

“Eh, we are in uncharted waters here,” Viktor replied, his gaze unflinching. “But I believe it can take us beyond the border of what is possible and what is not.” He hesitated for a moment, his hand dropping to his side. “At least, I hope so.”

Jayce put his goggles on. “We should show it to Heimerdinger. This could be the revolution we’ve been searching for.”

Viktor flinched for a second. It could have been. It could also have been the means to his own salvation. “Yes. I’m afraid I’m relying on it more than I would like to admit.”

Jayce turned sharply to look at him. “Viktor, what are you saying?”

For a moment, Viktor said nothing, his eyes fixed on the Hexcore as if searching for answers in its shifting facets. Then he straightened slightly, gripping the edge of the table for balance. “My symptoms are slowly catching up with me, Jayce. My condition—” He faltered, his words catching in his throat before he forced them out. “It’s inching back to where it was.”

Jayce’s face softened, his frustration giving way to concern. “Why didn’t you say anything? To me? To Renly?” He felt a pang of guilt. They’d been working non-stop lately, and even though he’d noticed Viktor looking more pale and tired, he hadn’t asked.

Viktor’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Because it is not yours—or her—burden to bear.”

Jayce took a step closer, his voice gentler now. “But it is ours, Viktor. That’s what this partnership is. What your relationship with her is. None of this is about going it alone anymore.”

Viktor didn’t look up, his hands trembling slightly as they gripped the edge of the workbench. “Alone is simpler,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Alone, I can manage the consequences. I can accept them. But with you—” His voice faltered. “With her—it becomes… complicated. Messy.”

Jayce’s expression tightened. “Complicated isn’t always bad. Viktor, you know as well as I do that we didn’t get here by playing it safe or simple. You don’t have to shield us from this. From you.”

For a moment, Viktor was silent, the hum of the Hexcore filling the air between them. His voice, when it came, was low and heavy. “Do you know what I see when I look at this?” He gestured to the Hexcore, its crystalline surface shifting with an almost hypnotic glow. “I see possibility. But I also see something that consumes. Something that demands more than it gives.”

Jayce tilted his head. “And what do you demand of it?”

Viktor’s gaze flickered to Jayce; his golden-brown eyes shadowed. “More time,” he admitted quietly. “A chance to keep working. To be… useful.”

Jayce exhaled sharply, his hands clenching at his sides. “You’re more than just your work, Viktor. You know that, right? Renly knows that. And if the Hexcore can help you—if it can give you the time you need—you have to let us in. Let us help.”

Viktor’s lips twitched into a faint, bitter smile. “You make it sound so noble, Jayce. But you forget—help often comes at a price. A price I may not be willing to pay.”

Jayce shook his head, stepping closer. “And what about the price of shutting us out? Viktor, you promised her. You said you wouldn’t do this anymore—shouldering everything by yourself.”

The words struck like a hammer, and Viktor’s composure cracked just enough for Jayce to see the conflict roiling beneath. “I did,” Viktor admitted, his voice strained. “And I wish I could keep that promise. But you must understand, Jayce… I am not like you. I have walked too close to failure—too close to ruin—to believe that others can share the weight without it breaking them.”

Jayce’s brows furrowed, his voice softening further. “It’s not about breaking, Viktor. It’s about carrying it together. Renly would—no, will—fight for you, just as you’ve fought for this.” He gestured to the Hexcore. “You’ve given everything to this work. Isn’t it time to let it give something back?”

Viktor turned away; his shoulders hunched as though the weight of the conversation pressed down on him. “Perhaps,” he said after a long pause, “or perhaps it takes more than it gives. Either way… it is a risk only I should bear.”

Jayce placed a hand on Viktor’s shoulder, the rare gesture of comfort drawing Viktor’s gaze back to him. “Then don’t make it alone,” Jayce said, his tone steady. “We’re here for you, Viktor. And that includes her.”

Viktor studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighed, a sound of resignation and exhaustion. “You always were the optimist.”

“And you were always the realist,” Jayce replied, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “So let’s meet somewhere in the middle, eh?”

It wasn’t long before Renly clattered in, dropping all her bags filled with notes and students’ essays loudly on the floor. “How are my favourite coworkers?” she chirped through the corridor, stepping into the kitchen to find the coffee already made, presumably by Jayce.

Grabbing a cup, she marched toward the lab. “You will be very happy to hear that not only do I have the last essays to check with me, but I’ve also managed to make my apartment people-friendly—” She kept talking as she made her way through the hallway but stopped mid-step when she saw Jayce and Viktor leaning over the workbench, their brows furrowed, clearly having a serious conversation.

“Am I interrupting?” It was meant to come as a tease but came out more unsure than she’d intended. Viktor didn’t look up from whatever he was examining, though it seemed his eyes were fixed on his hands, splayed flat on the workbench.

Jayce lifted his head, offering her a forced smile. “I’ll give you two some space,” he said as he rose slowly, walking past Renly toward the exit. He patted her shoulder on his way out.

Renly glanced over to the Hexcore, its faint glint casting an eerie light across the dim room. The shifting hues of blue and purple flickered against the walls, creating a shadowy, restless atmosphere that mirrored her own growing unease. She willed her legs to move, the weight of uncertainty pressing against her chest, and walked slowly to sit opposite Viktor.

His head hung heavily from his neck; his body slumped into the chair as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Renly hesitated before reaching out, her hands trembling as they clasped his. She tried to form a question, but her voice betrayed her, leaving her with nothing but a gentle squeeze of his palms.

“I… wasn’t completely honest with you.” Viktor sighed heavily, the words leaving his lips like a stone dropping into a bottomless well. The load of his confession seemed to press him further into his seat. His head dipped lower, and for a moment, he stared at the floor before managing to lift his gaze—just enough to glance at their joined hands.

“I could tell,” Renly said softly, her voice no louder than a whisper. Her grip on him loosened, her shoulders slumping as though the weight of his words transferred to her. She leaned forward, searching his face with imploring eyes. “Just which department?”

“Health,” Viktor admitted, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hands tighter, as though willing his touch to convey what his words could not. “I’ve been feeling progressively worse over the course of the last two weeks.”

Renly gasped, her fingers twitching before she instinctively released his hands. The sudden absence of her touch seemed to make him smaller. Her brows furrowed, and her lips parted as she struggled to process his admission. “What of your medicine journal?” she asked, her tone sharpened by disbelief.

“I… might have made it look better than it was in truth.” Silence, for a moment.

“I don’t understand.” Her voice cracked, a mixture of confusion and anger lacing her words. “Why didn’t you report it to me? Everyone else is improving; I…”

“I know.” Viktor’s voice was steady, but there was a crack beneath the surface. “Which is precisely why… I’m afraid my case might be irrelevant to your research.”

Renly’s eyes narrowed as she straightened, her hands now clenched into fists on her lap. “And you have made this decision without including me—a person who does the research—why?”

“Renly—”

“No,” she interrupted, standing abruptly. Her chair scraped against the floor as she began pacing the length of the room, her movements slow but deliberate. She ran a hand through her hair, the other gesturing aimlessly as if she were trying to grasp her own swirling thoughts. “Please, tell me—what made you feel like lying to me every time I asked you how you were feeling? What made you think taking a cure that is clearly not working was a better choice than telling me, so I could look into it?”

Viktor sat motionless, his shoulders tense and his head tilted downward, as though her words were striking him blow by blow. “Because there might be another way,” he said finally, his tone low but resolute. “And I didn’t want to distract you before I was sure.”

Renly let out a disbelieving laugh, her pacing halting momentarily as she turned to face him. “Distract me?” she echoed, her voice rising. “This is my work, Viktor. If you can’t understand how harmful this is in scientific terms, I don’t even want to know what was driving you when you didn’t tell me—as someone who’s in a relationship with you for… what, a month?”

“Renly, please.” Viktor’s voice was pleading now, but he remained in his seat, his posture rigid.

“You could’ve lied about the coffee, but this?” Her voice cracked, and she turned away from him, resuming her pacing.

“I… technically did lie about the coffee, too,” Viktor said, a faint attempt at levity breaking through his otherwise sombre tone.

Renly froze, staring at him in stunned silence for a moment before she exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to him. Her hands gripped the back of her chair as she leaned against it, her eyes darting to the Hexcore before returning to him.

“Yes, well… technically, I don’t count the spoons. I just… eyeball it.” Viktor let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and self-deprecating. It might have been a good joke, in different circumstances.

Renly didn’t react. Her gaze remained fixed on the table, her fingers absently tracing the patterns in the wood as though searching for answers within its grain. When she finally spoke, her tone was flat, almost clinical. “I will need a sample from you.”

“I… are you sure?” Viktor asked, his hesitation slipping through in a rare moment of uncertainty.

“Viktor, I will need a sample from you so I can carry on working.” She lifted her head then, her eyes meeting his with a sharp intensity. “I hope whatever you think you have as an alternative was worth endangering my research. And us.”

The words landed like a heavy slap, but Viktor nodded silently, rolling up his sleeve with slow, deliberate movements. “Of course,” he murmured. His gaze flicked toward her briefly, as though searching for a trace of softness in her expression. “Endangering you or us, Renly, is the last thing I wanted.”

“Well, care to tell me why you did it, then?” She straightened and walked over to her workstation, collecting the necessary tools with precise, almost robotic movements.

“The Hexcore.” Viktor’s voice was steady, though there was an undercurrent of conviction—perhaps even defiance—beneath his words. “It’s… evolving. I think it might be the answer.”

Renly froze for a moment, her back to him, before turning slowly. The look in her eyes was unreadable, her expression carefully neutral, though her knuckles whitened as she gripped the equipment. “This?” she repeated, her voice low and cold. “This… highly uncertain and potentially dangerous thing is what you are relying on?” A mirthless chuckle escaped her lips. “Unbelievable.”

“You haven’t seen where we’ve got with it,” Viktor replied, his tone softening as if he were trying to coax her into understanding.

“Viktor,” Renly snapped, striding back to his side and setting the equipment on the table with a sharp clatter. “All it’s been doing is killing plants for the last two weeks. You can’t be serious.”

Viktor opened his mouth to respond, but her glare silenced him. Without waiting for further explanation, she grabbed his arm, adjusting his position brusquely. Her touch was firm, precise—nothing like the gentle care she had shown the first time she drew his blood. He winced slightly as the needle broke his skin, though he said nothing.

The discomfort didn’t escape him, nor did the stark contrast in her manner. It was professional, detached, almost as if he were just another subject in her research. It stung more than the needle itself.

“Jayce agrees with me,” Viktor said finally, his voice quieter now. “We are going to show it to Heimerdinger.”

Renly shook her head, her hands working efficiently to collect the sample. “Of course he does,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes fixed on her work. “I’m sure you’ve both convinced yourselves it’s some great breakthrough. Meanwhile, I’m left scrambling to figure out why the cure isn’t working for you.”

She straightened, placing the vial of blood down with a precision that bordered on aggressive. “Do you have any idea how reckless this is? Do you?” Her voice cracked slightly, and she turned away, busying herself with the tools to avoid looking at him. “You didn’t even tell me you were getting worse. I should have seen it. I should have asked. But I didn’t, because I trusted you to tell me.”

“Renly, I didn’t do it to hurt you. I did it for you.” Viktor’s voice cracked as he reached his hands out to her, his desperation laid bare. “I am working like a madman so you can be free of this burden.”

“Viktor, you promised me,” Renly snapped, her voice trembling with emotion as she took a step back, away from his outstretched hands. “You promised me you wouldn’t carry it alone.”

“I promised I would try.” Viktor’s hands hovered in the air, unsure of what to do with themselves before falling uselessly to his sides. “I’ve tried, and then this…”

“That’s low, even for you,” Renly interrupted, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t try to trick me with semantics.”

“I am not tricking you!” Viktor’s voice rose, frustration beginning to seep into his words. “Why do you refuse to validate how I feel?”

“Viktor, I…” Renly started, but her voice faltered. She looked away, exhaling sharply before meeting his gaze again. “I’m not dismissing you. I’m just… hurt. It really fucking hurts that you would turn to this instead of me. It hurts that you believe in something that is potentially dangerous—something that clearly alters the structure of tissues and cells—more than you believe in something I did. And yes, I’m doing it for you as well.”

“Renly,” Viktor pleaded, taking a small step closer, his voice softening. “You can’t cure my leg. You can’t cure my spine. There is only so much you can do, and I do believe in you. I just—”

“So you’d rather risk it than have something that’s real?” Her voice broke, and her shoulders slumped as though the weight of the conversation was physically bearing down on her.

“My pain…” Viktor hesitated, his voice growing quieter, almost a whisper. “My pain is the most real thing I feel. Even more real than you.”

Renly flinched as though the words had physically struck her. Viktor’s face twisted with regret, but he pressed on, his voice trembling now. “In fact, you still feel unreal to me. I wake up every day, and I have to remind myself that I have you.”

Closing the space between them, Viktor cupped her face gently, his hands trembling as his forehead came to rest against hers. His touch was tender, but Renly’s body stiffened. She was still wearing her gloves, and her hands rose to grip his arms—not with affection, but with the strength of someone trying to maintain control.

“Viktor…” Her voice was barely audible, strained and filled with something close to heartbreak. She pushed him back, pulling away with visible effort. “You can’t just…” She looked at him, her breath uneven, her eyes glistening. “Please, go.”

Viktor’s hands lingered in the air, hovering as if unsure whether to reach for her again or let her slip away entirely. “Come with me,” he whispered, his voice a mix of desperation and longing.

Before she could respond, he pulled her in, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was slow but laced with a deep, aching need. For a moment, Renly gave in, her hands clinging to him as though she might drown if she let go.

When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his, her breath shallow. Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. “I have work to do.”

Viktor lingered, his face inches from hers, searching her eyes for a sign of forgiveness, of understanding. But she had already turned away, retreating back into herself.

They parted with hollow “I love yous,” as all other words seemed to fail them.

Renly sighed heavily as she heard the door close behind Viktor. She allowed herself to release the swell beneath her eyelids, tears falling faster than she could wipe them away.

All of this had gone so wrong. Of course, she wanted Viktor to be healthy. But she had no idea how to unpack it all. Renly slumped into her chair, staring blankly at the collection of samples scattered across her workstation. Her mind spun with thoughts she couldn’t quite organise. Why hadn’t Viktor felt comfortable enough to tell her the truth? She replayed their conversations, his subtle deflections, the moments when he looked tired but brushed it off with a joke.

She scolded herself, the sting of guilt sharp in her chest. How had she been so blind? So lovestruck that she failed to notice the very person she was falling for? Viktor, brilliant and self-sufficient to a fault, had hidden so much from her—maybe because she hadn’t looked closely enough.

Her gaze wandered to the Hexcore, faintly pulsing in the centre of the lab. Its glow unsettled her. It had always unsettled her. There was something unnatural about it, something dangerous in its allure. But she knew what it meant to Viktor. She knew the Hexcore symbolised his dream—the freedom to overcome his limitations, to exist beyond the boundaries his body had set. She didn’t want to stand in the way of that dream.

But…

Her stomach twisted. The Hexcore wasn’t a dream; it was a gamble, one that felt increasingly like a losing hand. She sighed heavily, forcing herself to focus on the samples in front of her.

The hours ticked by as she worked. She compared Viktor’s recent samples with older ones, charting his health over time. She compared his data to that of the other participants, noting the stark differences. It wasn’t long before a pattern emerged, one that made her chest tighten with both frustration and clarity.

It was just like the first iteration of her cure—the one that failed. It was too strong. She hadn’t accounted for Viktor’s underlying condition, the unique way his body worked. Her original formula had pushed his immune system too hard, causing more harm than good.

Renly grabbed a notebook and began scribbling furiously, filling pages with diagrams, calculations, and measurements. She tweaked the dosage, recalibrated the concentration of ingredients, adjusted variables she hadn’t considered before. Over and over, she checked her work, refusing to let her emotions cloud her reasoning.

Her eyes burned from exhaustion by the time she arrived at a conclusion. Viktor’s treatment would need to be uniquely tailored, a formulation with a varying concentration that could coax his immune system into responding correctly. It would need to be delicate, precise—like tuning an instrument.

She wrote out her findings in meticulous detail, every step clear and methodical. Then she set to work preparing the new version of the cure. “Angus 2.0, here we go.”

She worked in complete silence this time. As the final mixture was set to sit and stir, Renly leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. Through the lab windows, the faint glow of dawn began to creep over the horizon. She exhaled deeply, the weight of the sleepless night pressing heavily on her chest.

There was still so much to figure out, so much uncertainty. But for now, this was something she could do.

[sheyfu]

sun and moon ☽｡⋆

𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛 a waltz takes place beneath the sun and moon.

feat. kamisato ayato (f!reader)

cw. none :)) js enjoy some tooth-rotting fluff (HELP I HOPE I DIDNT FLOP ERMMMM IM SO BAD AT WRITING ITS NOT EVFEN FUNNY ANYMORE 😓😓) (omg does 'kinda proofread' count as a cw ERMMM HASUDHUSADHA)

note. GRAHHHHHH MS SAIGON RELAPSE (i wasnt able to watch it live when they did the ph leg D: but my cousin sent the clips he took and now i cant stop watching them (especially sun and moon and the last night of the world [and the finale 😈😈😈] so you can expect [kinda] ms saigon related works HUAHDUASHDUH (gang im still tryna expand my vocab when it comes to very flowery words so HAUDHAUDH my works will [probably] get better from here trust) + this was written with miss saigon's sun and moon (specifically lea salonga and simon bowman's version) playing in the bg on repeat so yeah HWHAHAHA wc. 504

“may i have this dance with you?”

the moon casts its gentle gaze upon the beings of chinju forest — a symphony of frogs sing with the breeze as a troupe of bake-danuki accompany the piece with their dance.

in the midst of all these, a hand is offered.

"quite the romantic you are, mr. commissioner,” you show him a grin as you take his hand, slotting your bodies to form a cocoon of melody and warmth.

“only for you, milady,” the commissioner, kamisato ayato, returns your grin — his warmth radiating off your body as you fall into a steady waltz under the bed of stars.

the pair dance under the moon’s watchful gaze; the string of harmony and rhythm from the beings reduce to a gentle diminuendo as the pair lock eyes with each other.

“careful now, ayato. wouldn’t want the shuumatsuban catching their lord tripping and stepping on his lady’s feet now, do we?” a chuckle escapes from your lips as you sway to the tempo of your hearts. 

ayato brings his forehead to yours as he pulls you closer, “hm? is that so? well, lucky for me”, he abruptly turns you to face the scenery of chinju forest — his hands lay on your hips as the ghost of his breath cascades down the shell of your ear, sending chills upon its caress — your gentle waltz coming to a momentary halt. “i have a great dance teacher who coincidentally has the same name of my lady. and for all i care, those ninjas shouldn’t be intruding on their masters’ alone time. hmph.” 

laughter bubbles up in your throat as you hear the rustles of nearby bushes around you. “oh? is that right? well, care to tell me about the oh so wonderful dance teacher you have?” turning to your lover once more, you catch him in an embrace as you resume the gentle sway of your bodies. 

“we’ll be here until dawn then, my dear.” ayato sends you a gentle smile; his hand leads your head to his beating heart, gentle pats landing on it as he does the same to your shoulder. 

“if that’s the case, then i am most honoured to share this night with you.” you feel the rumble of his chest as he entertains your idea.

“well then. should we start with the part when said teacher confessed her undying love for me, her student?” a playful lilt touches upon his words as he spins you around.

"hey now. that sounds like i did something... nefarious." a small pout forms on your lips as your husband chortles at you.

as the night joins with day, their waltz continued without a misstep — the string of harmony and rhythm continue to accompany the lovers as they get lost in their own world of tell and tale.

and with the gazes of both sun and moon, they continue to sway to their own beat — holding each other tight as if it was the last night of the world.

tagging: @ayrastv

🐈‍⬛️: genshin has been added to the list of options for my taglist! please access the gform below if you'd like to be added to my taglist <3

© sheyfu on tumblr

[coimbrabertone]

The End of an Era - Philip Morris Has Left Ferrari

I was considering writing about the Daytona 500 and the state of superspeedway racing, but quite frankly, I didn't want to go on a super negative rant saying a thousand things that have already been said about NASCAR plate tracks.

Fortunately for me, something else happened.

The Decalspotters twitter account noticed that Philip Morris International is no longer listed on the bottom of the page sponsors on the Ferrari website. Using the wayback machine, I was able to confirm that the Philip Morris International logo was still there in November 2024, so they were removed specifically for the 2025 season.

Now, Philip Morris hasn't been on the cars in awhile. Their last attempt, on and off from late 2018 until 2022, was with Mission Winnow, a brand seemingly created for the sole purpose of subliminal advertising.

By 2023 they seemed to have abandoned this plan and the logo on the website changed from Mission Winnow to Philip Morris International, which is how it was all the way up until the end of the 2024 season.

Nobody has run with the story quite yet, but it appears that Philip Morris has finally left Ferrari.

You can still access the Philip Morris page on Ferrari.com if you search for it specifically, but the same thing applies to Santander, and we know they're gone. Ferrari has even signed UniCredit as a replacement bank sponsor.

This is huge, as Philip Morris has been in F1 in some form since 1972 and has been with Ferrari in some form since 1973 when they became a driver sponsor. 1973 to 2024 is perhaps the longest sports sponsorship ever, and even if you don't want to count the driver deals, they've been a team sponsor of Ferrari since 1984, which is still a forty year run.

So is this the end of tobacco sponsorship in F1?

Not really.

McLaren has a partnership with British American Tobacco (the same company that owned BAR and also acquired Rothmans International in 1999, which had sponsored Williams with its Rothmans and Winfield brands). BAT dodges restrictions in a number of ways, with the A Better Tomorrow subliminal advertising brands, as well as Vuse vapes and Velo nicotine pouches.

Vapes, all the health risks of cigarettes with none of the coolness.

I say that flippantly, smoking isn't cool: it stinks, and it kills you.

Tobacco liveries did, however, have a great aesthetic to them. I wish the likes of Marlboro, Player's, KOOL, Benson & Hedges, and all the rest would make like teddy bears or koala heart transplants or something because they made a lot of pretty race cars and their money funded a great deal of racing teams.

Though the problem there is that the very reason why tobacco got so big in motorsports is because they weren't allowed to sponsor anywhere else. Marlboro poured millions into Ferrari, Penske, and Ducati because those were the only places where they could still show their logos.

The most iconic racing sponsors only became iconic because their products were so deadly they couldn't advertise anywhere else.

In fact, a small part of the reason why NASCAR got so big is probably because tobacco liveries weren't that big in NASCAR. The series had a title sponsorship with Winston, and because of the Viceroy Rule - something I've discussed previously on this blog and itself a product of tobacco sponsorship - none of the other cigarette companies could touch NASCAR teams.

So instead of the best drivers being sponsored by Marlboro or Camel or West, they were sponsored by DuPont, Kellogg's, and Home Depot.

Brands that you could market to anyone, even kids.

Thus, the kids of the 90s and 2000s grew up with NASCAR diecasts and wearing M&Ms jackets instead of repping tobacco-laden F1 or CART merch.

There's a lot more to NASCAR's rise than that, but it likely has something to do with why, when the average American thinks about racing, all they know is NASCAR.

And when the entire field decides to wreck repeatedly so that the guy who starts the final lap in ninth manages to stumble into the win, that ubiquitousness of NASCAR makes all of racing look bad.

Positive though, stay positive...

How about a quick rundown on Marlboro in F1?

Well, the story begins in 1972, with Marlboro signing on to sponsor the BRM team. BRM was British, as the name British Racing Motors may suggest, but like their name also suggests, they made their own engines. BRM weren't a garagista team running the Cosworth DFV (Cozzeh!), instead, they were running their own 3.0L V12.

It was in one of these 3.0L V12 BRMs that Peter Gethin drove the car out of a giant Marlboro pack to unveil the car. The Marlboro era had begun.

They won their first race that year with Frenchman Jean-Pierre Beltoise winning in Monaco.

That was their only major success that year, as that win, paired with a 4th in Germany, and then 6th in both Austria and Germany was only good enough for 7th in the standings.

1973 was even worse, as despite running a stacked lineup of Beltoise, Clay Regazzoni, and Niki Lauda, they were still in seventh. In fact, their points total slipped from 14 to 12, and they didn't even have the saving grace of a win or a podium.

Thus, Marlboro went to McLaren for 1974, while Lauda and Regazzoni went to Ferrari, where they'd wear Marlboro patches as well.

The Marlboro McLaren partnership was obviously successful, with Emerson Fittipaldi winning the title in 1974, James Hunt in 1976, Niki Lauda in 1984, Alain Prost in 1985, 1986, and 1989, and Ayrton Senna in 1988, 1990, and 1991.

The success continued when Marlboro went to Ferrari, where Marlboro progressed from mere sponsor in 1984 to main sponsor by 1993, and finally becoming title sponsor from 1997, after the McLaren deal had ended.

Ferrari won the constructors' championship in 1999, followed by Michael Schumacher winning the drivers' championship in 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, and 2004. Kimi Raikkonen would add a title to the list in 2007, Ferrari's last championship to date.

The team was still officially Scuderia Ferrari Marlboro all the way up until the 2011 British Grand Prix. After that, Philip Morris' sponsorship became more subtle, first with the new-for-2011 Scuderia Ferrari logo that many accused of mimicking the Marlboro logo - and it didn't help that it took the engine cover placement that Marlboro's bar code filled until the 2010 Spanish Grand Prix - along with a similar rebrand from Ducati Corse in MotoGP.

That part is all pretty well-known, but what some people may not know if how widespread Marlboro sponsorship really was.

Back in 1973 and 1974, while Marlboro was sponsorship the BRM and McLaren teams, they also supported the original Frank Williams Racing Cars team, with the cars initially known as Iso-Marlboros.

Not too long after, Marlboro would sponsor the Alfa Romeo team from 1980 to 1983, during their McLaren years.

Then from 1988 to 1992, Marlboro would sponsor the BMS Scuderia Italia team, an Italian backmarker that is best known for becoming a Ferrari B-team in 1992 and 1993, the first of those years being with Marlboro, the latter year with Chesterfield as sponsor.

Merzario, Team Rebaque, Fittipaldi, Spirit, Rial, EuroBrun, Onyx, Arrows, Minardi, and Forti would all also carry minor Marlboro sponsorship at one point or another.

That's just the team deals, if I tried to list out all the drivers that Marlboro sponsored...we'd be here all day. Plenty of drivers would have Marlboro on their helmet or overalls with driving for a team with different sponsors.

One such case was Michele Alboreto, who was at Tyrrell in 1989 and had Marlboro paying his salary at the unsponsored team...until Ken Tyrrell secured Camel as a sponsor. Alboreto refused to break off his deal with Marlboro, so Tyrrell had to fire him and replace him with a young up-and-comer named Jean Alesi.

Michele Alboreto then lost his Marlboro sponsorship because he didn't have a ride anymore.

Two races later, Micheel Alboreto found a ride at Larrousse...which was also sponsored by Camel. Meaning Alboreto was wearing Camel stickers on his helmet and overalls anyway.

A very pointless episode, but one that kicked off the career of Jean Alesi.

Jean Alesi who would then race for the Marlboro-sponsored Ferrari from 1991 and 1995.

Tobacco money made everything go full circle.