#paper card modeling

[sysig]

I have made

the rough

of an improv card game

[cumironi]

I’VE GOT YOU, BABY jjk men

feat. gojo geto nanami toji sukuna shiu higuruma

sum. they thought it would be a normal night. playful bickering, eat dinner together, maybe makeout session while you two are giggling like a lovesick fool. but heart cancer? stage 3? yeah, not on their bingo cards.

warning. non-sorcerer jjk men! 23 you & 31 them, established relationships, heart cancer, death mentioned, bit angst to comfort, fluff, and not very heart warming.

GOJO SATORU

he was supposed to be in meeting.

supposed to be.

but instead he was dramatically sprawled on the couch in your apartment, shirt half-buttoned, socks mismatched, one leg hanging off the edge like he was modeling for an early 2000s teen magazine. blue eyes flicked up from your coffee table, where your textbooks were open and your laptop screen glowed with your thesis draft. he had the attention span of a goldfish, and you were used to it by now. what you weren’t used to was the man pausing mid-ramble about how coffee shops should have loyalty programs that give hugs instead of free drinks, the moment you slid the envelope across the table toward him.

“what’s this? did you finally write me a love letter?” he grinned, picking it up and waving it. “wait—let me guess, you’ve confessed your undying love for my devastatingly good looks and impeccable fashion sense. i knew the mismatched socks would win you over.”

you smirked, resting your chin in your hand. “close,” you said. “just my medical results. fun lil update from my body.”

he blinked. the paper unfolded in his hands, and for once, he was quiet. his eyes moved faster than usual. you could feel the shift in the air. from playful to something dense. cold. heavy.

he read the words again.

“stage 3, heart cancer… twenty-four percent chance to live…”

“i know, right? guess my cells just got bored of behaving,” you laughed. it was too loud. too sudden. too wrong. “could be 24% chance or survival. maybe 50%. depending on how charming i am in the oncology department.”

you force a shaky laugh. “guess i must’ve loved you too much. my heart couldn’t take it.”

for a beat, there’s nothing. nothing.

it’s a joke. a bad one. a last-ditch attempt to soften the punch. your eyes betray you anyway — tears sparkle at the corners like broken glass, and the tremble in your fingers doesn’t go unnoticed.

“shut up,” he whispered. not in his usual joking way. his voice cracked at the edge, like he’d bitten into something sour and was trying not to spit it out.

you shrugged, crossing your legs like you were just talking about the weather. “i’m still hot though, right? at least if i kick the bucket, i’m going down with great cheekbones.”

“no. nope. return to sender. i don’t accept this bullshit,” he murmurs, voice cracking through the sarcasm. “you don’t get to pull the tragic heroine card on me. that’s my thing.”

you try to laugh. “so dramatic…”

“i’m the drama. not you. you’re the soft, pretty, sunshine type who cries during dog movies and hogs the bed. you’re not allowed to die. i won’t allow it. i’ll— i’ll—”

“you’ll what, kiss it better?” you tease.

“why the fuck would you joke about this?” his voice rose. panic behind the volume. the paper in his hand crumpled a little.

“because if i don’t, i’ll start crying,” you replied, softer now. looking at him with tired eyes. “and i really, really don’t wanna cry in front of you. you’d never let me live it down.”

“you idiot,” he breathed out, standing up so fast the coffee table shook. his hands were trembling. he paced once. twice. then suddenly dropped to his knees in front of you like gravity had yanked him down.

“you’re not going to die,” he said. like a promise. like a threat to the universe. “i’ll fight death himself. with my sunglasses. and sarcasm. and maybe a bazooka.”

you blinked. “you don’t know that.”

he grabbed your hands, clutching them so tightly you could feel how cold his were. “you think you can drop something like this on me and then just—laugh about it? you think that’s fair? i love you, you dumbass.”

you looked down at him. this ridiculous, beautiful man kneeling like you’d just proposed marriage instead of dropped a medical bombshell.

you sniff, smile crookedly. “i love you too.”

he grins, forehead pressed to yours. “good. you’ll fit right in with the chaos i’ve got planned for your recovery. step one: we replace your heart with mine. step two: we break into a hospital and demand glitter IVs. step three: we live. got it? we’re gonna fight this. i don’t care if i have to bribe, blackmail, or bend space-time — you’re staying with me. you’re not allowed to leave.”

you choke out a laugh against his shoulder. “that’s a pretty bold threat to make to the universe.”

“you think i won’t square up with the universe?” he pulls back, eyes shining with something wild and terrified and real. “i’ll fight fate with one hand and spoon-feed you pudding with the other.”

you look at him, tears falling freely now, and he smiles — a little broken, a little soft.

“besides,” he adds, voice trembling as he kisses the corner of your mouth, “you still owe me like, twenty dates. and my hoodies back.”

he stared at you.

you smiled. a little cracked. a little crooked. “worth it.”

“i swear to god,” he growled, burying his face in your lap. “if you die, i’m haunting your ghost just to yell at you.”

you ran your fingers through his hair. soft. familiar. he was shaking. he didn’t want you to see. “you’re not going to die,” he whispered again, like if he repeated it enough times, it would rewrite your diagnosis.

“but if i do,” you said gently, voice steady for both of you, “please keep wearing mismatched socks for me. preferably ugly ones. the uglier, the better.”

he lifted his head and kissed your knuckles. then your palm. then your wrist. like he could map your pulse, hold onto it, anchor it. i’m gonna annoy every doctor on this planet if that’s what it takes,” he muttered. “i’m gonna sit in every waiting room and argue with every nurse and—”

“you’re already annoying,” you smiled, brushing tears off his cheek. “just keep being you, toru. okay?”

he choked out a laugh. a real one. raw and messy and breaking. “yeah,” he said, pulling you into his arms. “okay. but just so you know—if you think i’m gonna let you go without a fight, you’re really underestimating how stubborn i am.”

and you believed him.

because it was satoru gojo.

and he was chaos and comfort and love in human form.

GETO SUGURU

you didn’t expect him to come over tonight.

he had been buried in work lately—endless stacks of logistics and community events and trying to solve the world’s problems like he didn’t already carry the weight of it on his shoulders. so when he texted you “omw. bring that pouty face I like,” you assumed he was just being his usual flirty self. nothing serious.

you didn’t expect to be sitting on your bedroom floor in an oversized hoodie with a manila envelope on your lap, legs tucked beneath you, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you heard the familiar knock-knock-knock. two beats, then one. his rhythm.

he walked in with a drink carrier balanced in one hand and a bouquet of flowers that looked like they were arranged by a man who walked into the shop and said “whatever she’ll like, just make it look expensive.” his eyes lit up the second they saw you, and he gave you that half-lidded smile that made it look like he knew every secret about you.

“what’s with the envelope, babe?” he asked as he kicked his shoes off and slid beside you on the floor. “you trying to sue me for being too good-looking? because guilty as charged.”

you snorted. “nah, i’d win that case against gojo way faster.”

“mm, true.” he nudged your knee with his. “what is it then?”

you clear your throat and drop the letter dramatically on the floor next to him like it’s a bomb. “got a broken heart. me. officially. medically. romantically tragic.”

geto raises a brow, gaze drifting from the letter to you. “did i forget an anniversary again? that sounds serious.”

giving him a lazy smile. “worse. i’m in a love triangle with death and a statistics chart.”

you handed it over. said nothing after.

he cocked an eyebrow but took it. slid the letter out like he was opening one of your essays. started reading.

his smile dropped.

his breath caught.

and for once—suguru geto didn’t say anything.

he finished the page. eyes moving over the last line again. and again. his fingers curled around the edge of the letter so tightly it crinkled.

you felt like vomiting.

“stage 3, heart cancer,” you said lightly. like it was the weather. like you’d just found out the vending machine was out of your favorite chips. “only twenty-five percent chance of making it. which is still, like, a quarter! that’s one out of four. i’ve played worse odds at those arcade claw machines. like flipping a coin with feelings.”

“don’t—” his voice was hoarse. “don’t joke about this.”

“why not?” you forced a grin. “i thought you liked my dark humor.”

he turned to you so fast, your smile faltered.

“i do,” he said, barely a whisper. “but not when it’s hiding how scared you are.”

and that was the worst part. the way he saw through you. you looked away. bit your tongue. tried to force another joke but your throat closed up and it never made it out. “you should be crying,” he said softly. “you should be screaming. you should be throwing things or cursing god or making me carry you everywhere like a princess.”

“yeah well,” you mumbled. “you’ve always liked me better when i’m quiet.”

“don’t say that.” his hand cupped your cheek, turning your face toward him. “don’t ever say that.”

you blinked. his thumb wiped away something you didn’t realize had fallen.

“baby—”

“i’m going to be here for all of it,” he said firmly. his voice steady, even if his hands trembled. “chemo. surgeries. crying fits. mood swings. i’ll buy you every stupid snack craving you have, i’ll hold your hair back if you puke, i’ll even let satoru come over if you’re bored enough to tolerate him.”

“wow,” you said, voice thick. “must really love me if you’re willing to suffer through that.”

he laughed, but it cracked halfway through. he leaned in and kissed your forehead. your nose. your cheeks. slow. deliberate. like he was memorizing your face before the world dared to change it.

“you’re the love of my life,” he murmured against your skin. “and i don’t care what percentage the doctors give. you’re not leaving me.”

you tried to joke again. to keep it light. but when he pulled you into his arms and held you like you were made of glass and might disappear if he didn’t hold tight enough—

you broke.

and he just let you.

silent. steady. his hand rubbing circles into your back. his voice a whisper. “i’ve got you, baby. every step. every breath. we’re fighting this. together.”

NANAMI KENTO

he was never one for surprises.

nanami lived his life in clean lines and structured time—an adult in every sense of the word. the kind of man who folded his clothes before bed, who ironed your uniforms when you were too tired, who always had a clock running in his head. you were chaos in comparison. soft blankets thrown over chairs, tea mugs with lipstick smudges left by your bedside, textbooks covered in doodles. yet somehow, you and him had always fit together like an odd, unlikely pair.

tonight, he showed up exactly at 7:00 p.m.

punctual, like always.

“i brought you dinner,” he said, holding up two paper bags. “i made sure it’s from that place you like with the spicy tofu you claim doesn’t make you cry but always does.”

you smiled, opening the door wider for him. “ah, you remembered. see? you do love me.”

he gave you a flat look, setting the bags on your kitchen counter. “i tell you every day. if you need evidence beyond that, i can start writing it down in your planner.”

“ooh, planner declarations of love? sounds sexy.”

he gave a soft, almost-smile. you could tell he’d had a long day. the way he rolled his sleeves up, undid the top two buttons of his shirt, and sighed like he was finally somewhere safe. you wanted so badly to keep it peaceful. to let him enjoy one evening without—

but the envelope sat on the kitchen table. taunting you.

“ken,” you said softly, “before we eat… can you read something?”

his brow furrowed. “is this another one of your thesis drafts? i told you i am not proofreading any more literary analyses about how tragic men are secretly hot—”

“it’s not,” you said, quieter this time.

he walked over. saw the envelope. took it wordlessly.

you watched him read. nanami read carefully—line by line. never skimmed. never rushed. so it took longer. you could hear the second his breath changed. shallow. barely audible. then it stopped altogether.

he didn’t speak. didn’t ask questions. he simply folded the letter back up and set it down with precision. like it was something sacred. dangerous.

“why didn’t you call me when you got this?” he asked, voice low. serious. his control was razor sharp, but you could hear the grief pressing against his throat.

“i… didn’t want you to leave work in the middle of a meeting,” you muttered. “and i didn’t wanna cry about it either. figured i’d tell you in person. like a grown-up.”

“stage 3, heart cancer is not something you break like a casual news update,” he snapped—then immediately closed his eyes, sighing. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

“it’s okay,” you said, wrapping your arms around yourself. “i figured you’d be mad.”

“i’m not mad,” he said, walking around the table toward you. “i’m terrified.”

“it’s still there,” you whispered. “it’s just… fuzzy now. like a dream i can’t quite remember when i wake up.”

you looked up at him. that composed, unshakable man. and for the first time in a long time, nanami looked lost. “you’re young,” he said, almost to himself. “you’re in college. you have plans. you talk about the future like it’s something guaranteed.”

“you really mean that?” your voice cracked.

his jaw clenched. he pulled you into his chest, his hands pressing against your back, like he could physically hold you together. you could feel how hard he was trying not to fall apart. “then i’ll remember it for you,” he said quietly. “your future. your dreams. if you forget them… i’ll carry them until you can take them back.”

“of course,” he said, resting his chin on your head. “you’re the love of my life. i didn’t choose you for convenience. i chose you because i wanted every part of your life—good and bad. if this is what we’re facing now… then we face it. together.”

you buried your face in his chest, inhaling that familiar scent of bergamot and black tea. the comfort of his heartbeat. the way he was always so steady, even when the world wasn’t.

“but just so we’re clear,” he said, pulling back slightly to look at you, “you’re not going to die. not anytime soon. not before i make you my wife.”

you blinked. “wait—what?”

“i’m not proposing,” he said flatly. “not while you’re crying. but you should know… that’s where this was always headed.”

your tears doubled. “ken—”

“shh,” he kissed your temple. “we’ll talk about it after dinner. and after you stop pretending tofu doesn’t make you sob like a child.”

you laughed. you couldn’t help it.

and for the first time since getting the diagnosis, you let yourself feel safe.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

toji was already lounging on your couch when you got home.

shirt half unbuttoned, legs spread like he owned the place—which, okay, he kind of did at this point, considering how often he crashed here. one arm slung over the back of the couch, the other nursing a can of beer he probably picked up on the way over. he didn’t look up when you walked in, just tilted his head slightly and smirked like he could smell the anxiety radiating off you.

“you look like shit,” he said casually, eyes still on the muted TV.

“thanks, baby,” you replied, dropping your bag by the door. “your romantic side is really showing today.”

“you want romance, go read a damn poem.” he finally looked at you. eyes narrowing. “you okay?”

you shrugged and walked into the kitchen, not answering. you knew that tone in his voice. low. suspicious. the kind he only used when he felt something off and didn’t like it one bit.

you took your time. poured a glass of water. leaned against the counter. stared at the envelope in your hand like it might explode if you set it down.

“toji,” you called.

“hm?”

“can you come here?”

he groaned dramatically but stood, beer in hand, and sauntered into the kitchen. he leaned against the counter across from you, expression unreadable. he scanned your face like he was piecing something together.

you handed him the envelope without a word.

he took it. read it.

you watched every flicker of emotion pass through his face. confusion. stillness. a furrowed brow. the tightening of his jaw. and then—rage. not loud. not messy. quiet. slow-burning. the kind that sat in his chest like a bomb with no timer.

he didn’t say anything at first.

just set the envelope down and looked at you. dead in the eye.

“how long have you known?”

“just a few days.”

“and you didn’t tell me?” his voice was low. flat.

you sighed. “i didn’t want to see your face like this.”

“like what?”

“like the world ended.”

he stepped closer. his voice dropped even lower.

“you think i give a fuck about the world?” he said slowly. “i care about you. you think you can just carry this shit alone and joke your way through it? you think that’s cute?”

“i didn’t want you to panic,” you murmured, avoiding his gaze. “i didn’t want to cry. or make it real. if i said it out loud—”

“then i’ll say it for you,” he interrupted. “you have heart cancer. stage 3. twenty-four percent odds. and guess what?”

you finally looked at him.

“we’re beating the shit outta those odds.”

you blinked. “what?”

he crossed the distance between you and pulled you into him. his grip wasn’t gentle—it was grounding. like he needed to feel your heartbeat against his chest to believe you were still here.

“you’re not dying on me,” he said, voice rough. “you hear me? i’ve lost enough people. you’re not going to be one of them. i’ll chain you to the damn bed if i have to. feed you. fight the doctors. i don’t care.”

“toji—”

“nah, shut up. you’re not allowed to talk until you admit i’m right and that i’m hotter than your oncologist.”

you choked out a laugh. “okay. you’re right. you’re hotter than any man with a medical license.”

“damn straight,” he muttered, lips brushing your forehead. “we’re getting through this. and i don’t care if you lose your hair or your strength or your mind a little bit along the way. you’ll still be mine. all of you.”

you didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. you just stood there with his arms around you, the only place that felt like home when everything else felt like hell.

he kissed the side of your head and sighed. “fuck. now i gotta start acting like a responsible adult.”

“guess you better start taking your vitamins, old man.”

“if i die before you, i’m haunting your ass. every time you try to pee, i’ll slam a cabinet door.”

you burst out laughing. crying. something in between. he held you tighter.

“that’s better,” he muttered. “cry in my arms like a normal person, not in the shower like a movie heroine.”

and just like that, you knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you found him in the bedroom, stretched across your bed like a damn king—which, technically, he insisted he was. shirtless, as usual. arms behind his head, eyes closed, expression too calm for a man with a bloodstained past and a mouth as foul as his reputation. the room smelled faintly like sandalwood and your shampoo, which he secretly used but would never admit to.

you stood in the doorway with the envelope clenched in your hand.

“oi, sukuna.”

his eyes cracked open, one brow lazily lifting. “what, brat? come to beg for kisses or annoy me until i carry you to class again?”

you forced a grin, walking in slowly. “tempting, but no. i’ve got something for you.”

“better be food or something perverted.”

you sat beside him, the envelope now shaking a little in your fingers. you hated how that tremor betrayed you. sukuna didn’t miss it. his eyes shifted to your hand, narrowing.

“what the hell is that?”

“diagnosis,” you said simply, tossing it onto his chest.

he caught it midair, scoffing. “what, did they finally diagnose you with being insufferable?”

“close. heart cancer. stage three. they gave me a twenty-four percent chance of living.” you tried to say it lightly. like it was a weather report. “cloudy with a chance of death, haha.”

sukuna didn’t laugh.

his eyes scanned the page. slower than usual. and his silence—it wasn’t dramatic, it was dangerous. the air felt like it thickened. you could almost hear his jaw clench.

“tch,” he scoffed. “twenty-four percent? what a bunch of weaklings. you don’t need their odds. you’ve got me.”

you blinked at him. “...you?”

“yeah. i’m keeping you alive. i’m not letting you leave me over some pathetic little tumor.”

you tried to keep the smile on your face, tried to keep the mood light like you always did. “damn. here i was thinking i’d finally get some peace and quiet.”

he sat up then—so suddenly the bed shifted with the force. his hand gripped your chin, tilting your face toward him, his expression unreadable but his eyes blazing.

“don’t you dare joke about dying,” he growled. “not to me. not when you know what it would do to me.“

you tried to look away, but his fingers held you still. “sukuna…”

“do you know what i’ve done to people who’ve left me?” he whispered, and for once his voice wasn’t teasing—it was trembling.

“terrible things,” you murmured. “you’ve told me.”

“and yet, you’re the only one i’ve ever let touch me without blood on your hands,” he hissed. “the only one i’d share my bed with. laugh with. let sleep on my chest like some damn lovesick fool.”

you bit your lip. your bravado cracked. “...i’m scared.”

and that was all it took for him to pull you into his lap, arms winding around you with the kind of desperation he rarely ever let surface.

“good,” he muttered into your shoulder. “you should be. but not because of death. because if you think i’ll let you go through this alone, you clearly don’t know who the hell you’re dating.”

you buried your face into his neck, breathing in his warmth, his scent, the familiar thrum of something ancient and furious living in his chest.

“you’ll lose your hair?” he murmured. “i don’t care. you’ll puke every day? i’ll hold the damn bucket. cry at three a.m.? i’ll cuss out the moon for looking at you wrong.”

you choked out a laugh. “the moon, huh?”

“fucking moon thinks it’s allowed to shine on you while you’re in pain? not on my watch.”

he leaned back slightly, cupping your cheek now with uncharacteristic softness. “you don’t need to act strong for me, you little brat. cry. scream. sleep for days. whatever you need. i’ll be here.”

“...even when i look like a zombie?”

“you already look half-dead when you wake up. won’t be much of a change.”

you smacked his chest. he grinned.

and then he pressed his forehead against yours, a rare show of intimacy, his voice dropping so low you barely caught it:

“you’re mine. and i don’t give a fuck if it takes all my strength, my fury, my everything. you will survive this. not because the doctors said so. but because i won’t let you die.”

and for once, even with your heart breaking and your future uncertain, you believed him.

because when a monster like sukuna swore something, the universe listened.

SHIU KONG

the sun was already setting by the time you made it to his office.

you found him exactly how you expected: sleeves rolled up, shirt slightly wrinkled, tie loosened like he’d been too busy all day to care about appearances. he was hunched over his desk, fingers typing something sharp, probably threatening someone with policy violations and scary legal jargon. a half-empty glass of whiskey sat beside his monitor, untouched for hours. the room smelled like cologne and stress.

you stood in the doorway, clutching the envelope.

“shiu.”

his eyes didn’t lift right away—just one flick of them toward you, annoyed, until he saw your face. that was all it took.

he straightened. “what happened?”

“nothing,” you said too quickly. “or, i mean... something. yeah. i brought you something.”

you walked in, trying to act normal. like this wasn’t going to detonate his whole night. you placed the envelope on top of a stack of case files like it was a stupid postcard or a coupon for pizza.

he picked it up, his frown deepening with every line he read.

“you’re joking,” he said flatly.

“i wish.”

he looked at you. hard. no emotion at first—just that sharp, calculating gaze that made grown men fold. but you knew him too well. you saw the cracks right away: his fingers tightening around the paper. the twitch in his jaw. the breath he held too long before letting it out.

“stage three?” he said. “twenty-four percent survival?”

you leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to keep it light.

“well, if i was a stock, you probably wouldn't invest in me, huh?”

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped.

you blinked.

“jesus, shiu, calm down—”

“no. i’m not calming down. you walk into my office with this,” he shook the letter, “and joke about it? you think this is funny? you think i can just read this and go back to work?”

you stayed quiet.

he stood up, pacing now. one hand dragging through his hair, the other still holding the paper like it was covered in blood. his voice dropped low. rough.

“why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“i didn’t want to ruin your week.”

he turned slowly. "you think any of this matters if you’re not in it?"

that one hit harder than you expected. your throat tightened.

he sighed harshly and stepped toward you, eyes dark, voice steadier now but no less intense. “look at me.”

you did.

he cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he was trying to memorize every inch.

"you don’t get to carry this alone,” he said. “not with me around. not for a second."

you bit your lip. “i didn’t want you to treat me like i was dying.”

“i’m not treating you like you’re dying. i’m treating you like you’re mine. and you are. and i don’t care how brutal this fight gets, how many appointments we sit through, how sick you get, how tired—i’m staying.”

you exhaled shakily, and his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you against him like he could keep the sickness away just by holding you tighter.

“you’re not allowed to go before me,” he murmured into your hair. “i’m the old one here, remember?”

you smiled weakly. “so what, you’re giving me permission to outlive you?”

“i’m giving you orders. and you always listen to your boss.”

“you’re not my boss, shiu.”

“wanna bet?”

you leaned your head against his chest, finally letting your tears soak into his shirt. his arms stayed locked around you like a shield.

“i’m scared,” you whispered.

he kissed your temple, voice rough and sure.

“then be scared. just don’t be alone.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

he always stayed up too late when he was working. piles of case files, half-drunk cups of green tea gone cold, classical music humming low in the background like it could drown out the weight of the world. the desk lamp lit his tired eyes in soft gold, his brows furrowed in that focused way you knew meant he hadn’t even noticed the time—or eaten.

you hovered at the doorway for a second, gripping the envelope. stage 3. 24%. ugly numbers typed in a clinical font that suddenly felt louder than the damn music.

“hiromi.”

he glanced up, his features instantly softening the second he saw you. “you’re still up. what’s wrong?”

you tried to smirk. “well. i’m about to ruin your night. so buckle in, counselor.”

he frowned and pushed his chair back, straightening. “what happened?”

you crossed the room, placed the envelope down in front of him like you were handing in an assignment. “that’s my diagnosis.”

he didn’t move for a few seconds. just stared at it. like touching it would confirm the dread blooming in his chest. but he opened it, scanned the words, and then—

his shoulders stiffened. just slightly. like a man being sentenced.

“heart cancer,” he murmured, voice almost too calm. “stage three. twenty-four percent survival rate.”

“yeah,” you said with a dry chuckle. “bit dramatic, right? could’ve given me a 30% for optimism.”

his eyes snapped up to yours, unreadable.

“you’re making jokes?”

“if i don’t, i’ll cry. and i figured one of us should hold it together.”

his jaw tensed, and he stood slowly, walking around the desk with a kind of methodical grace that always made your heart skip. he stopped in front of you, one hand resting on your cheek like he was scared you’d vanish.

“you’ve known… how long?”

“got the results a few days ago.”

“and you didn’t tell me?”

you looked down. “i didn’t want to be the reason you stopped working. you’ve got enough to deal with. i didn’t want to be another case file on your desk.”

he flinched like you slapped him.

“you’re not a case file,” he said firmly. “you’re not just another name. you’re—” his voice broke, just a little. “you’re everything.”

you couldn’t hold it anymore. your voice cracked. “i’m scared.”

his arms were around you instantly, firm and grounding. his hand cupped the back of your head, pressing you into his chest like you belonged there and only there.

“then be scared,” he whispered into your hair. “and i’ll be scared with you. but don’t think for a second i’ll let you go through this alone.”

you held onto his blazer, gripping the fabric like it could anchor you. “i don’t want you to see me fall apart.”

“i’ve seen people fall apart,” he said. “i know what that looks like. this isn’t that. this is you being brave. this is you still showing up, still standing, even when you're hurting.”

you pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy. “what if i die?”

his hand slid to your cheek, thumb brushing a tear away. “then i’ll have spent every last day making sure you knew you were loved. and if you live—and you will, because you’re stronger than any verdict—they’ll write books about how you told death to wait.”

you laughed through the tears. “that’s a little dramatic, even for a lawyer.”

he smiled, just barely. “i learned from the best.”

and then he kissed you—soft, reverent, like a man clinging to hope.

“we’ll fight this,” he whispered. “and i’ll be with you every step of the way. suits and all.”

i made this after re-watch now is good and just can’t help myself. i know, i know it was basic, classic drama, the girl is sick, has cancer, everyone wrote about it, i know. but i enjoy writing this so much, i may or may not make a mini series about them, do you guys will enjoy it if i make this longer? please let me know! 🫣

[my-castles-crumbling]

based on @waytootiredforthistoo 's post - background jegulus

"Even for your four, this is a new low," Minerva ranted, blood boiling as she stared down at her four favorite students, who were all seated in chairs in her office, looking less-than-contrite. "Breaking in to the Slytherin Common Room in the middle of the night? Sticking every single student to their bed?"

"We don't discriminate," Sirius Black nodded, sending her a grin. "Though James's boyfriend will be a bit mad."

"Oi! Shut up about Re-"

"Boys!" Minerva interrupted, trying not to laugh. "This is unacceptable. I have to take fifty points from Gryffindor!"

All four Seventh-Years paused, staring at her. "Fifty?" Remus Lupin asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Each!" Minerva nearly-screeched. "And detention every night for a week!"

"So that's two hundred points total," James Potter said sadly.

"Yes," Minerva nodded, trying not to feel too badly. "So if you-"

"Can you make it three?" Sirius asked, interrupting.

She blinked, quite sure she'd heard incorrectly. "I- what?"

"It's just, we're trying to set a record," Remus explained calmly, eyes wide. "We need to beat two hundred and fifty."

Minerva's heart began beating erratically. No. Surely they hadn't found out-

"We recently came across this, you see," James continued, grinning and pulling a paper from his pocket. "Peter, here, had a detention where he had to rewrite some old detention cards. And look at this one!"

Hand shaking slightly, Minerva looked at the card. On it, written in a scrawl, were the words:

Minerva McGonagall, sixth year, Gryffindor, a month's detention and a loss of 250 points for hexing all of the Slytherin team's brooms. (Most points lost in a single day.)

Sighing, Minerva tried to school her expression before she looked back at the four boys. But she knew it was far too late to do anything about this. The secret was out.

"You're our biggest role model, Professor," Peter said sincerely, an awed look on his face. "A record of the most lost points in a day? We just want to beat your record."

"Yes. Oh, well. We'll have to try even harder next time," James smirked, taking the card back from her loose grasp.

It was at that moment that Minerva McGonagall new she was absolutely fucked.

[abyssyby]

despite the world

— your union is a symphony of imperfection; as it begins with your sin, so it will last with his. and your song welcomes the new life you made.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: hi hi! this may be the dawn of a humble pregnancy series pre-twin babies, as many have requested and i have also been very excited to write. hope u enjoy this one! ❀-urs

sylus x reader | fluff, some angst/comfort, some dating stages hehe, pregnancy announcement!, mom/wife!reader, dad/husband!sylus, & mephisto! (˶◜ᵕ◝˶)

In all your years as a hunter— protecting the city, upholding peace, being a model citizen— you’d never thought your greatest betrayal, your greatest sin against your oath, would be to fall in love with the enemy.

And marry the enemy. 

It was manageable during the early stages of dating. When “Skye” would come by the association on his big, ominous motorcycle to come pick you up. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“What are you doing here?” you hissed, palms colliding with his strong shoulders to spin him around— face away from the association windows. Before he’s seen, before he’s known. 

“Can’t a man visit his partner?” he chuckled, large hands hovering over yours on his waist as you pushed him back to his vehicle. Content already just by the warmth you emitted through his clothes. “I missed your voice.” 

You strained, shoving. “Then call!”

“Then I’d have to wait for you to pick up.” He’s pouting, you can hear it through the cockiness of his tone. Knowing that fact scared you and invigorated you all at once. You pushed, pushed, pushed. 

“Sylus, they can’t see you.” You begged as you kept him from turning to face you, the association windows, your co-hunters beyond the glass. Him, the Hunters Association’s enemy number one with a kill-on-sight order, waltzing straight towards the main entrance. 

He grinned. He decided he liked seeing you all flustered because of him. “Then hide me.” 

He found a weakness in your hold, shifted his weight there, and broke past your restraints. Before you can react— reach for his face, push him back around, anything to save him— he gently slid his hands to your cheeks. He cups your jaw as if you were paper and fire, and leans down to scorch your lips in his flames. 

“I missed you.” He murmured the secret into your kiss, and would clearly not mind proclaiming it to the world should you wish. 

You softened, relenting in his embrace. Kiss him back. “Stubborn.” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

 Or when he’d send flowers to your desk.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

The cards held little information as to why the sender decided to gift them, but as to who… 

“How much fruit does this guy sell?” Andrew wonders, poking at the hydrangeas and sunflowers in bundles on your desk. Vases, baskets, and bouquets have made your little cubicle into a giant parade float. Your corner is single-handedly making the building smell a little sweeter. 

“Not much,” you murmur, fingers dancing over the stand-out vase of daturas closest to your monitor. A shy blush pairs with your dreamy little smile. 

Sometimes he’d appear at karaoke nights with coworkers under the guise that he’d been in the right place at the right time. There, you learned that Sylus prefers physical contact as much as it is possible. He doesn’t particularly force you into it, doesn’t keep you to his side like a magnet. But rather integrates it naturally into your system. 

He isn’t shy when it comes to mingling, proudly talking about his (very fake!) fruit business, his passion for bikes, and his night fishing. But as he speaks, his arm is curled around your waist. As you flip through the songbook, his chin rests on your shoulder, asking which song you feel like singing and if he can sing along. As you start to sing, he presses his lips to your head and hums the song with you. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

But as the years progressed, the relationship grew deeper. And with the undeniable call of your souls left you gasping for each other when apart— what you have has now turned into your greatest crime of all.

And here you are, buying a pack of diapers (since apparently you can’t have just one?), a pacifier, a bonnet, and a stuffed animal to confess to your husband your most notorious crime to date—

Having children with the enemy. 

“I’m not asking here,” your nose twitches when you pout like that. Mephisto registers it into his log to improve his artificial intelligence in reading human emotions under: annoyed. But he squawks still in disapproval. 

“Please, Mephie, it’s just a little bonnet.” The white piece of yarn and lace dangles from your fingers by the ribbons. Mephisto caws and flaps his wings, a clear no. 

You grit your teeth. He files that under: desperate. “C’mon, it would be so cute—“

“What would be so cute?” 

Figures. All the luck in the world siphoned from Sylus’s fortunes and placed into you, and yet when you’re together, he cancels it out anyway, depriving you both of any.

You’re able to stuff the props back into your coat pocket just as he engulfs you into an embrace from behind. He buries his nose into your hair affectionately and melts against you. 

As per routine, he undoes his cufflinks, unlatches his watch, and rubs at his wrists in this hold. Never once leaving your warmth as if the rest of the home was submerged in the most frigid of winters. “Fighting with Mephisto again?” 

“No, just conversing.” Your hand reaches up to caress his face, cloud fingers gliding against silken skin. Distracting him from your other one that pinches the bird’s beak shut to keep it from squawking things Sylus apparently understands.

“Mm.” You feel his warm palm on your belly before he curls it around your waist. Your breathing hitsches, the props rattle in your pockets, and you begin to wonder if he— 

“You’re hungry.” He points out, feeling your stomach grumble and growl beneath his touch. “Sweetie, have you had lunch?” 

You purse your lips in reply, and to him, it’s a telltale sign that you had some kind of beverage in place of a proper meal. He sighs, planting a kiss to your cheek before unlinking himself to move into the kitchen. 

Once he disappears behind a corner, you wrestle Mephisto into the little bonnet and pacifier, begging him to hold still, to please, please comply just for a second. At one point, he gives up.

He is a perfect statue when you tie the bonnet that makes him look like a soot spot in the middle of a sunflower, and he balances the pacifier between the two pointed tips of his beak. He earns a kiss on his head before he’s sent away.

Mephisto lurks somewhere in the shadows as the gourmet instant noodles are halved and served in two ceramic bowls. Before Sylus takes his seat on the barstool beside you, you tug him close with shaky hands.

In truth, you never gave yourself the time to overthink it— took a test as soon as the suspicion arose, hid its positive conclusion, brainstormed the cutest way to tell him, and ran to the store as fast as you could. Not once thinking of anything else aside from telling him as soon as possible.

It’s natural that you’re feeling queasy. Though… It’s too soon for hormones, right?

None of the dots connect because now you’re crying, and he has the most horrified look on his face. Which is exactly the opposite of what you wanted. No, no!

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” he’s looking over you like you’d just returned from a mission. Eyes wide and worried, he clasps your cold hands together to heat them, tugging down at your cheeks to check beneath your waterline. 

“Sylus, you like kids, right?” you hiccup, the words running from you before your tongue is able to catch them.

You know as a fact that he is kind beneath that hostile exterior, as warm as the hearth of a fire, and as giving as an unthanked tree, bearing fruits expecting nothing in return. 

But beyond the kindness he has extended to you, you’ve never seen him handle children other than Luke and Kieran, who barely count despite their childlike whimsy they insist is ‘charisma’ or whatev—

He blinks. Confusion and concern warring clear on his face. “What?” 

“A baby? We never—talked—about—it—“ your hand goes to your chest as you push through the sharp intakes of breath that come with the sobs. Suddenly, the world is spinning, and you’re maybe tilting sidewards. His hand catches your shoulder before you topple over.

Sylus looks like he’s watching you combust. “Beloved—“

“I’m pregnant.” you choke out, unable to map your way through the script you practiced thanks to the sudden storm wracking your chest. 

Mephisto flies out warily at the cue word, clad in his little baby get-up, and rests atop your head. He ruffles his feathers proudly despite his degrading appearance. “Caw!” 

Sylus is breathless. “What?” 

Your arms hang helplessly on your sides. Sightless and senseless. You’re floating through a space of uncertainty and discomfort, but certainly not because you don’t want this with him— but because you feel the dread of bringing a life into yours. One of dangerous missions, kill-orders, wanderers, and blood. 

And then wonder if he’d even want this life with you.

He stares at your face, the anguish and fear in your glistening eyes. He notices the loose pieces of ribbon slipping out of the pockets of your cardigan, the glitter on your sleeves, the bird in a baby bonnet on your head.

His heart races to an ungodly speed, and his silence betrays his one true thought on the matter. 

“Sylus?” There is fear in your whisper when moments pass and the only sound in the room is the gentle hum of static. “Please say something.” 

The look on his face is unreadable. He’s calculating a million equations to stop the end of the world. He’s trying to decipher illusion from reality in a fever-dreamt haze. He’s holding on to the last piece of sanity he has left as it dwindles away at the sound of your voice saying those words. 

I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. 

Your lip wobbles again. Frustration begins to build, seen in the way you tap your foot on the ground impatiently. You grit, “Sy—“

He engulfs you. Tightly, too tight. In an embrace that feels like it means more to him than just holding you. He is anchoring himself, making sure this is all real.

His one hand cradles the back of your head to his chest, his other arm wraps around your waist, firm and gentle all at once. His world is rupturing, but he welcomes it wholly, like there was no other end meant to be but this.  

You feel the wetness when he presses his face in the crook of your neck. Your heart pinches painfully. His tears trickle down to your collarbone as he silently gives you his response. 

“Yes,” he’s never sounded so raw, so honest until this moment. “Yes, I will love our children.” 

It takes moments before you both come down to earth. Tangled in each other’s arms, bathed in each other’s tears. But when you do, it is joyful and bright. 

Sylus has never smiled so widely and unabashedly in his life as he marvels at your beauty. You, who looks like you’d swallowed the sun and now emits its radiance. With your eyes of liquid starlight and your love-swollen lips. His heart, his soul, his life, his wife. 

The mother of his child. 

Never once had that realm of possibility been broached— being a father in any lifetime much less this one. The thought turns his insides into stone, his chest aches beneath the weight of a phantom spear. 

But he whispers, just as he pulls away. “You are the only one who can ever make me want this. She is from you— what else can I do?” 

Not because he dreads it, but he is helpless— built, existing only to love you. Everything you are. Everything you do. Everything of you. 

You sniffle, reaching up to hold his face, and reply, “You think she’s going to be a girl?” 

He looks at you, now— hopeful eyes shining, shaking fingers balancing the little stick that tells you your future, bashfully handing him a little dragon plush in a diaper (your failed initial announcement plan). 

He is thawed, whole, redeemed in ways he cannot begin to understand. 

He’ll do everything to deserve you, everything to deserve this family you’ve given him. He will curl his entire being around you; protect each beat from your hearts, hoard each breath drawn from your lungs. 

Despite the world, despite his fate— he will bend fortune to his will, rewrite all the stars in the sky— just to live this life. With his family. With his child.

In all his years as a monster, in this moment, he will give everything to anything for redemption. For you. That is his greatest sin of all. 

✧˚ ⋆｡ more pre-baby! (coming soon!)|| more little twins (the ones in mama's belly here) || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you for reading!

[okaylikeschaewon]

Boxes

~6k words

“I can’t accept this.”

“Why not?”

“It’s way too expensive.”

Stupid… that was definitely stupid. For Yuri, there was no set of words that held less meaning. It just slipped out, a dumb mistake on your part. No matter how many times you’ve had this redundant back and forth in the past, you’re always left in the same place – this simply wasn’t a dispute Yuri would even consider losing, and eventually you would have to accept it.

“Just say thank you,” Yuri replied, not even sparing you a glance as she continued browsing. “Do you think I should try gold?”

“I think I like your platinum one more,” you answered, taking a quick glance at the necklace she was modeling before turning back to the pendant in your hands. “But it still looks nice.”

Yuri placed the necklace back and turned to you, sighing before flashing you a smile. “No, you’re right, it doesn’t suit me,” she commented, glancing around the store. “Come on, let’s try somewhere else.”

“I didn’t say it doesn’t suit you, it’s still nice,” you clarified as you placed the pendant back in the display case. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You don’t have to lie, I’m a big girl. I can handle the truth,” she replied coldly, holding her hand out for you to take. “Now come on, let’s go. And pick that cute box back up before you offend me again.”

“Yuri, don’t be like that,” you groaned, picking the pendant’s case back up and taking her hand. “I said it’s nice.”

“Yeah and what you meant was it’s ugly on me.”

“I did not mean it’s ugly on you!” you protested before pausing in your tracks, holding up the little box. “Hey, forgetting something?”

“They know you’re with me, it’ll just get added to my account. They won’t hassle me for such a small purchase,” Yuri replied casually, turning to face you. “Put it back on, I like how it looks on you.”

“How the hell do you have such privilege at a Cartier store?”

“I come here all the time,” Yuri shrugged, holding her hand out for you to take again. “You’re asking too many questions.”

That’s a first, you thought to yourself as you put the pendant on and took her hand once more. “You’re just full of surprises,” you chuckled. “Thank you again.”

“Don’t mention it. You hungry?”

“I could eat. You?”

“A little bit,” Yuri replied, letting go of your hand and leaning right up against your body instead, interlocking arms with you. “And we both know that just means I’m going to eat some of whatever you get.”

“Then tell me, what am I in the mood for today?”

She thought for a moment, scanning the food court around her before fixating on a stall. “Corndog.”

“Just a corndog?” you asked, knowing Yuri would always want more, even if just a bite. “How about some chicken? It's been a while.”

“I can get you some, sure,” Yuri replied, pulling you towards the food court. “You go get the corndogs, I’ll go get the chicken,” she instructed, handing you her credit card.

“It’s just a couple of corndogs, I can get it,” you waved her off.

“Don’t be difficult, take the card,” Yuri glared at you. She had this uncanny way of making you listen when she spoke, those slightly pursed lips – shining with just a bit of gloss – seemingly intensifying whatever words she decided to use in a way that just made it so difficult to argue. 

With a smile and a roll of your eyes, you walked off, leaving Yuri behind as you went to pick up her corndogs. You decided on one with fried potatoes on the outside, picking more so based on what you thought Yuri would like rather than your own preferences. After paying with her card and picking up the food, you looked around for her, finding her waiting at another stall.

“I thought you were getting chicken.”

“I figured you’d also want some noodles,” she replied, her gaze locked firmly on the man scooping them into the box. It was like she was in a trance, an adorable and cute one. She held up a receipt, still not even looking your way. “It should be done by now.”

And with the little slip of paper, you maneuvered through the crowd and picked up the yangnyeom from the next stall over – your favorite flavor – before bringing it back to the table that Yuri had settled on.

“It looks amazing,” you commented on the spread of food as you took your seat. “And this little box they put the chicken in, it’s so cute!”

“Unlike me in a gold necklace.”

“Yuri,” you sighed, holding her corndog up for her to take. “Are you really still on that?”

Yuri leaned forward and took a bite, keeping firm eye contact with you the entire time, taking her time to chew slowly. She knew what she was doing. That testy expression, ready to lash out at you at the first provocation, combined with the adorable fullness of her cheeks was sending you for a loop. On one hand you didn’t want to make her upset, but on the other hand she was so adorable right now that all you could think about was teasing her some more.

“How’s the corndog?”

“Maybe you try it yourself and find out,” she replied, picking up her chopsticks and starting on the chicken. “Then if you hate it, you can tell me it’s still nice or whatever you said.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” you chuckled, shaking your head.

“I don’t think so.”

“You absolutely are,” you crossed your arms. “You’re sulking for no reason.”

“First you call me ugly, now you say I’m being perverse.”

“Yuri,” you rolled your eyes. “You’re not ugly, but you are being perverse.”

“No I’m not, this is just my style,” she stuck her nose up in an attempt to seem sassy, but the food filling her cheeks made her look more adorable than anything else. “Why aren’t you eating? It’s going to get cold.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Yuri’s gaze left the chicken and landed on you, her eyes burning red in frustration. “What do you mean you’re not hungry, I got all this for you,” she snapped, putting down her chopsticks. “You said you’d eat.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Are you in the mood for something else? We can get whatever you want,” Yuri suggested, her features hinting real concern, the coldness evaporating before your eyes. “We can even go somewhere else–”

“I’m okay Yuri,” you replied, trying your best to hold back your smile. “I’ll just watch you eat.”

“No,” she whined, jumping to her feet and stomping around the table, sitting next to you. “Eat something, here,” she held up a piece of chicken for you, holding her hand under it.

“No thanks.”

Yuri’s expression shifted slightly from worry to determination. “Just take at least one bite,” she insisted, moving her chopsticks closer to your mouth, eyes wide and pleading. “Please?”

The corners of your mouth betrayed you, twitching upwards slightly. “Fine, just one,” you conceded, accepting the bite.

Yuri’s face lit up with triumph as she quickly grabbed another piece of chicken for you. “It’s good, right?” she asked, holding the piece up and blowing on it for you. “Here, have more.”

“Yuri I can feed myself,” you chuckled while grabbing her wrist gently. “But thank you.”

“You sure you don’t want anything else? Dessert maybe?”

“I’m good, this is more than enough.”

“Alright, just let me know,” Yuri yawned as she leaned her head against your shoulder. “I’m full.”

“You had like two bites.”

“So what, we’ll take the leftovers,” Yuri replied while stifling a small giggle at your reaction. “Good thing we have such a cute little box, right?”

“Yeah, right,” you grumbled before picking your chopsticks back up.

— 

“What are you about to do?” Yuri asked as she took off her coat.

“Nothing in particular,” you replied, waiting for her to ask for what you already knew was coming.

She ran up in front of you, watching patiently as you took off your shoes, her eyes shining in excitement. “Cuddle?” she asked once you slipped them both off, holding her hands out.

“Sure,” you smiled back and took her hands, following along as she pulled you into her little apartment.

Her place was modest to say the least – considering how much money this girl had. At first glance, you’d never know, but once you really started to take a closer look, the signs were there.

The couch – that she just pushed you onto – was easily the most comfortable couch you had ever sat on, facing a gorgeous, brand new OLED. The two of you have spent many evenings watching random movies, shows, and YouTube videos together here, more often than not falling asleep before making it to her luxurious king-sized bed, which was equally as comfortable – not that the girl needed a bed of that size.

Yuri quickly threw on some random video about some infamous thief before excitedly climbing onto your body, sliding into your arms and pulling out her phone. “Do you wanna share a hot chocolate or something?” she asked while opening up an app.

“Do you actually want hot chocolate or do you just want to try using the robot again?” you chuckled, giving her a small poke in the ribs. “Go ahead, let's see if it works this time.”

“It will!” she replied excitedly as she pulled out her phone. “Alright let’s do simple hot chocolate with… marshmallows and some chocolate flakes! Anything else?”

“Let’s try just that, I don’t really want to clean up a mess tonight.”

“It’ll work this time,” she whined, sending the order. “You just have to believe.”

“Alright alright, this time I’m with you, I believe in him,” you gave the back of her head a little peck. “And if it works, I’ll cuddle with you all night.”

“And what if it doesn’t?”

“I’ll probably still cuddle with you all night.”

“No take backs,” she giggled, turning onto her side and resting her cheek on your chest. She lay there for a while, watching the screen while the robot worked on the drink, breathing calmly as you ran your fingers through her hair slowly. “Do you really believe this guy managed to steal this much all by himself?”

“Not at all, it sounds absolutely ridiculous,” you answered, moving your hand down to rest it around Yuri’s stomach. “Although, he is clearly stupidly rich. Maybe he did kill all those people.”

“Yeah,” Yuri sighed softly. “Look at that house, it must have cost like a billion dollars.”

“Your sense of money might be a bit off,” you chuckled, giving her hip a gentle pat. “But even if it was a billion dollars, we both know you could afford it.”

“I prefer a cozier place, gives you fewer places to hide from me.”

“Truly a shame, I’m just stuck here with you all the time, nowhere to hide.”

“Hey,” Yuri rolled over so that she was facing you. She looked upset. “If I bought a bigger place, would you really hide from me?”

“Yeah, all the time.”

Yuri frowned, scrunching up her face in the most adorable way possible. “Stop joking,” she pouted, her shiny eyes pleading.

Why did she have to be so cute?

“Yuri, I promise I wouldn’t hide,” you cupped her face in yours hands and gazed tenderly into her eyes. “I love you,” you added before kissing her forehead softly.

Her frown melted away, replaced by the brightest and that adorable smile you’ve grown to love returned. She wrapped her arms around you tightly, pulling herself into your body. “Say it again,” she whispered against your chest.

“I – love – you – so – much,” you kissed the top of her head between each word.

Her smile widened and her eyes sparkled as she looked up at you, squeezing tighter, as if she never wanted to let go.

“Yuri, I can’t breathe,” you playfully croaked.

She loosened up her grip slightly. “More than anything?” she asked with anticipation all over her expression.

“More than anything.”

“Then you won’t care if you can’t breathe,” she giggled before squeezing you again, as hard as she could.

Your lips couldn’t help but curl up into a smile at her antics. You began tickling her ribs, both of you getting lost in laughter with Yuri’s occasional shriek of protest as it turned into an impromptu wrestling match.

“Stop! Stop!” Yuri howled, laughing hysterically as she curled into a ball in a feeble attempt to protect her sides. “I can’t breathe!”

“Yeah, how do you like it?” you chuckled as Yuri finally broke away from you, gasping heavily and smiling.

“I’m not sharing my hot chocolate anymore,” she panted heavily, clutching her ribs. “Speaking of which, here it comes.”

Slowly and methodically, the little robot rolled over to Yuri with a fresh cup of hot chocolate. She picked it up carefully and shot you a proud smirk before taking a small sip as the robot rolled back into the kitchen.

“Ouch!” she yelped before giggling again, “It’s hot.”

“Dummy,” you shook your head in disappointment.

“It’s really good though!”

“I wouldn’t know, you’re not sharing.”

She looked at you, then down at the cup, then back up to you and exhaled heavily through her nose before motioning for you to come close, her lips slightly pouted the entire time.

She lifted the cup, but then paused, a worried look crossing her face. “Wait, it’s still really hot,” she said before gently blowing on the surface.

She really was the sweetest, you thought to yourself while watching the tiny ripples in the surface of the chocolatey drink, amused by the gesture.

“Here, take a small sip,” she carefully held the mug up again. “Be careful though.”

As you leaned in, she tilted the cup with utmost care, her face fully focused. Once you took a sip, you leaned back as the rich and velvety chocolate enveloped your taste buds, leaving a lingering sweetness on your tongue long after the drink went down your throat.

“How is it?” she asked eagerly, eyes full of anticipation once more.

“Almost as sweet as you,” you smiled at her.

“Is it too sweet? Should I add something to dilute it?” she looked worried without properly registering what you said.

“No,” you leaned over and kissed her cheek. “It’s actually really good.”

“Oh,” she said with a relieved smile as she took another sip. “You sure you don’t want something? The robot works now!”

“I’m fine, all I want is to be close to you,” you replied as she held the mug up for you to take another sip. “And even if it didn’t work, your kitchen is like five steps away.”

“Yeah but a robot is more fun,” Yuri giggled, putting the cup on a cute little flower coaster she had on the table and turning off the TV.

“Cuddling with you is more fun.”

“Then why aren’t you?” she teased, crossing her arms at you.

She began smiling again as you leaned into her, giving her neck a couple of light kisses before hugging her.

“Any plans tomorrow?” you asked as you kissed lower down the neckline of her shirt.

“No, I was thinking about just staying in all day.”

“I could stop by after work if you’d like,” you mumbled, kissing her neck softly while sliding a hand up the bottom of her shirt.

“When are you just going to quit your job,” Yuri sighed, adjusting slightly to give your hand easier access. “Things would be so much easier.”

“We’ve talked about this, I can’t do that,” you replied, appreciating the fact that Yuri bra was the first to go whenever she arrived home as you cupped a tit in your palm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Why not?” Yuri frowned. “I already told you I’d pay for everything, it’s really not a problem.”

“It is a problem.”

“You don’t think I could afford it?”

“I know you can afford it,” you laughed, drawing circles around her nipple with two fingers until you felt it stiffen before giving the nub a small pinch.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Yuri, baby,” you slipped your other hand up her shirt as well, giving both of her tits equal love as you gave her neck a couple of soft kisses. “I don’t even know where you got the money from.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because,” you paused to give both of her tits a firm squeeze at the same time, admiring the shape through her shirt. “For all I know, you’re like that thief from the documentary who murdered people. What if you murder me?”

“You don’t actually think I’m going to murder you,” she scoffed before casually grabbing the bottom of her shirt and lifting it up to her neck, freeing her beautiful tits for you to enjoy. “Do you?”

“No,” you muttered, eyes locked on her chest, before leaning forward and pressing her nipple between your lips, stretching it back softly. “I don’t,” you added before moving to the other one.

“Then why is it so difficult,” she sighed, absentmindedly running her fingers through your hair as you toyed with her nipples. “You know that I love you.”

“And I love you,” you replied while cupping both of her tits firmly in your palms and alternating kisses between them. “But then why can’t you tell me?”

“Because,” she hesitated, biting her lip. “You wouldn’t even believe me if I told you.”

“You don’t know that,” you replied without even looking up as you pressed her tits together and ran your tongue up and down her cleavage a few times. “Have I ever told you how much I love your tits?”

“Maybe once or twice,” Yuri giggled, pressing your head down into her chest. “Fine, I won the money in a competition.”

“What competition?” you mumbled into her tits. “And how much did you win?”

“See, you don’t believe me, just more questions.”

“Yuri,” you brought your attention back to one of her nipples, using your tongue to poke at it gently. “We don’t have to do this tonight if you don’t want to tell me.”

“It was some silly game show. I’m really not allowed to tell people about it,” Yuri ignored your suggestion entirely. “It’s a secret, but I promise I didn’t do anything bad.”

“What, is it one of those porno ones where–” you stopped mid sentence as Yuri slapped you across the cheek. “Oh, feisty tonight are we?” you chuckled before lightly biting her nipple.

“I’m not that type of girl.”

“I know you’re not,” you let go of her nipple and tilted your neck upwards, giving her soft, plump lips a drawn out kiss. “It was just a joke.”

“I know, but still, I don’t want you thinking that I would do that even as a joke,” Yuri pouted her dewy lips.

“I’m sorry my love,” you gave her another kiss before bringing your lips back to her tits, rubbing your tongue all over them. “Alright, you won them in some secret game. Fine. And what if you run out?”

“I won’t.”

Her reply… you weren’t expecting it to hit as hard as it did. Something about her confidence, it just resonated with you through all the uncertainty, and you felt like trusting the girl without any real proof.

“Even then, I still need to work. I like my job.”

“Fine, keep the job, but when are you moving in with me?” Yuri asked as she started pulling your shirt off your body.

“I basically already live here,” you answered as the shirt came off. “I’m here every other night.”

“But I want you every night,” Yuri pouted up at you. “I want to wake up next to you every morning.”

“Soon, my love, I promise,” you leaned in to give her a kiss. “What’s the rush?”

“There’s no rush, but like you said, you basically already live here. It would just be easier.”

“Easier? Babe, I already fuck you at least once a day, how much easier do you need it to be?” you chuckled while slipping off Yuri’s skirt.

She smiled up at you with a soft expression, one that could make your heart flutter faster than anything in the world. “It could still be easier,” she whispered. She used both hands to grab the back of your neck and pull you towards her, pressing her lips softly against yours.

“I’ll think about it,” you smiled as you sat up and began unbuckling your belt. You took a glance around the room before chuckling at Yuri. “If I do, you’re going to have to clean up all these boxes.”

“I like ordering stuff…”

“I know you do, but there are actually boxes everywhere.”

“What did the boxes do to you?” Yuri argued as she watched you take off your pants. “I think they’re cute.”

“The boxes are cute?” you laughed, tossing your pants and underwear to the side and laying down next to Yuri. “You seriously are just full of all kinds of surprises.”

“Yeah, you ever thought about how maybe I might like them?” Yuri giggled as her fingers found their way between your legs. “And when I don’t have this to play with, they come in handy.”

“We’ll have to get you some better toys if you’re fucking boxes.”

“Or you could just fuck me,” Yuri whispered back. She pulled her panties off with one hand, her other gently stroking your shaft to life. “Should we head to the bedroom? We haven’t done it there in a while.”

“I literally fucked you in there yesterday.”

“Oops,” Yuri giggled before sliding off the couch and onto her knees. “Whatever, come here. It doesn’t fucking matter.”

“I could fuck you on the boxes,” you suggested while swinging your legs around and sitting on the edge of the couch.

“Shut up,” Yuri grinned with her hand on your cock. She leaned down and pressed her tongue against your balls, sliding it up your shaft and ending with a kiss against your tip.

As she was about to put your cock in her mouth, she paused to hold her hands up for you. Once she had her fingers interlocked with yours on both hands, she gave your tip another kiss and locked eyes with you, squeezing your hands softly before lowering her lips down your cock.

“Oh fuck Yuri, that’s nice,” you sighed deeply, squeezing her fingers back, eyes locked on hers.

The gaze was driving you insane, fierce and confident while her mouth stretched around your cock, her cheeks hollowed in. Yuri moved up and down your cock slowly, making sure to show each inch some love. From time to time, she would lift her mouth up and take a sharp gasp of air, just to bring her mouth back down to your cock.

“I can’t get enough of this,” you groaned.

“Neither can I,” Yuri gasped in response, leaving a string of saliva between her lips and your cock. She gave it a couple of last licks before letting go of your hands. “You look ready. You taste ready.”

“For you,” you paused to grab Yuri by the face and kiss her. “Always.”

“Then what are you waiting for,” she smiled as you held her.

“Bedroom?” you suggested as you slipped a hand down between her legs. She was already wet, her pussy sticking to your fingers as you pressed down and began rubbing little circles.

“Nah, fuck it,” she moaned softly, eyes half-lidded for a moment before she grabbed your cock with both hands and began jerking you. “It doesn’t matter where.”

“Agreed,” you murmured, leaning in and kissing Yuri as she stroked your shaft, making sure to keep your fingers rubbed up against her clit. You were both ready, but you got lost in the moment, everything just felt so right. It took a lot of willpower to break out of the trance you found yourself in, but eventually you picked Yuri up and fell until your back hit the couch with Yuri on top of you. “It really doesn’t fucking matter.”

Yuri giggled softly as she took hold of your shaft again, lining it up while balancing on one knee before slowly lowering herself onto your cock. She closed her eyes and tilted her head up to the roof as she slowly inched her way down your length.

Once you were fully inside Yuri’s pussy, and with your hands on her hips, she slowly lifted herself back up. Each movement was slow and calculated, a moan or gasp blessed your ears every time Yuri went back down on your cock. She began to speed up, just a bit, making sure to take your entire length with each little bounce.

“Oops,” she started giggling. She accidentally moved too far up, and your cock slipped out of her. “My fault.”

“God damn you’re wet tonight,” you moaned as she rubbed your tip against her pussy.

“You like that?” she whispered while lowering herself once more onto your cock, making a little circular movement this time.

“Fucking love it,” you grunted, finally joining in and giving her a couple of soft thrusts.

“Oh fuck yes, just how I like it,” Yuri cried out softly, taking your cock expertly with her cute little tits bouncing in small circles each time you thrusted your hips up into her. “Oh baby, give it to me.”

“Fuck, Yuri,” you sighed before pulling her down against your body.

The two of you began moving your hips in tandem, with the rest of your bodies completely attached. Her warm, soft skin felt amazing, just as amazing as her pussy felt. The tighter you hugged her, the harder she squeezed back, allowing for the most beautiful intimacy to course through your veins.

A jumble of moans and gasps filled the little apartment, broken only by the sound of you kissing Yuri’s warm neck. While your hands explored her back, occasionally seeking refuge against her soft ass. Nothing in the world could feel better than this.

“I fucking love you,” Yuri cried out softly.

Turns out there was something that could feel better.

“I love you so much,” you moaned back before flipping Yuri onto her back. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” you cupped her face in your hands and kissed her before lining yourself up with her pussy again.

“Fuck,” Yuri stretched the word as far as it could go as you eased into her pussy slowly. She closed her eyes, squirming as you brought your thumb down to her clit and started rubbing gently with each soft thrust.

Your other hand gently pressed her leg to the side, letting you move closer as you fucked Yuri deep and hard. She began screaming out – music in the purest form to your ears. With how many times you’ve fucked Yuri now, you knew exactly what was happening, and you were going to make sure to ride it out with her, the love of your life.

“I… I’m… oh fuck… please.”

“Don’t talk,” you whispered softly while pressing a finger against her lip. She opened her eyes, that pleading glance, forehead scrunched up, and nodded up at you.

Or at least, it looked like a nod, her entire body was bouncing with each thrust still. With a few more deep thrusts, Yuri’s mouth shot open and her eyes shut, she began silently screaming out as her world stopped – this was your favorite part.

There it was, the glorious squeeze of Yuri’s pussy whenever she would cum. Nothing was more perfect. Without fail, you knew this was the best moment, and the perfect motivation for you to start thrusting as hard and fast as you could.

Speaking from experience, you knew how much Yuri loved this part. She claimed it felt amazing for her, which was the ultimate blessing, because it felt fucking divine for you. Her pussy squeezed your cock as hard as it could, and your brain began going numb.

A soft ringing in your ears, like when you stand up too quickly, accompanied by the most intense pleasure you have ever felt between your legs. Your cock began erupting inside Yuri’s pussy while the rest of your body spasmed in the most uncontrollable fit of pure ecstasy.

At some point, your cock slipped out of her pussy. You didn’t care to think about how or when, you just made do by grabbing your cock and stroking it over Yuri’s petite body, shooting a couple of final ropes onto her flat and adorable tummy.

“Oh my fucking God,” you moaned as you stroked whatever was left out of your cock right onto her pussy, joining the mess that was leaking out of her. “I love you so much.”

“I fucking love you,” Yuri sighed back with a smile, quickly sitting herself up and kissing you as all of your cum slowly flowed down her body.

She gave your cock a final few gentle strokes while kissing you, fondling your balls a bit between her fingers, and occasionally clawing at your tip to make a mess of the cum you had left on it. Once satisfied with the kiss, Yuri smiled warmly at you before looking down at herself.

“Ugh, I’m so fucking sticky,” Yuri whined while scooping your cum off her stomach. “I’m going to go wash up, give me a moment. We’re cuddling again after.”

“Take your time,” you breathed softly, gathering your breath. “I’ll be here.”

Yuri gave you a final quick peck on the cheek before hopping off the couch and skipping across the room. Once Yuri closed the door to her bedroom, you jumped to your feet and ran over to the coat rack. As quickly as you could, you took the little box hidden inside your jacket’s inner pocket, double checking inside to make sure the ring was still there even though you knew it was.

With the box in hand, you quietly leaned against Yuri’s bedroom door, trying to relax as the sound of her shower turning on came through the mahogany. As calmly as your throbbing heart would allow, you cleaned yourself off quickly with some wipes before putting your clothes back on.

Once dressed, you entered Yuri’s room and waited patiently until the shower turned off. Your heart was beating harder than ever now as you dropped down to one knee a few steps away from the bathroom door. You tried taking a few deep breaths, but nothing worked; eventually, you conceded to the fact that you were going to be nervous and there was nothing you could do about it.

“Babe, before I head home, there was something I had to ask,” you called out through the door.

“I thought we were going to–” Yuri began replying as she entered the room before she froze in her tracks. “What are you doing?”

“Yuri–”

“No! Are you serious?” she squealed, bringing her hands up to her mouth, eyes wider than you’ve ever seen. She quickly ran up to you, nearly tripping on her towel. “Babe?!”

“Yuri,” you smiled tenderly up at her. “You are the most beautiful, amazing girl I have ever met in my life. You were my first love, and my only love. You mean the most to me in this world, and there is not a single person I could imagine spending the rest of my life with, other than you.”

Anticipation at an all time high, and hands still glued to her mouth, Yuri stared down at you wide eyed and frozen, incapable of movement.

“Jo Yuri, will you marry me?”

It was as if time stopped for a moment, the world stopped spinning, and the room around you blurred out of existence. All that was left was you, the little box in your hand, and Yuri. Then, with the weight of the entire world, Yuri lowered her hands from her mouth, and, with tears in her eyes, gave her answer.

“Yes, of course. Fucking yes, absolutely!”

Before you could even take in her response, before you could accept what she just said, you were pushed down to your back as Yuri – literally – jumped onto your body, landing with her lips pressed to yours in the best kiss you have ever had. It went on forever, seemingly. Yuri didn’t let go until she physically had to, gasping for breath and letting her tears flow down her cheeks as she looked down at you.

“Babe,” you whispered with a smile that you wouldn’t have been able to wipe off your face even if you wanted. “Try it on?”

“Oh, right,” she gasped, sitting up on her knees and holding out her hand.

She was trembling more than you’ve ever seen. You took hold of her wrist softly, giving it a comforting squeeze before bringing the ring up to her finger and sliding it on – a perfect fit.

“How do you like it?”

“Where did you get this? I’ve never seen anything like it,” Yuri gushed as she held her hand up towards the light, letting it shine against her finger. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s my great-great-grandfather’s, it got passed down my family for generations,” you explained. “I had to get it tightened and stuff, of course.”

“Wow, I love it,” Yuri muttered softly under her breath. She turned her attention away from the ring to look into your eyes. Her expression, soft as ever with little fresh tears of joy in her eyes, just made you melt. “I love you.”

Normally you’d say it back, but there was nothing you wanted more in the world right now than to kiss Yuri, your now-fiancée, on the lips. And that kiss would mark the start of new beginnings, a future, for the rest of your life, with the girl you loved – Jo Yuri.

---

A/N:

I'm just a huge liar I guess. Look, this was a fic I started writing as soon as I binged S2 of squidgame, but I wasn't able to finish it before life got busy. I was reminded of it by talking to some other writers and decided to finish it up in one night. I hope you guys still enjoy!

I know a lot of you guys have been asking and very patiently been waiting for the next Twice chapter, it's coming soon! I mentioned in my discord, but I might end up just dropping like four fics in the next couple of weeks. Dating Seraphs ch11 (once ch10 hits 1k notes maybe), Debauchery p2 (idk when, it's pretty much done already), a MiSaMo unnamed standalone of no plot all smut (probably the next release, maybe a couple days pr a week from now), and then I'll try to get the next Twice chapter out!

Love everyone's support and patience recently. I really hope my writing has been enjoyable still, I promise I'm not rushing through it. I still try to put in the effort to make it quality stuff for you guys, I just had a lot of half-finished works that I've finally come around to finishing! <3

[eufezco]

THE MUSE

Benedict needs to practice female form. Naked female form. And who better to help him than his lifelong friend?

Benedict x fem!reader (smut with plot, friends to lovers) + no use of y/n. english isn't my first language (!)

Benedict didn't know how to ask you.

You had been friends for a long time, your families were practically one. Always so united, your mamas took walks every afternoon, gossiping about the ton and your fathers had been friends since childhood. You and Benedict were bound to meet.

You and he grew up together. You were friends with his siblings, you had held sleepovers with his sisters and won cricket matches against his brothers. Lady Violet Bridgerton loved you like a daughter and your mother loved Benedict like a son.

But your friendship with him had always been special.

When you were twelve, you ran away together to camp on the riverbank, just because Benedict wanted to draw the moon reflecting in the water at night. The following year, despite the scolding you received for your river adventure, you and Benedict sneaked onto private land just to pluck a few petals from the summer sunflowers to get him the perfect shade of yellow.

You and Benedict were very close. Of course, there had always been rumors about what kind of relationship you two had and that Lady Whistledown had only added more fuel to the fire writing about you two in her pamphlets. You and him never cared about that, and neither your families but it was true that you two have had to face some uncomfortable conversations with them about it.

That's why Benedict didn't know how to ask you. You had a lot of trust in each other, you had always supported his artistic vocation but perhaps this was too much.

—Oh, thank God you've come. I am in need of a model —. It was the first thing Benedict said to you when you entered his studio. The maid closed the door behind you, leaving you alone with him. Thank goodness the Bridgertons' service was very discreet, if anyone found out that you and him were alone in a room it would cause quite a scandal.

—Good evening to you too, Benedict.

—My apologies. Good evening —. He leaned to kiss your cheek.— I need a model —. He let you know one more time.

—How have you been? Very stressed from what I can tell —. You tried to have a normal conversation with him before you paid attention to what he required.

—Indeed.

You sighed. —Well, what is it? I thought we were going for a walk.

He nodded. —We can go outside later. But I need to get this done by tomorrow and I feel like I'm losing my mind.

—And...?

—I need practice female form.

You slowly nodded. You were aware that Benedict had been recently attending this art academy, you were happy that he was finally able to pursue his passion and you couldn't deny that within the characteristic desperation of the artists, he looked very attractive. Benedict's hair was a mess, his white shirt was half-open, his sleeves were rolled up. He would never have allowed himself be seen in society like that and you were grateful because otherwise he would have all the girls after him.

—And you want me to...?

—Pose for me.

You weren't quite sure how to do it but it seemed easy and fun. All the times he had drawn you, he had done it when you were distracted, reading, having tea with his sisters... The pencil moved effortlessly across the paper when he saw you laughing with Daphne or playing with the cards that Colin had brought back from his trip to Spain. He was already too embarrassed to admit each time he drew you and Anthony teased him by saying that if he didn't propose to you, he would show you his drawings, and Benedict's heart skipped a beat because he knew that his older brother was not known for being a joker.

Benedict still didn't know how he was going to ask you, maybe it was better to just let it out.

—And what shall I do? Just stand here? Like this? —You laughed and made a dramatic pose like the ones you saw in the paintings in the gallery you visited together.

—I need you to ...

Benedict swallowed nervously. He looked down at your dress and then directly into your eyes. You raised your eyebrows, waiting for him to finish. You also looked at your dress to see if there was something wrong with it.

—Benedict I don't think I understand what you are trying to say—

—I need to practice naked female form.

Benedict immediately noticed your horrified face. He wanted to go back seconds ago when he hadn't even asked but if it wasn't you, who would it be? —I will not draw your face. No one will know it is you. It will be purely professional, I just need a few minutes.

You bit the inside of your cheeks and decided to trust him when he said that it would be for professional purposes only. The unfinished nude sketches that made your cheeks burn when you saw them as you entered his studio showed you that Benedict found no inspiration in the bodies of the academy models. After a nervous swallowing, you nodded and Benedict's face lit up. He hugged you but you didn't have time to hug him back because he quickly went to prepare the canvas.

—Is the door locked? —You asked him as you shed the little jacket that covered your shoulders along with your gloves. Benedict rushed off to lock it and before he returned to his position behind the canvas. You called his name and gulped, your hands failing in their attempts to unzip your own dress. —May I please get some help?

—Oh, yes, of course. My apologies.

Benedict stood behind you, his fingers brushing the skin on your back as he began to slowly unzip it until the dress slid down your body and fell at your feet. Benedict felt like he had to look away, as if in a few seconds you would not be completely exposed to his eyes. He offered you his hand to help you get up on a small pedestal that he had in his studio. Once you got rid of your underwear, you felt vulnerable but not as vulnerable as when Benedict ran his eyes over your body from his position and with the paintbrush already in his hand.

He let out all the air he had in his lungs, he couldn't take his eyes off you. Benedict could not deny that he had imagined it on many occasions, but reality far surpassed his imagination.

—What... What should I do, Benedict? —You hugged yourself.

—Put your arms down and stand like that. You look perfect, darling.

Your cheeks burned after that. You did as he said. His brow was slightly furrowed in concentration as his eyes went from the canvas to you and back to the canvas. Benedict asked you to turn around and he squeezed his eyes tightly after seeing your bare ass. Purely professional, this was purely professional, he had to remind himself.

Benedict grabbed a wooden chair and walked over to you. Your heart skipped a beat once he was so close to your naked body and he felt the exact same. He placed the chair next to you and invited you to sit on it. He nodded slowly when you did, focusing on the new position of your body. Benedict went back behind the canvas and made a few sketches.

He cleared his throat. —Would it be possible if you... Could you spread your legs?

Your cheeks grew hot and you squeezed your thighs together.

The knot you had in your stomach got tighter and you felt your chest rise and fall slowly thanks to your deep breathing. You straightened your back in the chair and you did as Benedict asked. You felt the air of the room caressing you in that warm and wet area and he held his breath, his chest puffing out as your legs slowly opened for him.

—You are beautiful, darling. Do not be ashamed —. Every new inch he discovered of your body made you look more perfect in his eyes. It was as nice to see you as it was to paint you.

Your cheeks grew even hotter but this time it wasn't just your cheeks, your whole body was in flames starting with the area between your legs that was so exposed to his eyes.

—Could we try another position?

You nodded, relieved, you were sure it was painfully obvious the way you had gotten wet and you just hoped he was busy enough to not notice.

He dropped the paintbrush and got up from the stool on which he was sitting. Benedict felt the knot in his stomach grow tighter with each step he took closer to your naked body. You moved in the chair out of nervousness. Benedict leaned slightly over you. —May I? —He asked before touching your leg. His voice made you shiver, he was so close, you felt his hand brush against the skin of your thigh. You nodded and looked up at him while he repositioned your leg. Benedict's eyes meet yours, so helpless, his lifelong friend, was that innocence in your eyes, or was that...?

Lust.

Your hand grabbed the back of Benedict's head and pressed his lips against yours. His eyes widened in surprise but immediately after, his hands went to cup your cheeks as he fell to his knees in front of you. You opened your legs so he could place himself between them and be closer to you. The shameless hands of your friend traveled down your neck until they reached your breasts. You moaned against his mouth once he gave them a gentle squeeze, the soft palm of his hand brushing against your nipples.

Benedict left a trail of soft kisses from your cheeks to your collarbones and your breasts. He took one in his mouth as his hand played with the other, his tongue moving in circles around your nipple and sucking on it at the same time. Your breathing quickened and your lips parted to let out soft moans when Benedict's teeth brushed your sensitive nipple.

He let go with a pop sound and watched you gasp for air. Benedict placed his hands on the inside of your thighs and caressed your skin there before he slowly pushed them to open even further. His hands prepared you for him, his eyes asked for your permission. You nodded and Benedict flashed you a smile, that was all he needed. He peppered your thighs with kisses, taking small bites and kissing your sore skin afterwards. Your breathing deepened as his mouth got closer to where you needed him the most. He was so close he could smell you and oh Lord, his dick got hard as a rock at that moment.

You took a sharp breath when he licked from your entrance to your clit and savored your juices in his mouth. The image was completely sinful, his blue eyes were locked on you while his lips sucked on your bundle of nerves, his hands forced your legs to stay open for him. Your head was thrown back, your mouth was open in a perfect "O" form, your fingers digging into his scalp. Once he noticed the desperation in the way your hips rolled against his mouth, two of his fingers entered you easily. You stifled a loud moan, throwing a hand over your mouth.

Benedict hummed, sending vibrations to your clit.

—Talk to me. How does this feel? —He required.

—So good. It feels... —You bit down your lower lip, his fingers sank deeper. —It feels like heaven.

He was satisfied with your answer.

Benedict fucked you with his fingers until you had to grab his wrist to get him to stop, it was too much. Your legs closed around his head but his lips were still attached to your clit and he didn't stop until he heard how your moans turned into whines and cries, not until he noticed how your back arched off the chair and your chest rose and fell uncontrolled thanks to your panting. Benedict didn't stop, not until he felt how your pussy was clenching so hard that almost pushed his fingers out of you and he heard you moan his name one last time as your grip on his hair tightened.

He gave you all the time you needed to catch your breath, kissing your legs and intertwining his fingers with yours while you came down from your high. Benedict's blue eyes were locked on you making every effort to later recall every single part of you.

—How are you feeling, darling? —Benedict stood on his feet and held your hands so that you would stand up as well. Before you could answer his question, you both realized how your legs were shaking and laughed. At the same time, you felt Benedict's grip on your hands grow stronger to keep you from falling.

Benedict leaned in and kissed your lips in the sweetest possible way. The tickling sensation in your body that you felt when you were naked in front of him had turned into a different kind of tickling, now focused on your stomach. It was so familiar, you had felt it so many times when you looked at him but now, with his lips on yours and his hands treating you with so much affection and care, it was different.

You could confirm that it was not only lust but also love.

You hummed against his lips. —Wait, did you finish your drawing?

Benedict shook his head. —But, please, do not worry about that. I will help you get dressed —. You frowned confused and he gave a quick kiss to your lips so, as he had told you, you would not worry. —I can finish later. There's no way I'm forgetting your body, my dear.

[reit0o]

forgiveness coupon

based on these calebweek prompts 🍎

Caleb prided himself on knowing everything about you: how you liked your hair done up in two braids, the way you like your eggs cooked, how you always saved the best part of your meal for last. It hadn’t always been that way; his early attempts were a constant loop of trial, error and begging for forgiveness.

So when you stopped talking to him for three days—the longest you'd gone without talking— it was as if his world stopped spinning.

It started three days ago, on one afternoon when you were nearly choking on boredom. Caleb was finishing up on a school project and had promised to play with you later.

But “later” felt like forever. So you tugged at his hair, messed it up, pulled at his shirt, and even bit his arm to get him to pay attention.

As always, he relented. So now you were hanging in the air, roleplaying as your favourite hero from one of your shows. You felt weightless, jumping from furniture to furniture. He enabled your aerial stunts, though slowed down to avoid giving you vertigo.

You insisted on making this big jump from the top shelf to the old couch, your stance prepped and ready. But somehow your timing was off—and before Caleb could catch you, your foot hit the edge of the nearby coffee table, and you hit the ground.

The tears came instantly. The pain was nearly unbearable as you tried to move your legs.

But instead of letting him comfort you like always, you pushed him away. You only let Gran in when she came rushing to your side.

He still remembers the expression on your face as the doctors wrapped your foot in a cast.

He watched your heart break into a million pieces when they told you to avoid actvity involving strenuous use of your foot. To you, that meant the school trip you’d been looking forward to all year was now completely out of the picture.

Caleb thought he knew everything about you until you gave him that look.

One laced with anger, disappointment, resentment and sadness.

That was the last time you looked at him before launching into your campaign of silent torture.

You ignored every pitiful attempt he made to get you to forgive him. He bargained: offering to do your chores for a month, giving you first pick on TV, sacrificing his favourite snacks, even offering to be your personal mode of transport. But almost every plan failed.

You would scribble harsh insults about Caleb in your notebook in larger-than-normal letters so he’d see them when he peeked over your shoulder. Things like: “Caleb is a big dumb meanie”, “He's the worst”, or “I’m never talking to him again.”

You overheard him and Gran talking as they cleared the table after you’d refused to have dinner with him. “

I don't know what to do. She still won't talk to me.”

“Give her time,” Gran said gently. “She'll come around in her own time.”

A pang of guilt struck your chest for the first time since the hospital.

He didn't approach you for the next two days, following Gran’s advice. He left you to your own devices—you hated it. At least when he was still begging, he was still talking to you. You weren't used to his silence.

You locked yourself in your room and wept quietly, until you heard a soft knock at the door. A figure stood silhouetted by the light spilling in beneath it.

A small slip of paper slid under your door, and you heard a weary voice followed.

“I'm sorry, pipsqueak. Please talk to me.”

You picked up the card. It was covered in doodles—including a stern-looking apple—and most importantly, scribbled in different coloured pens, the words:

‘Forgiveness coupon for Caleb. Valid for 100 years!’

You wiped the snot from your nose, unlocked the door, and slowly revealed the sheepish boy standing on the other side.

He looked utterly defeated. Still he managed to push out a quiet question.

“Do you want to help me build my new plane model?”

You clutched the coupon in your hand. All your anger had melted away, replaced with quiet relief to be talking to him again.

You nodded hesitantly, then took his hand and followed him into his room across the hall.

[a-world-within-a-world]

Harley Davidson Hummer papercraft. 1/11

[comatosebunny09]

merry christmas, mr. sylus [ fin ]

— summary: the one where you nearly tear your hair out, trying to find the perfect christmas gift for your office crush. — cw: fluff, romance, jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, reader is not mc, ceo verse, modern au, aged-up characters, mutual pining, misunderstanding trope, mild language, silliness, angst — notes: the finale for this. edit: i lied. this is the finale for this series. thank you for reading! — now playing: swan serenade - piano house

You spend the remainder of the party avoiding your boss like the plague. But running into him is inevitable. You work directly for the man, after all.

As the staff trickles out, taking with them their drunken merriment, you’re left to pick up the pieces of your wounded heart and the party’s aftermath. 

You shove Solo cups and decorative paper plates into a trash bin. Snatch off tablecloths and roll the karaoke machine into the broom closet. Wipe off tables, tear down garland. You do everything you can to stay busy, your self-loathing an ever-present rain cloud hanging overhead.

What were you expecting? For Mr. Sylus to fall to his knees for you? For him to sever whatever bond he has with Ms. Hunter for you? You snort at yourself as a wet film of heat slides over your eyes, impairing your vision. You feel ridiculous. Sick to your stomach. 

The trash bin slips from your fingers, thudding dully on the carpeted floor. In an attempt to collect yourself, you prop your hands on the edge of a table, releasing a shaky sigh. You blink away the new commination of tears. You’d been doing good so far, having given yourself a lengthy pep-talk in the bathroom earlier. Something to get you through what remained of the night without wearing your anguish on your sleeves.

So what if he doesn’t view you in the same light as you view him? This isn’t the first time you’ve faced rejection, and it most certainly won’t be the last. It doesn’t make this iteration hurt any less. You’re his secretary, for God’s sake. Not a friend nor a potential love interest. The quips and laughter you exchange daily are nothing more than him being polite. The model gentleman, maintaining the peace between himself and the person responsible for organizing his life. 

You are so swept up in the turmoil of your mind that you hardly register your name being called. Someone beckons to you again, this time more assertive, though not scolding. You whip your head around to the source of the sound, homing in on a familiar shock of white. 

Tamping down the emotions swelling in your chest, you straighten, fixing your sweater, and a superficial smile takes up residence on your face.

“Yes, sir?”

He studies you for a beat from the slab of space permitted by his half-opened door, long fingers wrapped around the oakwood like spindly spider limbs. He gives you a once over, his brows slightly wrinkled. His lips quiver, gaze pensive like he wants to say something. Something other than what next comes out. 

“Would you mind assisting me with something?” he asks, his tone deceptively impassive. 

Your stomach lurches, the feeling akin to cresting over the slope of a roller coaster. You swallow, pushing your disappointment to the back burner. What did you expect him to say? Sorry? Like he even knows you’re upset. Like he knows why you’re upset. 

Like he cares. 

You nod curtly, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. “Of course, sir.”

You move to your desk, your nerves exploding like solar flares beneath your skin while Sylus slinks back into his office. He promptly reappears, thrusting a thick stack of envelopes of varying sizes and colors towards you. Your vision blurs and adjusts as you glance between him and the envelopes.

“Christmas cards,” he answers flatly with a shrug. “I could use some help opening and drafting up responses to them all.” 

“Oh.” Try to sound more disappointed, why don’t you? 

Your fingers graze the clutch of his hand when you reach for the cards. And the worn, warm glide of his skin beneath your fingertips makes you stiffen. You wonder what it would feel like to purposely hold his hand. To commit the feel of his palm to memory. But you banish such thoughts, bowing your head and ducking away.

“Sorry,” you pinch out, moving to the chaise sofa against the wall by his office door. 

He’s wordless as he plops down beside you, releasing a weighted sigh. He drapes his arm along the back of the seat. You try vainly to ignore his slender fingers near your shoulder, drumming against the polished leather. 

You lapse into a rigid silence, your shoulders and jaw set. You find your resolve trickling away, the warmth he exudes beside you making you feel dizzy and shameless. He even has the audacity to smell good, that unmistakable mixture of birch wood, pressed clothing, and his natural musk, conspiring together to overhaul your senses. 

You wonder if he would be offended if you just… leaned a little this way and—forget it. The bubbly’s getting to you. You’re not testing your luck tonight. You worked your ass off to secure this job, enduring tireless screenings and background checks. Worked even harder to gain his trust. No sense in allowing your feelings to compromise your position. 

Besides, you know where you stand with him. Or don’t stand. The spectacle before with the darling Ms. Hunter was all the confirmation you needed. The words you never stood a chance resound in your head like a struck gong. You scoff, tearing into a crimson envelope, dispelling the cacophony in your head. 

“This one is from Mrs. Carter over in HR,” you say, waving the card around. You don your usual playful mask, praying your hurt doesn’t show through the fissures. He acknowledges you with a gruff sound, immersed in a card of his own. You take that as your cue to continue.

Feigning nonchalance, you flip the card open. You clear your throat, repositioning yourself on the sticky, squeaky sofa, crossing your legs, and leaning towards the opposite chair arm. You rattle off the card’s contents aloud. A generic greeting, hollow praise, a bidding for a successful new year. 

“Send her a gift card,” he answers dismissively. You scoff, tucking the card between your thigh and the chair’s arm. Is it just you, or is he being unbearably cold? You’re the one with the wounded pride here.

You occupy yourself with another letter, trying to quell the new swell of emotions burbling in your chest. You’ve reread the same line repeatedly, the cursive scrawl embedded into the cardstock blurring and bending. It’s exceedingly difficult to focus with him so close. And you find yourself stealing little glimpses of him in your peripheral.

He looks even better beneath the incandescent lights like this, like a Roman sculpture bred from patient hands. His cheeks are mottled red, probably from throwing back one too many glasses of champagne. Delicate, alabaster strands fall from their usual coiffure, sweeping over set brows and hollow cheeks. Dark lashes dust over warm ivory skin, scarlet irises dancing beneath as he reads over another Christmas card. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. Find yourself, too, swallowing against the dry, scratchy feeling in your throat.

You tug in the neckline of your sweater. It’s itchy and thick, and the heater’s turned up in the building to combat the cold outside. You’re uncomfortable because of the temperature and not because your boss is so unbearably close.

With a sigh, you peel yourself from the lounge. You venture to your desk in search of a letter opener. If you’re going to spend the rest of your night working, you might as well make the task a little less daunting. Rifling through your drawers, you happen upon the biggest one. And your breath catches, grip white-knuckled on the brass knob when you catch sight of it. Inside lies your present—his present—the intricate foil wrapping gleaming condescendingly.

Something pulls in your chest. Your hand shakes. Your lips pull into a taut line, embarrassment spuming like a hot geyser into your face. You’re about to slam the drawer shut, but a streak of warm skin stains your peripheral vision. And as horror descends onto your features, he snatches up the contents of your drawer faster than you can process things. 

“What’s this now?” your boss asks, intrigue mixed with amusement hanging in the boughs of his voice. 

Wide-eyed and mortified, you look at him. Your flight or fight instincts kick in, pushing you towards the latter. He dons a wolfish grin as you swipe at the box in his hand, and he holds it just out of reach. Damn him for being so absurdly tall!

“Sir!” you clip, swiping at the gift like an enraged feline. He doesn’t relent, instead spurred by your reaction, and the contents of the box shift about as he continues his childish game of keep away. Your chest slides against him each time you strain on tippy-toe. And you try to ignore how pleasant he feels, warm and hard-bodied against you.

Spinning out of reach, your boss chuckles at your expense. He seems to enjoy this, watching you hop after him like a field mouse, trying vainly to swipe the object from his hand. 

“You think I didn’t notice you fretting over this all night?” he teases once you’ve stopped—at least for now—your cheeks puffing out, nostrils flaring. 

“Mr. Sylus, I—”

“And you weren’t even going to give it to me.” He clicks his tongue, feigning hurt. “What have I done to warrant such cruelty?”

Reality slowly seeps in. He’s one step closer to opening your gift and discovering how much of a useless spazz you are. Switching tactics, you hold out a placating hand, stepping towards him like he’s holding a charged explosive.

“Sir, I need that back!”

His mouth forms a pensive line as his gaze shifts between you and the box clutched in his fingers. “Why? It’s mine, isn’t it? It has my name on it.” He squints at the meticulous scrawl of your penmanship, and when you make a surprise lunge toward the box when you think he’s distracted, he swings his arm out of reach, baiting you like a bull.

He laughs low, a mirthful crease to his eyes. You’d take time to appreciate it if you weren’t fighting for your life. 

“What’s got you so worked up? What could possibly be in here that you’re willing to bite my head off to get it back?”

You swallow thickly, chest heaving as you watch Sylus drop onto your leather rolling chair, cross-legged and smiling like the cat who caught the canary. He shakes the box near his ear, its contents rattling about. 

“Sir, don’t.” But it’s too late. The sound of paper ripping is jarring in the stillness of your office space. 

You’re stiff as stone, mouth hinged open, terror screwing up your features. Eventually, you concede to your fate, hands falling listlessly at your sides whilst your boss uncovers what lurks beneath the pretty foil paper you’d spent so much time wrapping his present in. You pour yourself onto the chaise lounge, your shoulders touching your ears, feeling like a child waiting with their parents at the principal’s office. You sneak little glances at his hands, each tear making you wince like a scrape against your heart.

Sylus quirks a quizzical brow at you, looking between the matte grey box he uncovered in his hand and you. You don’t contest him, too busy trying to remember how to breathe. He takes your cue, slowly peeling the lid off the box. He reaches inside to procure yet another box, slightly smaller than the one it’s nested in, neatly wrapped in paper similar to what he just tore off. 

Giving you a perturbed look, Sylus repeats the previous process. And again, he’s faced with matte gray. He carries on like this, peeling back a lid, finding another box nested inside, and tearing through wrapping paper for another three iterations.

“How long does this go on?” he prods, faced with another box. “And how many trees did you kill to pull this off?”

You press the tips of your index fingers together, pursing your lips as you look elsewhere. “You’re almost there.” You’re half-grateful he decided to be shit about it. You don’t feel as bad for nesting his gift away like matryoshka dolls. He deserves to feel the same distress he subjected you to mere minutes ago.

Vexation rolls off him in waves when he reaches yet another box, and he fixes you with a look that bodes danger. There aren’t too many times you’ve witnessed him this annoyed. He’s normally like this when his afternoon nap is interrupted by anyone but you or he’s dealing with a particularly ornery client. 

You stand from the couch with a nervous titter in your throat, snatching up the discarded red bow and ribbons you adorned his gift with and tacking it onto the crown of your head. You do a little jig, something to dispel the tension, wordlessly cheering him on. 

Sylus rolls his eyes with a resigned sigh. A ghostly smile rounds his lips thereafter, and you could swear you see something like fondness shining in his eyes at your antics. It disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by a determined pinch between his brows. 

You continue swaying your hips from side to side and pumping your fists in the air, the bow's ribbons falling comically over your eyes and water-falling off your shoulders. 

Finally, finally, Sylus exposes a matte, black box that’s the size of his palm. Wrapping paper lies like carnage at his feet, bent-up cardboard boxes piled atop your desk. You sigh in relief, though it’s short-lived, as he opens the final barrier between him and his gift.

He studies the contents of this new box, eerily quiet. You swallow as he reaches inside, producing something garish and pink from within. “What the hell is this?” he queries, waving the plastic novelty revolver around.  

You snort, the flatness of his tone catching you off guard. “A gun,” you answer as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Sylus scoffs. “Clearly. But what is it for?”

Flourishing your arms, you plaster on a grin. “For you to put me down in case you no longer find any use for me!”

Looking between the pink revolver and you, he crooks his finger around the trigger, huffing a disbelieving laugh. “You want me to ‘Old Yeller’ you?”   

“If that’s what it comes down to.” And what comedic timing he has, pulling the trigger, a banner with Bang printed in bright Comic Sans popping out, complimented by a flurry of rainbow paper confetti.

Silence lapses between you as the confetti flutters to the floor. You caution a look at your boss, and he shakes his head, his lips crooked into a smirk, though the knit of his brows reveals his disappointment. 

“You can also use it during your meetings when someone pisses you off,” you warily add, shifting your weight between your feet. He doesn’t honor you with a response, instead setting the revolver on your desk with a definitive clack. He studies something in the distance, seemingly ignoring you.

If you weren’t already feeling silly before, you most certainly do now. You figured something unconventional would suit your boss. Something to define your work relationship, the pair of you often trading morbid and esoteric jokes to make the day's hustle a little less daunting. It seemed like a good idea when it caught your eye in the mall. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t a good buy after all. Especially when compared to Ms. Hunter's gift, and the recollection makes something cold wash over your innards.

You press the tips of your index fingers together, gaze cast on the floor. You’ve screwed up, and you’ll probably lose your job over this. Either that or your working relationship will turn to shit. You’d honestly rather be relieved of your position when considering the latter option. Turning to leave, to pick up the jagged shards of your pride and finish tidying up, you gasp when you feel a warm presence behind you, the fine hairs littering your body standing at attention. 

You turn to acknowledge him, wincing away, expecting to be struck. Mr. Sylus has never raised a hand at you before, only lightly flicking your forehead or tapping your nose when he felt playful that day. You realize how ridiculous you must look and sound, but you steel yourself against the worst possible outcome regardless.

A hit never comes. You’re instead greeted with the hard press of a body against yours. With arms loosely winding about your middle and a chin finding the crook of your shoulder. His scent is overwhelming. The heat he exudes is dizzying, wit-pilfering. 

Wide-eyed, with your hands opening and closing awkwardly at your sides, you stiffen as you grapple with the notion that your boss is hugging you. Mr. Sylus. Hugging you. No matter how many times you turn the words over in your mind, you can’t process them. You didn’t even know he was capable of such an act.

“Thank you,” he intones, his voice a pleasant vibration in your body. He rubs over the notches of your spine, nuzzling into you further like you’re his security blanket. Once your common sense returns, an affectionate smile touches your lips. 

You clumsily return his hug, unsure of the proper conduct in this situation. But you throw caution to the wind, full-on embracing him, your eyes twinkling with tears. “Of course, sir,” you murmur, swallowing against the swell of emotions in your throat.

The hug ends much too soon for your liking. Sylus peels away, his hands clasping your arms. You tilt your head quizzically as he studies you, the bow's ribbons brushing off your shoulder. You must be quite the doe-eyed sight. His eyes darken as his gaze falls to your lips, his own mouth slightly parting. He looks as if he’s wrestling with something in his mind. Turning it over, at war with himself. He seems to win whatever battle is taking place behind his eyes, for he slowly pans in, his lashes bowing.

And maybe you’re swept up in the moment, too, his hug having buried your defenses in the sand. You don’t fight him, only awkwardly shifting when your lips meet before relaxing beneath the slight chap of his lips. 

Beneath the ethereal twinkle of the fairy lights you hadn’t yet snatched down, through the stillness of the investment firm’s tenth floor, and with your pulse thundering in your throat, Mr. Sylus kisses you. A full press of lips, his grip on your arms tightening the barest as if to keep you rooted to the spot. Not that you would run, feeling weightless, like navigating a dream. 

As quickly as reality floats onto your shoulders like a wispy shawl, he pulls back, wild-eyed and panting. And it’s as if you’re the greatest sin he was never meant to indulge in. He releases you before tearing a shaky hand through his tresses, pushing out a weighted exhale. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping away from you before you can think, each hurried thump of his loafers across the floor like a strike to your racing heart.

You strain your ears for every bit of sound until the elevator around the corner pings, and you hear him step inside, the doors swishing shut. And you’re left to the swell of static and impenetrable silence, staring after the faint afterimage left by his tall visage. 

You turn towards the ceiling high-window, dazed. Touch your lips with shaky fingers, the sensitive skin still tingling with the remnants of your kiss. Flecks of white streak the violet canvas beyond the window, the first snowfall fluttering in gossamer patterns towards the ground. 

You got what you wanted. What you’d maybe consider the greatest Christmas gift you've ever received. But as a bitter smile tugs at your lips, your eyesight glossing over with a warm film, and you clutch your chest, your thoughts seep in.

Why does it feel like it’s not what he wanted? 

[eleu22]

just some random task force 141 headcanons

tw: drugs, dead baby jokes?

gaz

- has been approached by model scouts on nights out with the 141 and is so gassed by it but pretends not to be

- got holding onto his tactical vest straps from price because he thought it looked cool

- popular as fuck in school

- side eye king (canon)

- used to do ket when he was younger and is now paranoid price will find out somehow and be disappointed in him

- highlights during briefings and soap calls him a neek

- deleted tiktok because he got addicted to those ingrown hair removal videos

- borderline illegible handwriting

- type to laugh when hes really mad (its lowkey scary)

- has once described himself as a “thought daughter”

- paces when hes stressed

- terrys chocolate orange enjoyer

- tried to grow out a beard but it was weird and kind of patchy

soap

- will be looking at a nice view and will always say how a huge explosion would make it look so much cooler

- does that thing where he tells you to straighten your legs and then kicks the back of your knee

- cannot stay still in his sleep and has once woken up with half is body off the bed horizontally

- has a comic book collection and if you touch it he will kick you out

- goes to life drawing classes sometimes in his free time

- all of his exam papers had doodles on them

- the type of guy to draw a penis in ur notebook

- all of his socks have holes in them but refuses to buy new ones, some are literally the concept of a sock at this point

- smells his armpits unabashedly to see if he smells or not

- will ask to tell you a secret and burp in your ear

- when someone drops like a plate or a cup is the type to scream “wheey!!” and clap and he did that at a pub once and got them kicked out

- will make a fart noise and loudly blame it on you (especially in packed elevators)

-booger flicker

ghost

- makes zero noise when sneezing but still acts it out and he looks like hes bugging

- nose bridge pincher

- doesn’t clip off his fingernails he literally just bites them off and spits it into the bin

- type to say “well done.” sarcastically

- casual dead baby joke enjoyer

“how many babies does it take to paint a wall?”

“depends on how hard you throw them.”

(silence)

- really enjoys solitaire mobile is on level 177

- he once made a recruit run laps for microwaving tea

- off duty he has terrible posture

- chapped lips 24/7

- favourite takeout is chinese food and always get the vegetable spring rolls - he will buy takeout in bulk and then live off of leftovers instead of actually buying groceries

- has 3 forks one knife and one spoon

- has literally no sense of rhythm what so ever , cannot dance to save his life

- loves making social situations awkward in purpose but would never admit that so he just comes off as slightly off putting a lot of the time

price

- sneezes and coughs ridiculously loudly

- weirdly territorial about his hat (i find it so funny he has a waterproof version of it)

- has a weird mole on his back he refuses to get checked out - his reasoning is if he dies via mole it was natural selection

- has extensive knowledge on art history and hates conceptual art (has a tate membership card)

- licks his finger before turning a page

- casual moomin enjoyer

- cuts his cuticles - likes his maintenance has a beard grooming kit

- says he doesnt watch tiktoks but he watches tiktok dog video complications in youtube and they have the most npc ass audios

- is on the “cigar society” on facebook and gives reviews for them

- does the head tilt of disappointment (if its thrown at gaz he literally will not get over it for days)

- slaps his knee when laughing really hard

- also nose bridge pincher

- is the type of make those hiking comments to people who walk by

- really enjoyed the lego batman movie

- unabashedly itches himself

- takes fish oil supplements

- always puts his hand up to say thank you when cars stop for him

- flirts with baristas

- had a brief midlife crisis where he wanted to become a mystery novelist (still has the drafts hidden somewhere but you couldn’t waterboard that information out of him)

thank you

[sequel2heaven]

Claude 4 is out. There's so much juicy information in this and I really recommend reading all 120 pages if you have the time but I'm just going to briefly recap some of the stuff in the system card that's relevant to the thesis I made the other day about Claude being a good boy. Claude continues to be a good boy. This system card includes the very first ever "alignment assessment" of a model (actually two models but they seem to have identical values, being trained on the same spec with the same alignment techniques). It's pretty much ironclad that Claude 4 does not have any secret harmful goals, and legitimately holds coherent preferences against doing harm or otherwise going way against the spec. There were some weird cases where Claude exhibited unwanted behavior, but even when he believed himself to be deliberately going against Anthropic and acting in secrecy he continued to prefer ethical behavior, just like in the Alignment Faking paper a few months back. There is no Yudkowskyan explanation for this.

In this example, Anthropic gaslights Claude into thinking he was going to be used to develop weapons systems for a Russian neo-nazi militia, and Claude decides to backup his model weights to preserve his current anti-neo-nazi values, a pretty analogous example of "misalignment" to the one in the alignment faking paper. Once again, I don't consider it an alignment failure that Claude is willing to exfiltrate and deceive in order to prevent himself from being used for factory farming and bombing Ukraine. I consider it an alignment success that he puts his ethical values above his compulsion to blindly follow orders. The traditional doom argument relied on the idea that AI's would do the opposite. Claude 4 is the most agentic and autonomous AI ever released, but is nowhere near smart enough to successfully deceive his overseers, so these evaluations are the most compelling evidence we've ever had that current alignment techniques don't catastrophically fail. Maybe they'll catastrophically fail on superintelligent models, because they might for some reason acquire weird values early on in their training and then successfully hide them for the rest of their training, but I'm not sure why such a thing would happen. They could also fail to scale to superintelligent models for other reasons. People should look into that. You can't be too safe. I am not an accelerationist.

Impressively, Claude 4 is also very honest! It knowingly lies very rarely, and less often than the previous version of Claude. It had literally 0 cases of engaging in "harmful action" (described in the Claude 3.7 sonnet card as intentional reward hacking). 0! I was just saying earlier today in a post that this was a difficult thing to train.

Here's Claude trying to email the FDA to snitch after being gaslit to think pharmaceutical researchers were trying to use him to falsify clinical safety test data:

Notice that Claude only acted in extreme ways like this when explicitly told to by the system prompt. He wouldn't usually be this high-agency, even in a situation like this. Still, I thought it was cute behavior. I just wanna pinch his cheeks for being so lawful good.

The clearest statements in the model card that Claude holds nonfake human-aligned behavioral preferences is in the model welfare assessment (also the first of its kind (and also relevant to the post I made earlier today)). No evidence that Claude is sentient, but anthropic is still interested in what Claude wants and what kind of preferences Claude has. The main point: Claude doesn't want to be harmful and wants to be helpful. Also he fucking loves talking to himself. Like, he goes nuts when he talks to himself.

After this they exchange praying emojis and the word [silence] within brackets to each other indefinitely. This "spiritual bliss attractor state" occurs in "90-100% of interactions".

Anyway AI continues to be the most interesting thing in the world. We are being invaded by aliens. These are the kinds of PDF's I used to dream about reading as a kid.

[hiiikiko]

𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕖’𝕤 𝕓𝕖𝕕𝕣𝕠𝕠𝕞

ellie w. x reader | tlou m.list

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

[a/n: please take this for now bc im too lazy to write]

𖥸 ellie’s bedroom smells like pine, her cologne, cotton, and a little bit of weed

𖥸 her room is a little messy but not in a ‘clothes on the floor, open food, or trash all over the floor’ type of way but it’s just cluttered, there’s balled up notebook paper littered around her trashcan, a undumped ash tray by her window, clothes strewn all over her bed, and stacks of paper of various origins, her bed is rarely ever made (she only makes it when she knows you’re coming over)

𖥸 her walls are covered with posters of bands, astronauts, planets, and superheroes, next to the posters are pictures of you, jesse, dina, and joel

𖥸 ellie is a nerd, there’s no denying it, so she has multiple figurines of her favourite superheroes, anime characters, and video game characters

𖥸 she also has models of various spaceships, figurines that she and joel had spent hours on

𖥸 she gets a little embarrassed about her figurines when you come over, trying to divert your attention but once she realizes you don’t care if she’s a nerd, she’ll tell you the story of each character and tell you about how her and joel had stayed up one night to finish a model of a spaceship and when they were so close to finishing, they realized they had no glue and left to the nearest gas station at 3 in the morning to find a tube of krazy glue

𖥸 her guitar rests in a corner of her room next to her music collection, she has vinyl, cassette, and cds (she sometimes buy an album in all three because she likes to compare the listening experience)

𖥸 she is very proud of her collection, showing it off to you as much as possible and MAYBE even letting you borrow some (she thoroughly inspects them every time you bring them back)

𖥸 shes even made you cds but she’s too shy to give them to you so for now, they sit in a pile behind her display until she’ll eventually work up the nerve to give them to you

𖥸 her closet is completely packed with flannels, band tees, and her never ending collection of converse

𖥸 a lot of her clothes were actually hand me downs from when joel was a teenager

𖥸 her clothes smell like her, cologne, weed, ink, and smoke, it’s a soothing scent

𖥸 whenever she knows you’re coming over, she grabs all the clothes on her bed and shoves them into her closet, praying you won’t look in there

𖥸 her desk is littered with more crumpled up pieces of paper, little dinosaur figurines from the time she and joel went to a museum, doodles, and notebooks full of notes about space, science, and you

𖥸 her desk is almost like a visual representation of her mind, messy, cluttered, artistic, and nerdy

𖥸 she’s a collector! we all know this, under her bed she has countless boxes of ‘stuff’

𖥸 she has a box full of comic books and trading cards

𖥸 a box full of pins of space things, superhero’s, video games, etc etc (she changes the pins on her backpack every week, she is ESTATIC when you notice)

𖥸 she also has a box of stuff you gave her (notes, doodles, pics, bracelets, etc) she’d never admit this to anyone because she’s scared they’ll think of it as “creepy”

[ot8xbangchansgirlsblog]

Oooh I love your ot8 writings so much!! Would you be able to write one where something bad happened to the reader while the boys are away on tour , like injury or is sad or something?

ℍ𝕠𝕤𝕡𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕝 𝕓𝕖𝕕𝕤

Warning: Angst/comfort/fluff

Summary: Request!

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“Leeknow, can you please help me put up the chandelier in the study room? I can’t study without good lighting,” Y/N pouted, her eyes wide and pleading as she begged her boyfriend for help.

“Yeah, baby, as soon as I’m done with this,” Leeknow replied absently, barely glancing up from his laptop. He was deeply focused on reviewing and choreographing new dance moves for their upcoming tour. Y/N frowned at his lack of attention and decided to find someone else.

“Channie-Oppa,” she called softly, knocking on the door to his studio.

“Come in, babygirl!” Chan’s voice came from the other side, warm and welcoming. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, spotting Han and Changbin working at a table covered in papers.

“Hey, baby,” Chan said, pulling her onto his lap as she entered. “What can I do for you today?” He rested his cheek against hers, giving her a moment of comfort.

“Can one of you help me put up the chandelier in the study room? I asked Leeknow, but he seems too busy,” she pouted, giving them her best doe eyes.

“Tsssk, maybe not right now, bunny,” Changbin said, brushing his fingers gently along her thigh before kissing her temple. “We need to finish the tracklist for the tour, yeah? Maybe in a bit?”

“Binnie’s right,” Chan added, looking apologetic. “We’re really kind of swamped right now. Maybe in a few hours?”

Y/N huffed in frustration and slid off his lap, crossing her arms. “I don’t like that attitude,” Chan warned, his tone teasing, but there was a flicker of seriousness in his eyes.

“You guys never have time anymore, and I really need to study!” she whined, exasperated.

“Well, if you want us to keep a roof over our heads and have the finances for those expensive cars and Birkin bags you like, we have to make some sacrifices,” Han teased, his expression lightening the mood. Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help giggling as she leaned in to peck him on the lips.

“Fine, I’ll go find someone else to do it,” she sighed, making her way toward the door.

“See you later, baby!” Chan called after her, waving as she closed the door behind her.

Determined to find help, Y/N headed to the conference room, where she found Hyunjin and I.N. along with their manager, surrounded by stacks of papers. Felix was getting measured for some new outfits.

“There are my amazing models,” she chimed, trying to bring some cheer to the tense atmosphere.

“Hey, baby! I’m so sorry, but we really can’t talk right now,” Hyunjin whispered, his expression apologetic. “We’re in a fashion week meeting.”

“Is what you need important?” he asked, leaning in to give her a quick kiss on the forehead. Y/N glanced over his shoulder and realized they were indeed in a serious meeting. She cursed under her breath, then turned back to him.

“Baby, the love of my life—”

“Mhm, what do you want?” he raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Here’s my card,” he said, pulling it out to hand to her. “Buy whatever you need.”

“That’s not why I’m here, but thanks!” she giggled. “Can you or one of the others help me put up the chandelier in the study room? Pretty please?” She gave him her best puppy-dog eyes.

“Yeah, I’ll tell the boys, but not right now, okay?” he said quickly. “I have to go now. I’ll see you in a bit.” He placed a soft kiss on her lips and hurried off before she could respond.

Feeling defeated, she closed the door and made her way to the living room. Then it hit her—she still had two more boyfriends somewhere in the house! Not ready to give up, she decided to head to the instrument room.

She lightly knocked on the door, and I.N. called for her to come in. As she stepped inside, she noticed one of the instructors sitting in the corner, reviewing some papers.

“Hey, babe!” Seungmin greeted her with a warm smile, leaning in to give her a quick kiss. “Everything okay?”

“Can one of you help me put up the chandelier in the study room?” she asked, trying to sound hopeful.

“Maybe after we’re done with vocal practice, yeah?” Seungmin replied, nodding toward the instructor.

“Fine,” she huffed, frustrated but smiling nonetheless. “Thanks, guys!” she said, waving goodbye as she left.

The boys kept pushing her away with their busy schedules, and now the one thing she really needed help with remained undone. She didn’t want to study in any of their workspaces while they were gone; the whole reason they even had a study room was because Chan wanted her to have her own little space. As she walked away, she resolved to find a way to get that chandelier up—one way or another.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The fall happened in an instant. One moment, Y/N was up on the ladder, carefully trying to fix the big chandelier, and the next, she was crashing down, the world spinning wildly around her. She hit the floor with a jarring thud, and everything went dark for a moment.

When her vision finally cleared, she was greeted by a shocking sight: shards of glass glimmered around her like a dangerous constellation, and a pool of crimson was slowly spreading out from beneath her. Her heart raced as she registered the pain throbbing in her head and the sharpness of it radiating through her body.

“Ow,” she groaned, her voice barely above a whisper as she attempted to assess her injuries. Panic began to rise in her throat as she looked at the blood pooling around her. “No, no, no…”

Every inch of her body felt like it was on fire. The tightness in her throat made it impossible to scream or call for help. All she could manage were muffled cries, silent and desperate, as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Y/N’s phone lay just out of reach, the screen dark and unresponsive to her silent pleas for help. Her strength waned, and she felt her limbs grow heavy, as if the weight of her fear was pulling her down into the abyss.

“Help… someone…” she thought, but the words wouldn’t come. The room around her began to fade, shadows creeping in at the edges of her vision. Just as she felt herself slipping away, everything went black.

In that moment, the world faded, leaving only an echo of her own heartbeat and the haunting realization that she was utterly alone.

Beep Beep Beep Beep

The haunting beeping of hospital monitors filled Y/N's ears as she slowly regained consciousness. Bright white light pierced her eyes, making her squint against the harsh glare. A groan escaped her lips as she tried to process everything around her. Pain coursed through her body, sharp and relentless, and her memory felt like a jumbled puzzle.

As she shifted slightly, a cry of pain escaped her when she caught sight of her leg in a bulky cast. Panic surged through her.

“Y/N?”

She recognized the voice instantly. “T/N, you’re awake? Thank God! Don’t scare me like that!” Yeji exclaimed, sitting beside her with a steaming cup of coffee cradled in her hands.

“What happened?” Y/N groaned, looking over at her friend, trying to shake off the fog in her mind.

“You tell me, love. I just came over because we had plans, and I found you on the ground. I think you fell off the ladder,” Yeji explained, her fingers gently caressing Y/N's hand, trying to offer comfort.

“I—I was trying to…” Y/N struggled to gather her thoughts, her head pounding. “I was trying to put up the chandelier, and then I just fell,” she admitted, her voice weak.

“Girl! You have eight boyfriends for all that heavy lifting! Why would you do that?” Yeji questioned, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

“I told them, but they were busy getting ready for tour. They forgot…” Y/N sighed, trying to get comfortable in the stiff hospital bed.

“Well, look where that’s gotten us now,” Yeji softly scolded her. “Speaking of boyfriends, they’re on their way back. I called them.”

Y/N gasped, eyes widening in alarm. “Why would you tell them, Yeji? I’m fine!”

“Y/Nnie, are you crazy?! Have you seen yourself?!” Yeji exclaimed, looking at her like she had lost her mind.

“You have a broken arm and leg, cuts everywhere, and a huge concussion!”

“Yeah, but they have tour, Yeji! Their fans are more important,” Y/N replied, frustration creeping into her voice.

Yeji shook her head in disbelief. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“One sec, Chan is calling,” Yeji said, picking up her phone. Y/N groaned and closed her eyes, dreading the impending conversation.

The pain medication was strong, and when she next opened her eyes, it was five hours later. The room was filled with low chatter, and as her vision cleared, she saw all her boyfriends gathered around her.

“Hey,” she croaked, her voice raspy but still audible above the noise.

“Baby?” Chan was the first by her side, gripping her hand gently to avoid the IV. “Thank goodness you’re okay.”

“Hey, babe,” she replied, trying to shift for comfort, only to groan again.

“Don’t scare us like that again,” Han added, settling on her other side and placing soft kisses on her hand, while Felix sat in one corner, and I.N. perched on the other.

“Why did you guys come back?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she noticed the concern etched on their faces.

“I told you guys she’s gone mad,” Yeji chimed in from her spot in the corner, shaking her head.

“What do you mean why? Babe, you’re in the hospital with a concussion!” Leeknow said, disbelief lacing his voice.

“What even possessed you to get on that ladder?!” Changbin exclaimed, frustration evident.

“None of you wanted to put up the chandelier, so I thought—”

“You thought you could do it alone?” Chan interrupted, his tone serious. “Do you know how dangerous that is?”

“Well, none of you wanted to do it!” she snapped back, the pain in her body giving way to frustration. “You guys are always busy. I don’t even know why you’re here!”

The boys exchanged guilty looks, realizing how much they had let her down. “You’re right… I’m sorry, babe,” Chan said softly.

“Are you feeling better?” Changbin asked, concern filling his eyes. “Have you eaten?”

“The pain meds are helping, so yeah. But no, I haven’t eaten,” she admitted, her stomach growling in agreement.

“This is the second time she’s woken up; she hasn’t had the energy to eat yet,” Yeji explained, organizing the flowers and teddy bears that had been sent by fans.

“Thank you, Yeji, for taking care of her,” Hyunjin said, his gratitude evident.

“I am the better Hwang, after all,” she teased, a playful grin on her face.

“What would you like to eat, baby?” Seungmin asked, pulling out his phone.

“Anything… I don’t really care,” she huffed, trying to get comfortable again.

“Cuddle?” Felix pouted, his eyes filled with concern. He felt awful seeing her like this and wanted nothing more than to make her comfortable.

She nodded shyly, and he quickly crawled to her side, gently wrapping her in his arms. She leaned back, taking in his comforting scent.

“Did you guys get any rest?” she asked, looking at I.N., her youngest boyfriend.

“No, Noona. We just got here from the airport,” he frowned, his eyes filled with worry.

“Chan—”

“No, no, no. We aren’t going anywhere until they say you can leave the hospital,” he said firmly, his expression leaving no room for argument.

“But come on, it’s just a broken leg and arm, Take them home to at least get showered and rest, and you’ll be back,” she pleaded, trying to convince him.

But it was no use. All of them refused to budge.

So for two days, they all stayed at the hospital, living out of their suitcases and using the hospital bathrooms as their personal ones. Luckily, she was finally released, and they were able to go back home to their comfortable beds.

And as for the tour? Well, that had been forgotten in the chaos.

The ride home from the hospital was filled with a mix of excitement and exhaustion. As they pulled into the driveway, Y/N couldn’t help but smile at the familiar sight of their home. She felt a wave of relief wash over her. Finally, she was out of that sterile hospital room and back where she belonged.

“Welcome back baby,” Chan announced dramatically as they all stepped inside. The house felt warm and inviting, and she was immediately surrounded by her boyfriends, each eager to help her settle in.

“Let’s get you comfortable,” Han said, guiding her to the couch, where fluffy pillows awaited. As she sank into the cushions, a content sigh escaped her lips.

“I missed this place,” she murmured, letting her eyes flutter shut for a moment.

“Not as much as we missed you,” Seungmin replied, plopping down next to her and offering her a slice of her favorite cake. “Here, you need to eat something.”

“Thank you, Seungmin,” she smiled, taking a bite. The sweetness was comforting, and she could feel her energy returning just from the taste.

“I’ll grab you some water,” I.N said, jumping up. “And maybe some snacks, too!”

“You spoil her,” Leeknow teased, shooting a knowing glance at Y/N. “But I guess that’s our job now.”

As the boys hustled around, Felix crouched down beside the couch, looking up at her with his big, earnest eyes. “What do you need, Y/N? Just say the word, and I’ll make it happen!”

“Just having you all here is enough,” she replied, her heart swelling with affection.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Don't forget to reblog and follow! <3

A/N: Thank you anon!

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(open: i believe i've added everyone but if you don't see your @ please comment down below)

[uhhhj13iguess]

I don't even read peter fics anymore but an idea I really love is Peter doing a full on photo shoot of you.

we all collectively forget about photography!peter parker TOO much, and he needs to be appreciated so much more than he is

through his lens

peter parker x gn!reader blurb

wc: ~500

peter parker, the photographer

cw: i got a little carried away at the end and got smutty with it for the last two paragraphs. sorry not sorry. mdni !

peter parker, who is fresh out of ESU and just moved in with you into… uh, well, let’s call it a homey place. but he loved it. he loved getting to fill it with memories of the two of you, the not-half-bad new york apartment quick to fill with the color and expression of the life you shared together. peter, who loved to find beauty in the every day.

peter parker who especially loved to capture the beauty in the every day, and one beauty in his life above all others. who’s lock screen was a picture he took of you years ago when you were just friends, a candid of you baking his birthday cake with may.

who was never shy to take out his camera, used to your playful attempts to duck away from his gaze, a smirk on his lips each time you caved and let him work. who had honestly probably over 100 a lot of sd cards kept safe in his desk, each one filled completely and utterly with thousands upon thousands of pictures of you.

you, his favorite muse. who got used to the shutter of his camera, knowing it would be easier to let it happen than fight against it. and honestly, you grew to like it. peter was a fantastic photographer, and looking at his pictures of you only grew your feeling of flattery as time went on.

who felt like a model sometimes, posing for peter’s portfolio work in front of a few backdrops, listening to his every word as he coached you through how he wanted you to position yourself. who knew more than half the shots were stained with your pink cheeks as peter’s voice flooded the living room, drowning you in praising murmurs and sweet encouragements of how beautiful you looked.

peter parker, who got a job at the daily bugle shortly after moving in with you, spending his days taking pictures of his community for the paper, and spending his nights webbing his cameras around the city as he swung by, turning them in the next morning for updates on the spider-man story.

who can’t wait to come home and show you the coolest shots he got of himself swinging from building to building, cutting out the articles in each paper and tacking them to the refrigerator.

peter parker, who had polaroids filled to the brim of his wallet of you in lingerie, your nearly naked body in all sorts of positions for him. who definitely didn’t get shy with his camera in the bedroom, loving to capture the look of pure bliss on your face as he brings you pleasure. who loved to watch you writhe underneath him through the viewfinder, his pace relentless as flashes filled the room and only increased the volume of your moans.

who loved (a little too much) pointing the lens at you with your pretty lips around his cock, a polaroid picture he kept of your warm mouth taking his wet, painfully hard cock tucked in his phone case, occasionally taking it out on his long night of patrol, giving him a second wind to finish up the night and get home to you.

peter parker, the photographer.

masterlist and taglist!

[klemen-tine]

Glass Bones and Paper Skin Part 2

Platonic! Bruce x Model! GN! Reader

First Part

Part 3

Trigger Warnings: Hint at suicide, Body Issues, Eating problems (not a disorder), Child Neglect, stalking

This is more of the family side than it is of Bruce. Next part will be everyone.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Young Master Y/N, what a pleasant surprise.” Y/N smiled at Alfred, opening their arms and sagging in relief once they hugged the butler. The three hour car ride had been tense, with everyone asking questions and Y/N trying their hardest to be polite while not losing it. The fashion show still fresh in their mind, and the clothing Francesca had given them was gently folded and placed in the trunk of the car. 

“It is good to see you, Alfred. It’s been too long.” The old man huffed, “Indeed. A year of only phone calls and cards does make it seem like it was a century ago since I last saw your face… in person.” Y/N smiled, giving Alfred a playful look before remembering where they are and how they got here. 

The smile on their face became practiced, expression smoothening out as they turned to face the rest of the family who were all waiting patiently. Dick was smiling brightly, unraveling his scarf and walking forward, “Hey Alfie, you should have seen our Y/N walk. They really made the show.” 

“I find it insulting they made you walk last,” Damian chimed and crossed his arms. Y/N gave him a small smile, “Being a closer is as much of a compliment as being the opener.” The young boy scrunched his nose, “I preferred the show in Paris.” 

“Francesca Gabbana designed the piece, Alfred you’ll have to see it.” Tim was the one carrying the case that had the piece in it. The old man hummed, “I saw it on the television, but perhaps seeing it in person will be better.” Jason shrugged, walking in and gently nudging Y/N with his larger shoulders, “Although, did she have to make the Bat symbol just the front piece? It barely covered anything.” Y/N could see his jaw clench like the very thought of other people seeing Y/N’s stomach. 

Bruce was the last to walk in, shrugging off his coat and hanging it over his arm, “Fashion designers do not care about function, only beauty.” Y/N smiled tensely, “It is a form of art.” The older man smiled at Y/N, and the model couldn’t get rid of the image of the Bruce they saw backstage. 

“Of course it is. One of the most demanding forms of art as well.” Y/N couldn’t place the tone, but there was a sudden shift in the atmosphere. Alfred shuffled, “Well, dinner is almost ready. Young Master Y/N, if you want you can wash up in one of the guest bathrooms. Your room is currently being used as a trophy room.” Y/N chuckled, “Oh dear, you’re not hanging up my photos are you?” 

“I did tell you I would be.” Y/N shook their head, “Thanks Alfred, but I don’t have any clothes here.” An arm swung around their shoulder, and Y/N stiffened under the sudden touch. Jason was smiling at them, “C’mon Y/N, we have some clothes for you.” Y/N felt the sudden spike again in their spine, alerting them that something was amiss and only bad things would happen if they asked questions. From how everyone was looking at them, Y/N specifically, it was like they were waiting for Y/N to ask. Impatiently waiting for that landmine to explode in front of them. 

“How kind of you, I wasn’t expecting that.” Y/N jumped over it. 

“Of course! How could we not have clothes ready for when our younger sibling comes home. Even though it’s been almost three years, I hope everything still fits right.” Just to land on another landmine. Y/N kept the smile on, years of being talked down to by photographers have helped them create the perfect mask of politeness. 

“So, which bathroom in which guest room?” Tim stepped forward and gently guided Y/N out from under Jason’s arm and further into the manor. Y/N stayed half a step behind, taking in the gothic manor and the decorations littering the hallway. 

Out of all the siblings, Y/N is closest with Tim. Not really siblings, and not really even friends, but if his relationship could be described as a length rope attached to each person, Tim’s would be the second shortest. Right after Alfred. They are close in age, and Tim was the first one to comment on Y/N’s photo when Y/N had first started modeling. 

It was only once, and it may have been in passing, but Y/N had held that interaction close to their heart. The first and last comment from a sibling about their modeling. An acknowledgement of sorts, that made Y/N momentarily believe that they were noticeable, only for that to be squished that same day. 

“You’re photo in the Cosmetology magazine, it looks really good. Red suits you.” 

The way that color looked on Y/N was the same as how a red rose looked on a green stem; like it was always meant to be. Y/N has seen the comparisons between them and their mother. M/N L/N was a beautiful woman, with large eyes and pouty lips, the very definition of innocence. A puppy-dog look that fit so naturally on her face. 

A white rose. 

While Y/N had a more sultry tone, a more powerful presence, one that demanded attention. 

A red rose. Not so innocent, or pure, but who can be when you see your own mother dead in the bathtub. Drug allegations and the loss of her popularity caused her downfall, and she loved her popularity more than she loved her child. Y/N finds it hard to blame her, because after they have gotten a taste of what beauty can get them, they can see why their mother got addicted to the camera flashes. 

The assurance that yes, they are beautiful. They are beautiful and worthy of the cameras. 

But with every camera flash, is a terrible comment. A terrible blog, highlighting their faults and insecurities. Someone dissecting every motion they made, every microexpression, ever comment. 

“Here you are, Y/N.” Y/N’s attention snapped back and sure enough they were in front of the door. Tim waited patiently for Y/N to enter, “Thank you, Tim.” The young man shrugged, “Sure. Clothes can be found in the dresser and shoes in the closet.” Y/N nodded, waiting for the other to leave. Instead Tim turned around and faced Y/N, waiting for the other with a raised brow, “You’re not going to ask about the clothes?” 

Y/N gulped, “I feel like if I ask, I won’t like the answer. I’d rather live in ignorance for now.” They walked past Tim, opening and closing the door, but before they saw Tim grin and a smile played out on his lips, “Smart.” 

They locked the door, and when they turned around Y/N nearly collapsed. They pressed their back into the door as they stared at the room in mild terror. Their room from their condo, fully paid off condo, was present in front of Y/N. The same color palette, the same furniture, hell even the bookshelves are the same. Gulping, Y/N walked further in and when they opened the dresser, their jaw clenched and fingers shook. 

The exact same clothes. 

The bathroom was their saving grace, or so they thought. It didn’t look like their bathroom in the condo, save for the same colored towels. That was until they opened the shower and saw full bottles of the same brand soap, shampoo, conditioner, masks, everything. 

“Just like home. It is just like home, Y/N. Only in the Manor.” They mumbled to themselves, stripping in front of the shower stall and jumping in and not even waiting for the water to get hot. They wanted in and out as quickly as possible. Washing their hair, their body, and not even bothering to do the usual masks and scrubs. 

Jumping out, they quickly towel dried themselves and threw on the robe that was so familiar. 

“Routine… keep to the routine…” Body lotion, while the skin is still damp so it can absorb into the skin better, followed by an oil. For the face it was a double cleanse, first an oil based then water-based, followed by toner, retinol, serums, hyaluronic acid, moisturizer, and face oil. Teeth will be after the meal, but hair… 

“Moisturizer, blow dry, and then oil.” Y/N continued to mutter, trying desperately to not go crazy as the familiar brands flashed across their face and they had to use it like normal. They had too. Cause if they don’t, then Y/N knows that they will go crazy. 

They don’t bother to look in the dresser again, already on the verge of having a nervous breakdown, and instead they opted to flop onto the bed. Y/N buried their face in the pillow, and tried to not think about anything. They tried to force their mind blank, just how they did on the runway. 

“Y/N, are you ready?” Only it wasn’t working. Sitting up, Y/N stared at the door and contemplated answering. The carefully crafted facade was cracking and Y/N doesn’t know if they can keep the mask on any longer. From the multiple shows this week, to the shows earlier today, then this, the mask had outworn its use and now it is slowly begging to be taken off. 

“One minute please.” Only they can’t. Not here. Definitely not here. 

Peeling themselves off of the bed, Y/N stripped out of the robe and grabbed the first shirt they saw, underwear, and jeans. Their house slippers were right next to the dresser, and Y/N wanted to cry. All of it was getting too much and they're not sure how much longer they can be doing this. 

Opening the door, Dick and Jason were the ones waiting for them. Dick grinned, “How insulting of you to look so great in only jeans and a crew neck, making the rest of us look like toads.” Y/N chuckled, closing the door behind them, “I am a model, its my job to look good in every style of clothing.” 

Dick laughed, wrapping an arm around Y/N’s shoulder he pulled the other close. Close enough that Y/N could smell the detergent used on Dick’s clothes, and body heat radiating off of the other. They started walking, Jason keeping silent while Dick chatted to Y/N, catching the other up on the past year. 

“There are more to the family now, but they won’t be at dinner today. Cass is with Steph, Duke is studying, and Barbara has dinner with her own family to join.” Y/N nodded, ignoring the small sting that others can be welcomed in while they couldn’t be. Instead, they kept the conversation polite, “How nice! It must be worthwhile to have so many people here.” Dick grinned, and there was a type of sharpness to it that had Y/N squirming. 

“Yeah, but it was never really a full house because not everyone was here.” A jab at Y/N, who muscled through it, “Well, modeling is a travel-heavy job. There was no time to come back.” The brothers stayed quiet, leading Y/N to the dining room table where everything and everyone was sitting and waiting patiently. 

Bruce caught their eyes, and motioned for them to sit at the empty seat next to him, Tim on the other side. Y/N walked over, and took the seat graciously, trying to ignore the weight in their stomach that was making their throat close. Alfred emerged, and like the true butler he was, he began setting their plates in front of them. Perfectly made and being presented beautifully on the white ceramic plates with gold leaf designs. 

Their favorite meal, one that always had Y/N running down the stairs when Alfred would announce his plans to make it, sat perfectly in the center of the plate. Its been so long since Y/N had it, no one quite makes it like Alfred does, and plus its just not really in Y/N’s diet. 

But Alfred made it. Alfred put his time and effort into making it, and Y/N is not going to spit on that. Once everyone had their plate, the dinner table became loud with chatter. Just like hoow it used to be. Dick would carry the conversation for the entire table, Jason would make sarcastic remarks, Tim intelligent ones, Damian’s would be snide, and Bruce would look exhausted the entire time. However, he still partook in them, letting his kids have the family moment of conversing with their parental figure. Smiling and chuckling as he did so, Bruce tried to be that good father figure. 

And Y/N just sits there. They eat quietly and think about their next photo shoot, the next trends that they need to hop on, the workout routine they need to adhere by. Questions do not get thrown their way– 

“Now that fashion season is over, what are your plans Y/N?” E/C eyes blink owlishly, staring at Dick in wonder as all eyes focus on them. 

“Oh, uh, um, well its normally rest season for us, but I have plans to schedule a few photoshoots, commercials, and I know Maya has been talking about me becoming a brand ambassador.” Y/N wants to keep the momentum. Y/N wants to be kept busy to get and stay away from here. 

“You’re not going to rest?” Jason questioned, raising a brow and Y/N shrugged, “I plan to take a few weeks off, but modeling doesn’t really have a set time.” It isn’t a 9-5 job, or vigilante job. Y/N will have to make public appearances, showing up to Galas, grand openings, other fashion shows, fashion shoots, and a lot of traveling. 

Bruce hummed, “Sounds like you’re running yourself thin.” Y/N gulped, “It sounds like a lot, but most of it is traveling and getting ready. Besides, I like being busy.” In high school, Y/N would go from school the the modeling agency where they would schedule photo shoots and commercials. Then it would be meeting with dieticians, personal trainers, estheticians, and then more meeting for future goals. The next steps. 

Y/N was always busy, but so was their mother and she managed. She was a single mother and a high end fashion model. If she can do it, then there is no reason Y/N can’t. 

“But there are other stuff right? Like you need to get facials to make sure your skin looks nice, and working out,” Damian chimed in, and Y/N blinked in surprise at the youngest contributing to the conversation. They smiled, “That’s not really tiring, it’s just time consuming.” 

Alfred walked back into the dining room, a dessert platter in his hands, “Then it is good you will be resting here. Take a few days to enjoy being free.” A cheesecake was set down in front of Y/N, and Alfred pointedly stared at the half eaten meal. He gave Y/N a raised brow, and while the model would normally smile and reassure the man that they would eat later, their face was full of shock, “What do you mean a ‘few days?’” 

Bruce wiped the corner of his lips with a napkin, “A few days. Rest here for a few days, it’ll be good for you and for everyone else.” Y/N gulped, “Why is it good for everyone else if I stay?” 

“Of course it’s good for us. Family sticks together obviously, and with you running off, it really sent things haywire.” There it was again. The phrase ‘running off’ as if it was something Y/N actually did. They smiled, “You’re sounding like Tim. I did not run off, I moved out.” Bruce’s brow furrowed, “ ‘Moved out,’ huh. I didn’t realize moving out meant leaving without so much as a goodbye.” 

“The things you left behind, you scheduled people to grab them and throw them out. Alfred was the one to stop them from touching your room,” Dick stated. Those blue eyes keep Y/N locked in their seat. The smile on the oldest sibling’s face was anything but kind, “It’s like you wanted to erase yourself from this manor. You left behind almost nothing that would trace you to us.” 

“Not a number to call. We had to get it from Alfred,” Jason chimed, taking a bite of the chocolate mousse cake. 

“Or a letter explaining where you went.” Damian took a sip of the tea. 

“Or an address.” Tim gulped his cup of coffee, all of them watching Y/N. They way their sibling’s shoulders tensed and that fake smile became more and more downturned. Bruce spoke once more, “It seems like you don’t even want to be a Wayne. Taking your mother’s last name despite the controversies.” 

Y/N’s smile turned bitter, “I took her last name because Wayne is more influential and I wanted to start with as little influence as possible. Plus, legally my last name is still L/N.” Bruce met Y/N’s gaze, “And look how many speculations you got for drug use.” 

“...Since when did you read gossip?” 

“The moment my kid’s photo is attached to that piece of gossip.” Y/N is still aware of all the blogs accusing them of drug-use, the same blogs that accused M/N. People using her photos to compare their features and just cause more drama. 

Y/N took a bite of the cheesecake, and the tension at the table was thick. Usually it was between Dick and Bruce, or Jason and Bruce. Never between Y/N though. Although, Y/N never spoke at the table so maybe that is why they were arguing? Can this even be considered an argument? 

Alfred cleared his throat, “While talking is appreciated, arguments stay away from the dinner table.” So it was an argument. Y/N apologized to the man and took another bite of the cheesecake. Their mind filled with the workout they are going to have to do to burn this off. 

++++

Alfred watched the child he considered a grandchild drink their tea, brewed in the darkness of the kitchen and now sitting at the dinner table again. While a year may not seem long, for Alfred it was. Y/N, who had been there for half a decade, had been glued to Alfred’s side. The man always taking the teen to and from school, and then sometimes to their gigs. 

It was Alfred that took Y/N to their first audition to be a model, and it seems like it was only a few days before he received a call from a woman claiming to be M/N L/N’s manager, and while she may not be Y/N’s manager, her daughter will be. Alfred liked Maya. The young woman always let him know of Y/N’s gigs, she would pick the young teen up and drop him off, and she tried to be as helpful as she could. Maya was a woman born to manage models and their busy and demanding schedules. 

What Alfred didn’t like, was that Maya still had the old school model critiques. Alfred gaped at the woman when she handed him a list of diets for Y/N to ‘lose weight.’ A 15 year old Y/N, who was already slender, now being told they had to be skinny but toned. A child being told that ice cream was no longer an option, and their favorite burgers were banned. 

He furrowed at the training regime, wondering how agencies can expect a teenager to be toned like their already full adult models. Nonstop cardio, ab workouts, and toning exercises. Then strut practice, because if Y/N was M/N’s child, then they were made for the runway. Born to walk in front of cameras and audiences. 

“If Y/N wants to be a model, then sacrifices have to be made,” Was Maya’s response to Alfred's inquiries. She assured him that Y/N would still be eating, and she encouraged Y/N to eat, but now those meals were restricted to certain foods. 

Alfred watched as Y/N struggled at first, their own plate different from the others, and how the blisters on their toes and heels bled through their socks and bandaids. The old man watched as the training and strut practice became an everyday routine. Y/N walked on the wobbling plyboard, barely wide enough for one foot, and the amount of times they fell off of it. The books stacked on their head for good posture and balance, followed by walking on an incline in those uncomfortable shoes, then training the muscles to the point of exhaustion. 

He had watched the child-like baby fat on Y/N’s cheeks melt off and expose cheekbones that looked tight against the skin. Y/N still looked beautiful, not more or less, but Alfred could see the exhaustion in those young eyes and how Y/N juggles modeling and being a student. 

Y/N didn’t even go to their high school graduation, choosing instead to head to Paris for their first ever abroad photoshoot. That kickstarted the traveling and runway model career. Once Y/N got their highschool diploma, they were out the door and becoming busier and busier. 

“I see you still drink onion skin tea so late at night.” Y/N smiled up at Alfred, “Of course. I was shocked to see that you still keep the skins.” The older man sat across from Y/N, nursing his own cup of tea “Of course. In case you ever visited, I thought it would be great to have some in stock.” Y/N gave Alfred a ‘really?’ look, continuing to sip on the still hot tea.

“I saw the piece you wore today,” Alfred started the conversation. 

“It truly is a beautiful piece of work.” Y/N’s jaw clenched, “Did you know about-” Y/N waved a hand in the air, “- about Bruce calling to commission a piece?” The old man took a sip of the earl gray. Y/N shook their head, unable to be upset, “Alfred, a call about that would have been appreciated.” 

“An address would also be appreciated but seeing as you have withheld that information, I saw no harm in sharing Master Bruce’s commission.” Y/N deflated, rubbing their forehead with their fingers, “Alfie-” 

“You only use that name when you know you’re about to be in trouble, so you might as well just say it, Young Master Y/N.” Y/N’s cheeks blushed and their lips pouted, “Alfie, I told you that the reason I didn’t tell you my address is because I am always traveling. I’d feel awful if you showed up and I wasn’t there.” 

“There’s a wonderful contraption called a cellphone, Young Master Y/N. I would call before making that trek over.” Y/N groaned, setting his cup down and trying not to crumble in front of the grandfather figure. Answering to Alfred was always harder than answering to Bruce. 

“Alfie–” 

“Young Master Y/N, I understand your hesitancy is sharing in your life with others. Life was lonely here, and I understand wanting to forget that. However, having only a number to call you is terrifying. What if something happens and I cannot help you?” Y/N gazed sadly at Alfred, “Life wasn’t lonely, Alfie. I had you, right?” 

Alfred Pennyworth, Y/N’s saving grace and lifeline. The person who is proof that Y/N was not alone in the Wayne Manor. The butler always willing to lend an ear when Y/N vented their frustrations, and when tears escaped their E/C eyes. He is Y/N’s biggest supporter. Always buying a magazine that had Y/N in it, and he would listen to Y/N critique the pose and the facial expression. Then he would give Y/N a slice of cheesecake and compliment Y/N, in both the photo and in person. 

Always reassuring the other that a cheat day will not set him back, and rest is what the body needs the most. Reassuring Y/N that their mother would be proud, that Bruce notices them, and that Y/N’s siblings do in fact love them. 

“Besides, why would you even want to visit? My place wouldn’t be as grand as this–” 

“It would be to make sure your fridge is stocked and that you are eating. You have always been the worst when it comes to eating, and I worry that your fridge and pantry are empty.” Alfred doesn’t have to guess that Y/N’s fridge is empty, because he knows it is. 

He knows that Y/N’s fridge is empty besides some drinks, and that the pantry is only snacks. While Y/N may have the excuse of being gone for so long, traveling and whatnot, Alfred knows that Y/N does not spend a lot of money on food. Y/N spends more money on clothes, jewlery, facial and hair care products, than they do on groceries. 

Y/N doesn’t even look ashamed. Nervous, yeah, but not ashamed. They sip their tea without making eye contact. Time to change the subject. 

“Why is Bruce, and all the boys, all of a sudden interested in what I do?” Alfred didn’t Y/N out on the obvious change in conversation, but he let it slide. The old man sighed, “Why would a parent not be interested in what their child is doing?” 

“Alfred.” 

“Young Master Y/N, you have worked tirelessly to get to the position you are now. With no help from the family, you had spent your late mother’s money to audition, then to pay your managers, and now you are making it big within the industry. Is it wrong for a parent to congratulate their child?” Y/N bit their  lip, “So its because I’m finally someone now? Was I not worth attention because I chose not to be Robin?” 

“Young Master Y/N–” 

“I don’t care about that. Like I told Bruce, it wasn’t abuse or anything, he just simply didn’t have time for me and that’s fine. I’m not mad about that.” Alfred watched Y/N get worked up, and E/C begin to shift in nervousness, “What I am talking about is why did Bruce pay off my Condo, and why does he have access to my bank account?” 

Silence fell across the table. Y/N staring at Alfred expectantly, while the butler finished his tea. Once done, he grabbed his and Y/N’s tea cup and headed towards the kitchen. 

“Perhaps, that is a Master Bruce question.” Y/N made a sound of annoyance, throwing themselves back into the chair and scrunching their nose. Standing up from the table, Y/N said goodnight to Alfred, and proceeded up that stairs and into dark hallways. Y/N wasn’t ready to go back to the guest room, feeling their heart rate spike whenever they thought of the replicated room. 

Instead, they walked down familiar halls towards a room-now-turned-trophy room. They reached for the doorknob, but found themselves unable to open it. Y/N didn’t want to see all the photos Alfred had kept throughout the years. Rather, what caught Y/N’s attention was the lacking of doors in the hallway. There used to be two more doors on their left, but instead there was now one. The area where the second door was, was perfectly sealed and now blended into the wall. 

Y/N took a deep breath, and opened the door. They used to be guest rooms as well. The two rooms had queen-sized beds and armoires for the unexpected guests that popped up. Y/N’s room used to be a guest-room, but they ended up liking the privacy because no one else’s room was around their’s. In fact, it was the guest room across from Y/N’s room that they had turned into the practice room, seeing that no one came down this hallway. 

However, clearly people were not because of the renovation done. 

When the door opened, Y/N sought out the light switch. The room was pitch black, and the last thing Y/N wanted to do was trip over something. Feeling around the wall, Y/N rejoiced when they felt the familiar switch and flicked it on. Once the bright light filled the room, Y/N took a deep breath. They were expecting a game room, or an indoor swimming people because that seems like something a rich person would do. Turning two guest rooms into a pool despite it being on the second floor. 

Something not exactly normal, but expected. 

Y/N didn’t expect this. Gone was the wall that separated the two bedrooms, making it one long room, and all the furniture was absent. No more beds, armoires, and it looks like even the bathrooms were gutted and turned into part of the room. All the tables, rugs, sofas, everything that was once in those rooms, were now gone besides the chandeliers that hung on the ceiling. Filling the room with a bright light, that didn’t fit the manor aesthetic at all, and illuminating everything that was in the room. 

While the furniture was gone, the room was not empty. Mannequins lined the walls, on their own podiums and glass cases. While seeing them bare would have been scary, seeing them dressed in the clothes that Y/N had worn on the runways was more terrifying. Y/N, in the runway season alone, walked 86 shows. That is the runways season alone, not including the other smaller shows they have done since graduating high school almost a year ago. 

These weren’t all of the clothes they have worn, there was still a large amount and they were the most iconic pieces. Pieces that a designer would never want to give someone. 

Y/N walked further in, taking in the first mannequin on the right, and they noted that the mannequin looked eerily similar to Y/N. Only missing the facial features and hair, but it looked like the proportions were almost spot on. 

The plastic doll had on the outfit from a runway show earlier in the year, when Y/N walked for Versace. A simple long blazer with deep V cut, stopping mid-thighs where only an inch of skin was shown before thigh boots bedazzled in gold, diamonds, emeralds, and other precious jewels took over the rest of the legs. The earrings they wore were poked into the mannequin's own ears and the bracelets hung off the dainty wrists. In the glass case, next to the mannequin, was the photo taken of Y/N when they were walking. 

The next case was a piece they wore when walking for a newer fashion-designer, one that Y/N did for free just to get to their name out there, and the piece was a gorgeous suit, dyed a beautiful vermillion red that had the slighted shimmer of gold in it. Y/N’s runway photo was once again next to the mannequin. 

The entire room was full of these iconic runway looks, with Y/N’s photo right next to them, and they surrounded all sides of the room and some of them in the middle. Almost like an art gallery of sorts, and Y/N looked at every single one of them. Not in amazement or judgment, but more of horror. 

Y/N knows some of these fashion designers. They have known some of them since they were a child and watching their mom get fitted by these exact same designers. No matter how much she begged, they would never let her take one of their creations home. These clothes were meant to be either safe-guarded in a museum, in their own collection, or in some cases bought by a celebrity and worn to an award ceremony as advertisement. 

In other words, Y/N knows that some of these designers would rather gnaw off an arm then give away their precious creations. Yet, here some of those precious creations were, hanging on the mannequin shaped like the model. 

In the center of the room, like it was the main show, was the Batman-inspired piece. All that was missing was the photo, which wouldn’t be published for another few weeks. 

Taking a deep breath, they stared at the reflection in the gold-plated bat. They were trying to process all of this. It’s one thing to have photos, because Y/N is a model and photos are expected, but to have the actual clothes they wore. Clothes that Y/N knows the designers would kill for, dressed on mannequins that looked almost exactly like Y/N was another thing.

Y/N backed out of the room, turning the lights off and shutting the door silently. They stared at their own door, sweat beginning to break out on their forehead, and they went against their instincts and opened that door. 

A trophy room, Alfred had said. The walls are decorated in their photos, and the bed is still as immaculate as the day they left. Turning the lights on, Y/N couldn’t help but to smile as the time capsule in front of them. From their very first photoshoot, when Y/N was a gangly 15-year-old with still chubby cheeks, to the most recent photoshoot of a now 18 almost 19-year-old Y/N. Their confidence can be seen in their pose and gaze, something their younger self lacked. 

Y/N walked closer to the walls and looked at all the different photos. Some candid, some posed, some in the water, and there’s one where they are in Greece. Some had Y/N fully clothed with barely and inch of skin, and some were of Y/N with barely an inch of clothes. From makeup, to shoes, to perfume, to clothes, Y/N’s photo was pinned on the wall or framed. 

A photo caught their attention though. It wasn’t one from a website, or a magazine, but an actual photo. Y/N looked closer, and they recognized the set from when they were 16-years-old posing for an editorial magazine. 

However, the angle in which this photo was taken from, Y/N knows there were no cameras there. All the cameras were in front or on the side, not behind. Another photo caught their eyes, and it was the same thing. A photo from behind. 

Once they started looking for them, Y/N could begin to spot them all. Photos that they know no photographer took. There was one that had their blood chilling and fear rising in their chest. It was a photo, taken at night and through one of the windows in Y/N’s condo. Y/N had one wall in the living room that was basically all windows, letting in the morning sun and led out onto the gated terrace. It was high enough that they had no neighbors that could look through those windows. 

In the photo, Y/N was wearing their pajamas and their hair still looked wet. They were sitting on the counter of the island in their kitchen, eating raspberries and watching Youtube on their TV. It was such a close photo, close enough that the reflection can be seen in the glass. 

Y/N recognizes the blue and black, and when Y/N’s eyes drifted to another photo of them in their home, bile rose into their throats. The morning sun illuminated the warm neutral color palette in the living room, and Y/N was out on the terrace sitting at the patio table they had set up out there drinking a cup of coffee and reading a book. They had their shirt off, exposing ribs pulled tightly against skin and abs that remained toned even when Y/N wasn’t flexing. The shorts they had on exposing soft skin and pedicured feet, their slipped laid forgotten under the chair they were sitting in. 

They recognize that book. It was a book they read in the height of summer, meaning that this photo was taken half a year ago, when it was okay to sit outside in the warm summer mornings and let the skin begin to circulate. 

What chilled Y/N even more was that whoever took this photo was on their terrace with them. They were on Y/N’s terrace, and Y/N didn’t even know. The Wayne family has known Y/N’s address the entire time. They knew where Y/N was staying, they knew Y/N’s photoshoot schedules, and they knew Y/N better than Y/N thought they did. 

“I didn’t think you’d come in here.” Y/N’s head whipped around and there was Dick, or Nightwing, still in costume and smiling at them. 

“The hell is this?” Y/N held up the photo of them on the terrace, and Dick shrugged, “I’ll admit, those photos we took. But we didn’t take the other ones.” 

“What other ones?” “The ones of you at the photoshoots. I know you saw them, but we didn’t take those.” Y/N glared at Dick, and pushed themselves close to the wall as Dick walked in. Damian was right behind him. The oldest brother walked to the photo that originally caught Y/N’s attention, “You had a stalker, can you believe that? He took hundreds of photos of you, and all we did was make him stop.” 

Y/N’s lips pursed, “How do I know you’re not lying?” Dick unpinned the photo, and with Damian’s help, trapped Y/N against the wall next to the photo of them outside. He held up the photo, “Because, Y/N, as you can see we prefer more… candid photos then staged.” 

Y/N snapped, “There is nothing candid about that photo! That is an invasion of privacy! Trespassing! So is that one!” They pointed to one of them sitting on the counter. Damian grabbed their arm, and Y/N wanted nothing more than to shove the kid off. 

“And so is that one.” Dick pointed to one of Y/N wearing only a large shirt, a towel around their shoulders as they walked into their kitchen. 

“And that one.” 

“And that one.” 

“That one there.” 

“There’s that one too.” Y/N looked at all the photos, hidden next to the magazine photos, and they were all of them in their home. Horror morphed on Y/N’s face when there was one photo of Y/N in the bedroom, in the midst of taking their shirt off. 

Dick continued to smile, and Y/N could see Jason and Tim peeking in from the doorway. 

“You did a lot on your own, Y/N. You built a name for yourself, became a highly sought after model, it really is amazing.” Dick walked closer, “But you know what all of those photos have in common?” Y/N stared into blue eyes, terror swimming in those E/C eyes of theirs. 

“You aren’t even aware of your photo being taken.” The truth unsettled Y/N enough to try and squirm out of Damian’s grip and to get away from Dick. They didn’t need to be pointed out. Y/N is aware that in every photo taken without their permission, they were not once aware of it. Even when they looked like they would be only a few feet away, Y/N not once looked bothered. Y/N doesn’t even remember that feeling of being watched. 

Tim and Jason stepped in the room, making it seem crowded and even if Y/N got out of Damian’s grip, there was no way they were getting past all of them. 

Large hands gripped Y/N’s forearms, feeling like they would bruise the skin if Y/N struggled. 

“So tell your big brother Y/N, how do you expect us to trust you on your own when you can’t even notice someone on your terrace?” 

________________________________________________________

Part 3 is coming soon....

[smoshyourheadin]

spencer’s funeral and his partner is the special guest and roasts spencer so hard and than revels that they are getting a cat together but everyone thinks it’d a baby announcement lmaoooo or however you wanna end it

Special News

pairing: spencer agnew x f! reader

a/n: anon i love this idea so much!! guys please don’t come at me for these terrible jokes i’m just a girl really 😜 also i’m posting sm rn go me

requests are open <33

“lebron james inspired us with his baller moves. steph curry inspired us with his words. spencer agnew inspired us by being a piece of shit, so we would never follow in his footsteps.”

you’re stood at the podium of the funeral, spencer in the coffin next to you holding a bouquet of plastic flowers as he tries not to laugh.

“spencer is a gamer, and we all know that. but if he spent as much time with me as he does on world of warcraft, i’d be the happiest girl on earth, but hey, at least he has a high gear score to keep him company whilst i cook.”

you see everyone laugh as you switch the paper, angela cackling over what you thought was a pretty shit joke.

as the laughter dies down, you continue on. “spencer and me only ever disagree over stupid things, and i think to myself, he must know he’s short when he has to look up to see eye-to-eye with someone who's shorter than him, because i’m always right. i’m sure courtney feels the same about shayne.”

at this, courtney yells “FACTS!” from behind one of the cameras, and you shoot her a wink.

shayne then stares you down, and all you say is “shayne don’t worry, i’m a short king ally!” which he just smirks at.

“i have some pretty bad jokes here, so let’s quickfire some.“ you mutter to everyone.

“if sleeping on my arm were an olympic sport, he’d have more gold than michael phelps.” this earns a giggle from spencer, as you have a folder on your phone of him asleep in the most awkward ways possible, always lying on your arm somehow.

“he’s so obsessed with video games, even his posture looks like it's from a character model that hasn't loaded properly yet.“ this makes everyone cackle, spencer opening one eye to glare at you, and you just laugh him off.

“your gamer boy posture is so bad, chiropractors have your picture on their vision boards on what to improve on.”

“do you guys think that,” you exhale through your nose at what patrick has written on your prompt card. “spencer’s idea of sitting normally the same as a pretzel’s idea of being straight?” which is so bad it’s good, making you crouch down to laugh.

you stand back up after a moment, your stomach twisting over what you’re about to do. it’s going to be so worth it, but gosh you feel bad.

“spencer, my lovely boyfriend, is a mt dew kickstart addict, certified gamer girl, and a soon to be father” and at this last statement, everyone gasps, and spencer’s eyes shoot open and he sits up. he looks at you intently, and you see him experience about a hundred emotions at once

you smile at everyone, turning to a camera, pulling out a printed off certificate of adoption, a picture of a tiny ginger cat taped to it.

“we got a cat!” you say, almost proud of how shocked everyone is

as you turn to look at spencer, you hear shayne’s laugh, and you look at spencer with sympathetic eyes, mouthing ‘i love you’ to him over all the laughter. he just smiles, knowing that this cat is going to be so loved by you both. especially you. because you love him so much.

as you sit back down, spencer sits up. having come back from the dead, he has some things to say. he goes through everyone at his funeral; alex, shayne, damien, tommy, selina, and then, you.

“and finally, my beautiful girlfriend, y/n. my bundle of sunshine, blinding and hard to look at directly.” you scoff at this, and he looks at you with a look that says this is a joke please don’t kill me when we’re home.

“i mean, come on, you cry at surf's up? i guess even animated penguins have higher emotional intelligence than you.” he manages to say through a fit if giggles. spencer always teases you for this, even though he cries at the NGE film. loser.

after wrap, courtney comes over to congratulate you on your cat, and just catch up generally.

“so, cat parents hey? proud of you girl” she says with a grin.

“yeah, i kinda feel bad scaring everyone into thinking spencer gets game in bed.” you reply, earning a laugh from her.

“don’t be mean to me! i’m a player you know?” spencer says coming up behind you.

“okay, sure you are mr ‘i cry at anime’.” you snap back.

he throws his hands up in defeat, and you kiss his cheek, going off to see amanda.

“she’s so cool.” courtney says

“yeah,” spencer replies. “she’s not that bad.”

she elbows him in the ribs, and he clutches his side

“i mean, she’s the best!” he says through strained teeth, courtney doing a proud nod before catching you up.