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#Thursday monochrome
sigalrm · 8 months
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Under the old Bridge by Pascal Volk
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serthra · 4 months
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Old Brick Road
A little black and white after all the colour :)
I liked the texture of the older streets in Montreal. Went low for a slightly different perspective and to highlight the patterns and bricks of the street.
iPhone, Montreal, Canada, May 2018
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hippiebikergirl · 7 days
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northdevonwalker · 6 months
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Thursday morning ride / https://strava.app.link/sgc5CXmzsDb
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itsirritating · 2 years
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Outfit of the day. Thursdays are for hats and great shades…!! 🤩🤩🤩 do you have an thursday outfit..:)? about that hat: @mattenhats ——- #mattenhats #summer #outfitoftheday #outfit #style #stil #mode #fashion #inspo #colorcombination #monochrome #minimal #summeroutfit #gay #gayzurich #streetstyle #thursday #agoodday #hoscos (at Zürich, Switzerland) https://www.instagram.com/p/CfbKXduqHoE/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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eldritch-nightmare · 7 months
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heyy!! can i request LJ and Candypop ( ,,if you write for him) sharing a fem!reader? (headcanons or something else) i don’t mind <33
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a/n: I COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT CANDY POP WAIT omg he's one of those creepypastas that i heard about but never really looked into so. first time writing him so i hope i did him justice for you! i wasn't sure if you wanted something more lighthearted or something darker so i did my best to keep it balanced.
LJ and Candy Pop sharing a fem!reader.
warnings: my knowledge of candy pop comes from the creepypasta files wiki page so just a heads up if i get something wrong, opted to make reader a creepypasta here but it's very vague, lj and candy pop are like frenemies in this i suppose, sorta hints that the reader might've been forced into this relationship, my hand slipped and i dropped a 'good girl' in here somewhere i couldn't help myself, possessive behavior from both of them, implied unhealthy relationship.
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Man, what's it like having a 7ft tall imaginary monochrome clown that terrorizes children and a 7ft tall colorful Night Terrors possessed jester be in love with you? It's probably a strange experience.
They both argue over who caught feelings for you first. LJ swears up and down that he fell for you first, but Candy Pop claims it to be love at first sight. Honestly, you've just chosen to believe that they both fell for you around the same time.
The two of them were definitely hesitant to share you, though that was more on Candy Pop's side than it was LJ's. Listen, sharing a body/soul with the literal demon king makes you a bit possessive over things, okay?
You don't particularly mind either way, to be honest. They're both a bit... much to handle at times, but you guys make it work. Like... literally. You had to plan out an entire schedule and everything because they kept bickering about how much time the other spent with you.
LJ gets you on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays while Candy Pop gets you on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Sundays are days you spend alone because it's always good to have some time for yourself.
Of course, they don't... follow the schedule that often. Why would they? They aren't confined to the mortal chains of schedules.
They are both equally romantic in their own right, and you won't lie, you certainly have enjoyed a few of the spontaneous dates they've taken you on. Sometimes, they'll even get together long enough to plan out an outing for all three of you. They can get along, see?
Now, we can't forget that they are both murderous entities. One is an imaginary friend turned serial killer and the other is... something. A demon? A poor possessed soul of a jester? Whatever he is, he's deadly. Shall I provide some examples?
Example one: Laughing Jack was abandoned by the one person he was created to befriend, so trust me when I tell you that he has some deeply rooted abandonment issues. He's all fun and games until there's even the slightest possibility of you leaving him. Even if someone makes an offhand remark about how you should leave him, his entire persona does a complete 180.
Suddenly, his hold on you is just a bit more tighter than it normally is, and you can feel his nails digging into your skin, threatening to draw blood. It's a subtle, silent threat of what he could do to you if you ever tried leaving him.
Example two: Candy Pop, as a whole, is somebody you have to be wary around because his mood can flip like a switch. He'll be happily humming away about some random topic one moment, and the next he's pushing you up against a nearby wall and looking at you with such a crazed look that it's almost hard to believe that this is the same person who claims to be in love with you.
He's the type to remind you of where you belong. You belong by his and LJ's side, so don't you ever forget that, okay? You really don't want to see what'll happen if you do.
In the end, though LJ and Candy Pop have a habit of bickering with each other, they'll make one hell of a team if it means keeping you in their grasp. You don't fit with anyone but them, and you don't need to fit with anyone other than them. They're the perfect match for you, and you'll come to see that sooner or later. So, all you need to do is be a good girl and stay by their side, got it?
It's Sunday. Sundays are supposed to be your day. You had plans to hang out with the other girls, maybe even play dress up with Sally if she was up for it. So, why the hell were you currently stuck in bed, sandwiched between a clown and a jester?
You have no clue because you just woke up and they were already here. Sure, you could just… wiggle your way out of bed but then they would wake up. Do they even need to sleep? They aren't mortal like you are, so sleep doesn't seem like a necessity to them. But it's not like you can just stay in bed all day either. You had things you wanted to do!
So, with a very silent sigh, you slowly start to sit up, untangling yourself from the mass of limbs trapping you to your bed. You were able to sit up with relative ease, the hard part would be crawling over either LJ or Candy Pop to get out of bed. That would be… that would be difficult.
Even if you were to try and crawl over one of them, you weren't able to because before you could even decide which one to crawl over, you were being pushed back into laying down again by Candy Pop.
You let out a small 'oof' as soon as your back hit the mattress.
"Where do you think you're going?" You hear LJ ask, and with one quick glance at him, you can see a slight pout on his face. It was almost enough to make you forget about the feeling of his nails gently grazing your stomach.
If he just decided to dig them into your--
"She's not going anywhere." Candy's voice murmurs directly next to your ear, effectively cutting off your train of thought. You only belatedly realize that he had buried his face into your neck, his hair brushing against your face, "Right, angel?"
Well… it seems like you're not going to be getting rid of these two today, so whatever plans you had for the day were going to have to be put on hold until next Sunday. You just hoped the two of them didn't make a habit of this.
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todayontumblr · 8 months
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Thursday, July 27.
it's thursday. so here's some comics.
On the house!
Well, it's as good a start to the day as any. We happen to like #comics. They're an easy thing to like, after all. Always cute, often colorful, and sometimes monochrome, they are a deceptively simple medium for exploring funny, thoughtful, irreverent topics and difficult questions. Difficult, but important—and indeed profound themes and experiences. Whether childhood reflections, irrational fears, navigating depression, cute imaginings, sitcomesque situations, or even the inevitable journey of grief, comics make for the perfect place to navigate whatever subject strikes the artist's fancy. What they then express with this medium, and how they express, becomes a tantalizing proposition. They may well be easily consumed—bite-sized, if you will—but they provide a lot to chew over.
So we graciously curated a collection here in this ol' digi-mail for you this most Thursdayish of Thursday mornings—perfect to consume with a hot beverage (or not) of your choice. 
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miraclewoozi · 8 months
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i do not give permission for anything posted on this blog to be reposted or translated either here on tumblr, or on any other platform.
minors are not welcome and DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT to read anything posted on this blog.
everything shared here is self indulgent fiction and in no way reflective of how any of these people think, feel or behave in real life.
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ODE TO A CONVERSATION ( stuck in your throat ). everything with seungcheol has always been easy. easier than with anyone else, anyway. ( smut. exes to lovers. 6k words. )
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ELECTRIC. your best friend is many things. smart, funny, empathetic, a complete and utter pain in your ass to name but a few. and on the evening of his twenty-eighth birthday, you discover something a little unexpected: jeonghan is very afraid of thunderstorms.  ( smut. fluff + mild angst. friends to something? 6.3k words. )
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BURNIN' UP. you really were just trying to enjoy a cool treat by the pool on a hot summer’s day. honest. ( smut. friends who fool around. mean!dom josh. 3.1k words. )
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nothing here, yet !
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JUST THE TWO OF US? ( prompt drabble. requested. fluff. friends to lovers. 1.1k words. )
BEST BEHAVIOUR. ( prompt drabble. requested. smut. sub!soonyoung. 1.1k words. )
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nothing here, yet !
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DON'T SWEAT IT. today — the first time in a small forever that he forgot to check the battery on his earphones (and subsequently had them die on him mid-workout) — jihoon is forced to notice you. ( fluff + smut. gym crush. strangers to lovers. 18k words. )
VERSACE ON THE FLOOR. or, the time you and your homebody boyfriend* decide to just… not go to your dinner plans. ( fluff. suggestive. est relationship. 2.4k words. )
LEE JIHOON, YOUR EMOTIONAL SUPPORT I.T GUY. (prompt drabble. requested. coworkers to lovers. fluff. 2.3k words.)
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nothing here, yet !
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nothing here, yet !
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UNDER THE COLLAR. your unlucky-in-love best friend goes on a date with someone who, by all accounts, should be his perfect person. so… how exactly do you end up being the one who tucks his sorry, drunk ass into bed? ( fluff. some angst. mildly suggestive. pining. friends to ???. 4.6k words. )
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TIL DEATH DO US PART. ( prompt drabble. requested. angst. zombie apocalypse au. TWs : death/blood/body horror. ~900 words. )
[ 22:38 ] ( smut/pwp. 1.5k words. )
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NOW YOU SEE ME. you can't say you're surprised that your boyfriend leaps at the thought of throwing some sensory deprivation into the mix of your sex life, but you're maybe a little shocked at just how into it he gets. ( smut. est relationship. blindfolding. 4.5k words. )
NETFLIX AND --? you try everything in your power to try and help your workaholic boyfriend unwind on his night off. you quickly find out that vernon doesn’t know how to just do nothing. ( domestic smut. est relationship. 2.3k words. )
[ 5:55 ] ( smut/pwp. married au. christmas morning. 2k words. )
DO YOU DREAM OF ME? the first time you kiss your soulmate, you’ll open your eyes to a world of colour. the problem? vernon hates the thought that he might pull away from you and still see in monochrome.  or, five times he wanted to plant one on you, and the one time you beat him to it.  ( fluff. mild angst. soulmate au. 5 times fic. f2l. 9.6k words. )
HIGH FIDELITY. | PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 getting back on the horse is hard, and failing to hit it off with the cute gamer guy you went for a drink with last night has the potential to be your love life’s last straw. but when up and coming rockstar VERNON unexpectedly canters into your life, you find yourself asking one very important question: do you have it in you to saddle up, one more time? ( fluff/angst/smut. up and coming rockstar au. miniseries. s2l. est. 38k words. )
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DRIVE. or, the night you realise it’s actually very hard to stay mad at the guy who shows up at your house, throwing stones at your window on a Thursday night, to try and fix something that was your mistake in the first place. ( fwb to lovers. angst, smut + fluff. 7.8k words. )
FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE. (prompt drabble. requested. exes to lovers. fluff/smut. 5k words.)
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MTL : able to undo your bra with one hand.
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sigalrm · 10 months
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Mittel by Pascal Volk
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laxmiree · 6 months
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[CN] MLQC Lucien's Through Thousands of Mirrors event translation (Day 1 -Thursday)
⚠️ SPOILER ALERT ⚠️
This post contains a HEAVY SPOILER for the event that has not been released in EN yet! Feel free to notify me if there are any mistakes in the translation~
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Through Thousands of Mirrors Event | Day 1 (You're here!) | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7 | HS/Uni SSR Story: Monochrome Scenery
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[Tidbits: I don't wanna break the flow so I'll put some information here first 😂. Dr. Lawson is Lucien's post-grad professor. Before, he also appears in UR MQ Distant Similarity. During his post-grad he has three seniors Colt, Elliot, and Caroline.]
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[Math]
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Seeing the particularly puzzled expression on the classmate next to him, Lucien starts to consider whether he should offer some assistance within his capabilities.
For instance, he thinks about telling the classmate that the topic currently being discussed on the blackboard is not from the same chapter as the one in the textbook he's currently reading.
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[MATH/BIOCHEMISTRY]
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After the vending machine devours Lucien's one dollar and twenty-five cents for the third time, and with only three minutes left to get to his next class, he begins to seriously contemplate whether he should try some mysterious repair method—like giving it a good smack or a swift kick.
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[BIOCHEMISTRY]
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Lucien coincidentally runs into Colt by the sports field, just as Colt is about to attend a cricket practice session.
Upon realizing that his senior from the lab is not only managing coursework and a significant project workload but also juggling a 20-hour weekly part-time job and daily school cricket team training, Lucien begins to contemplate whether there is any room for further optimization in his own schedule.
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[PREVIEW/COMPUTER SCIENCE]
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During the brief half-hour period, Lucien typically uses the time to prepare for the upcoming class or visit the library to research and gather information.
In any case, that time should not be spent on arguing and explaining to people, like the enthusiastic campus volunteer in front of him.
"No, thank you. I'm not a high school student attending a summer camp. This is my student ID, and I'm indeed a student here, a graduate student. Yes, I'm not lost, and I need to get to my class. Can you please let me go?"
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[COMPUTER SCIENCE]
Lucien presses the enter key, intending to ask the teacher if he can leave early once his coursework is done. However, the error message on the screen deters him from that thought. So, he sits back down and begins to examine it again.
But that's okay, he does understand the commonality between computer science and experimental research: it's often hard to know right away if the thing at hand will work, why it's not working, or even why it's even working.
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[LAB]
Come on, come on, come on. After moving this box, there's another.
And after moving that box, there are three more to go.
The prospects for the future and the shine in one's eyes are often taken away by the God of research in such necessary yet mechanical repetitive work.
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[LAB]
Lucien goes out to get some water and returns to find a school burger on his desk.
Colt, with dark circles under his eyes, waves at Lucien and saying, "No need to thank me, newcomer. Have some food, we might be staying here today."
Lucien quietly eats the burger, hesitant to tell Colt that he has spent more time in the laboratory than in the dorm.
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[LAB]
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When Dr. Lawson enters the laboratory, what he sees is a scene where his graduate and doctoral students are sleeping and sprawled all over the place.
On the laboratory whiteboard, several words were written in large letters: "Publish immediately! Guaranteed to be published in Nature!!"
Dr. Lawson retrieves small blankets from the cabinet, covering each of these research madmen.
He proceeds to organize the data and take over the finishing work on the project. Of course, when it comes to authorship in the paper, not a single one of these kids' names can be left out.
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tinyvesselhearts · 1 year
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Thing Is (Protective Egon x You)
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It’s a part of a slightly larger collection of one-shots but I’m pretty proud of this one so here it comes:
Egon x Reader/You No Y/N Rating: Teen and Up Audiences (minor injuries)
Thing is, he’s become too observant.
Egon knows you come to the station around 10 A.M. There’s no jumpsuits, car or equipment to maintain so you start with the kitchen. It’s not exactly a part of your duties: the guys are fully capable of washing their own, especially since they barely eat in. Yes, okay— he’ll agree none of them is a dishwashing phenomenon and they hardly ever manage to finish breakfast before their first call— but you can just leave the plates there and nobody would bat an eye.
You do it though. Without a word.
On Tuesday, while showing you monochromic ectoplasm bonds Type IV (Egon prompts it himself these days, no bribe included), he notices the skin on your hands is chapped. He knows you work with nasty chemicals while taking care of Ecto- 1 but you’ve always worn latex gloves— he’s seen them hanging on the heater, next to whichever colorful apron you chose for the day. The only time you work with your bare hands is while cleaning the kitchen. Wiping the counters. Scrubbing the sink.
You’re busy looking at the molecules of Type IV, while he does some research on what he calls The Collective. The sight of your dry fingers keeps nagging him though— there’s no way a simple detergent affects the cells so much— so after replaying all possible scenarios in his head, he can’t take it anymore. He pauses.
“You don’t have to do the dishes”, he states out of the blue. “You know that, right?”
 “Mhm.”
“Why, then?”
You swivel in your chair and look at him.
“I mean, why not? It’s like 20 minutes, tops. You come back to a tidy home and it costs me nothing.”
But it does cost you your hands, he wants to say. There’s no way it doesn’t sound creepy though, even by his standards, so he just acknowledges that with a hum and a thank you. Arguing is pointless. You’ll do whatever you want anyway. He’s not even here to make sure you take care of yourself while on duty.
What he does, however, is wait till the evening and inspect what that low- budget detergent is made of. He’s quick to spot the culprits. It’s a nasty fragrant and the artificial dye. No wonder your skin is irritated. That thing would be harmless if, instead of using your hands, you scrubbed the plates with a metal rod as a part of your morning routine.
Egon buys a new liquid— top shelf this time— and adds some stuff of his own. Some softeners. A nice scent. He pours it into the old bottle so that you don’t think twice. Just a precaution. In case you realized it wasn’t your soap and look for that terrible, skin- devouring slime. He places it near the tap. Then waits.
Over the following weeks he’ll diligently observe how your skin gets better every time you come down to the lab. He’ll see the rough edges get smooth. Fractured knuckles seal shut. Nails regain their shine.
He’ll notice how gentle your fingers are when you secure his slides under microscopic lens.
👻
On this particular Thursday everything goes wrong.
There’s a Class 2 Free- Floating Vapor who’s wildly attracted to funky shapes and vivid hues. It’s the ethereal kind: one whose molecular structure fluctuates. He pries on wallpapers, bedsheet and clothes, tears them up and snugs like an unhinged puppy. Catching him is comparable to squeezing slippery soap. What complicates things even more is that Peter has a clumsy day so even though they manage to trap the ghost, it slips out at the station because somebody forgot to follow a few basic safety tips. Cool. It’s all cool.
Egon knocks at the laundry room’s door. He enters. You’re inside, hanging freshly washed suits.
“We’ve got a situation”, he informs. “Please, wait in here for a few minutes.”
“Oh? You guys need help?”
“We’ll handle this. Venkman let the vapor out. It’s nothing.”
“Oh. Okay.” You straighten up and smooth your apron (it’s the yellow one, embroidered with bees— you wear it when you feel especially joyful and of course it’s got to be today). “I can help, if—”
“No. It’s all under relative control. Don’t worry about it.”
He waits for you to nod, then steps out and closes the door. Relative. Great phrasing, Doctor Spengler.
He powers up the proton pack. The faster they get rid of the ghost, the better. You won’t have time to get creative.
Peter’s pressing a gauze to his nose. It’s bleeding. Not from within though, looks like a cut and that’s relevant: if the vapor is capable of transferring molecules and strengthen bonds within different body parts at will, it could thicken its limbs enough to cause physical harm to humans. Class 2 are rarely aggressive— annoying, yes, destructive as well— but they aren’t interested in manhunt. Maybe this one’s been triggered enough to choose attack for defense.
“Who’s got the trap?”
“I do!” Winston kicks the pedal. “The stream won’t hold long enough though!”
Ray’s standing at the other side of the room, protecting their dear vehicle.
“We should stream it together from different angles! It won’t be able to wiggle out! Let’s try that and move him towards the trap in sync!”
“Baby, you’re lucky I’m a terrific dancer”, says Peter and aims at the ghost.
Egon assesses the situation. The vapor stays too close to the reception for their benefit— the massive wooden desk is going to be a great shield for the specter if they aren’t precise enough. The deeper they go within the station, the more damage they’ll cause. That’s not worth it. Too much precious stuff to risk.
They could try a bait. They’ll have to find some red herring and place it far away: ideally, further into the garage, near the door. Lots of space, no hiding spots. Relative damage control. Cheap repairs. No casualties, either.
He notices Janine’s scarf hanging over her chair: conspicuous, extravagant and frilled, covered in a cheetah pattern. A perfect lure for the ghost. It’s still Janine’s— and she’s upstairs, taking cover in Tully’s office— and once it’s all over she’ll absolutely hate them for destroying her garment. She’d cut their ears off for it, if she could. Luckily, she’s too small for that. Radical.
“Yo! How can I help you, boys?”
For the Mother of—
Egon turns his head. It’s you— standing right at the door in that silly, yellow apron— because of course you are. Hell, you’re an embodiment of what a perfect live bait looks like in this scenario. However, your position (from the strategic point of view) is the absolute worst. You should either take off that apron immediately or move away— and move fast.
“Gear up!” Winston shouts to you. “He’s actually dangerous! Scratched Peter in the face!”
“Guess I was just too pretty!”
The vapor dashes in your direction. It’s quick. You grunt, try to dodge and fail miserably: its slimy claws reach your neck and graze your shirt in a failed attempt to rip off the perky apron. You growl and crouch before Ray chases the ghost off with a stream.
“Ah. Funk. Shite.”, you grunt. “I’ll get the proton pack!”
Egon can’t fucking believe it.
He eases down the proton rod and appears in front of you in a few long strides. No questions, no warning, he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder like a sack— then proceeds to literally carry you away from the scene.
“What the heck?!” You yelp. “Let me go!”
“Over my dead body.”
Ray and Winston struggle to aim, Peter does more talking than shooting— as usual— so the vapor dissipates and the streams slide off of its ethereal body. The moment isn’t ideal for being a knight in the shining armor but it’s as good as any. Your safety is more important than a burned wall or Peter’s personal opinion (he surely has one— he saw you two— he did a double take).
All of that is irrelevant. What matters though, is that Egon is aware.
You’re close. Locks brush against his ear and your breath is hot on the nape of his neck. The air tingles his tiny hairs. It tickles, it’s distracting and he tenses up, fingers finding their way into your hair. Then, the scent of soap he planted for you reaches his nostrils— and it’s good, it means you’re taken care of. Your hands clutch his jumpsuit— on his shoulder blades, on his chest— and pull at his damp undershirt just because it’s there, right underneath, warm and soaked with sweat.
You’re holding on to him for dear life. You’re around him, everywhere, all at once and it takes every ounce of his willpower to stay focused.
He lets you go in the far corner of the garage. You slide off. Your numb hands linger on his patch and under his collar. Eyes lock.
For a split second he fights an urge to lean in— to press his forehead to yours, to feel you’re right there, safe, away from danger. He almost does. Then he sees blood on your collarbone and his face turns stark.
“What’s that?”
“Um”, you look downwards and tap the stain with your finger. “I don’t know.”
“He scratched you.”
“ I mean, it doesn’t hurt now, so—”
“He scratched you.”
Something within him shifts. He’s all fire and smoke, jaw set, breath hot, eyes sharp and unrelenting. His fists clench, knuckles whiten, a wave of heat reaches his ears— and in this moment he barely recognizes himself.
“Egon…?”
“Winston!” He yells. “Set the trap!”
Your hands grab his sleeve but the grasp is weak, unsure— as if you wanted to anchor him before he does something stupid. Egon vaguely registers that. The fabric slips away from your grip and he strides away, gaze fixated on the ghost. He supports the proton gun on his arm and aims.
Ray picks up on this change of demeanor immediately.
“Ho, someone’s pissed!” He chants. “We’re shooting on three!”
Peter seems to come round as well. He tosses the bloody gauze on the floor (the wound he got is a sleek, clean line, it doesn’t seem deep) and clenches his teeth.
“You envied my pretty face, huh?”
What happens next is difficult to put in the correct order. There’s a loud shriek, a flash of streams coming from at least three proton packs, a loud zap and a warm glow. There’s also a burnt smudge on the ceiling, stretching all the way from garage door to the reception desk, an armchair on the first floor that’s set of fire and — for some inexplicable reason— two bulbs have just exploded.
Janine and Louis run out of the office. Everybody’s quiet. Thick smoke comes from the trap and the air is still until the red light on it switches on.
“…It’s inside.” Winston sighs. “Are you guys okay?”
Ray does a one over. The overall damage is considerable but Janine’s already prancing around the armchair with an extinguisher and the ceiling— well, it’s not like any client ever pays attention to the ceiling, right?— so everything’s taken care of. Peter extends a thumb in a weak attempt to show it is, in fact, alright.
“Yeah. I’ll go get changed. More than enough for today.”
Egon turns his head towards you. You’re still standing right where he put you: far away from the scene, unsure and anxious. His head is still burning. How stupid of you, how reckless not to listen to his request— how much unnecessary stress, how much disaster— what an idiotic move to ignore an explicit warning—
Ray is a perceptive guy.
“I’ll handle the trap”, he says and leaves the garage first.
👻
You take off the apron, blood splatter tainting a bee you embroidered yourself.
“…Oh. I doubt it’ll come off.”
Egon lets you into his lab and closes the door.
“It will”, he assures you. “Here, change. I won’t look.”
“Thank you.”
He lets you swap your ripped shirt for one of his sweaters while he skims over the first aid kit. There must be some ectoplasmic residue around the gash. If he gets a good quality sample, he could run a few tests and see how the molecular transfer works in reference to changing the ghost’s state of matter. It’s a first. If they could figure it out, that would be a real breakthrough.
“I’m, uh. I’m decent.”
Egon picks up a petri dish, a bottle of antiseptic spray and some gauze pads. He sits in a chair right in front of you, rolls up his sleeves and leans over to inspect the wound.
A long red line runs over your collarbone, up to your neck. It’s fresh, red splatters specked across your throat and chest but despite the impact, it doesn’t seem dangerous. He’s relieved to see the other end of the scratch— it’s right above your chest. The hem of his sweater hangs a little loose on you, allowing easy access. Thank God for small mercies.
The light is dim. It’s the blue glow he uses when he needs to focus. Crisp air wraps around him like a blanket. Drawers and tools are outlined by its faint radiance, particles of dust only fleeting in proximity— the specks move slowly, lazily, as if they had the whole time in the world.
Egon takes his time as well. He disinfects his hands, picks up a cotton stick and leans into your personal space.  Your body radiates with heat. He chooses not to think about it: instead, he works around the wound and collect samples. The tip gathers some of the ectoplasm left by the attack. He’s careful to avoid pressing against the slit— only prods at its edges, makes sure none of the cotton fibers get into your wound. Fingers brush against your neck. Your skin is warm.
You look up.
“Are you mad at me?”
“I don’t know what I am at you”, he exhales, then puts away the sample. He takes a scrap of gauze and soaks it with spirits. “It may sting.”
The cloth touches your skin. It’s cold and it burns.
“Eesh. Oof.” You nod. “Yeah, that’s the feeling.”
“Familiar?”
“Ah. Scout camps. We’d get a lot of these. Scraping your way through the woods and all that.”
Egon frowns, meeting your gaze.
“Weren’t your uniforms designed to protect you from those?”
“A cotton button- down skirt? Knee- length? Seriously.”
“…Okay, I can see your point”, he snorts— and you chuckle too, glint in your eyes — and it’s warm in his chest.
He cleans the gash way longer than necessary. Your skin seems so fragile up close. Drops of liquid sanitizer glide against it, guiding him through the task. He runs over them with gentle pads again and again, smearing the antiseptic into an even coat. Delicate swipes leave smudges, which’s irregular lines shapes gleam on your skin. The wound looks a little better. It’s a cue. He doesn’t stop.
“Egon, I’d like to thank you for all of this”, you almost whisper. “I know I screwed up. I’m terribly sorry. I should have been wiser and stay where I was told.”
He frowns. He was mad at you before you came down to the lab. He should still be mad at you but hormones are like tides— they rise and retract, they take over, then dissipate— and he’s just not feeling it anymore.
“We’re good”, he murmurs. “I’ve neglected the issue myself. I should teach you how to use our equipment. Accidents will happen. It’s imperative you’re capable of defending yourself.”
“You’re the experts though. I keep forgetting my place.”
“You’re not bound to a place. You’re a person, not a pet.”
There’s a slight swift in your expression. He doesn’t look— doesn’t dare, really, his demeanor is all too bothering— but your whole body relaxes, as if dead weight just fell off your chest.
“It’s been a long day but at least you got the sample, right? A silver lining?”
Egon looks at you. He’s met with a smirk but— heck, it must be the adrenaline residue or some unusual distress (he’s gotten considerably better at reading your emotions as of late)— he can’t interpret whether you’re being honest or sarcastic. Thin ice. Better make sure.
“Um. Was it wrong of me?”
“Silly”, you let out a laugh. “Not at all. I’m glad, as stupid as it sounds.”
He shivers but manages a smile. It’s chemistry or biology, one of the two. Ridiculous.
Both of you fall into comfortable silence. He finishes patching you up, while you’re just sitting there, looking over the lab. Your neck is close. Breaths mingle. It’s soft and warm. He could stay like that for the rest of the evening but there’s only so much proximity he can go away with (or handle) at once so he leans back.
“That’s all. Keep it dry. Clean in again before you go to bed.”
“Thanks. I’ll go put your jumpsuits in the laundry.”
“Yes.”
He raises from the chair but feels a grasp on his hand. He looks at you and freezes. You seem to purposefully avoid his gaze but dare to lift his fingers to your lips in a gentle motion. He’s not prepared for this. His mind is blank. He—
“No. I mean it”, you press your cheek into his knuckles, eyes squeezed shut. “Thank you for taking care of me, Egon. I owe you again. At this rate, I’d better start paying it off or I’m going to be in debt for a long time, huh?”
No, he wants to say. You owe me nothing, but he can’t utter a word so he watches you stand up, offer a smile and leave, snugly wrapped in his sweater.
There are some noises upstairs. They’re foggy. Later, he’ll be pretty sure Ray called his name at some point but the only thing he registers tonight is loud white noise, an ache in his ribs and warmth in his temple. He carries it to the kitchen, where he eats eggs for supper— then bathroom, where he takes a long shower— then his bed when he goes to sleep. He leaves his flip- flops on the floor but the feeling slides with him under the covers.
It’s late. It should go away, dissipate, but it doesn’t. He counts sheep, tries meditating and stretches every breath to ridiculous extends. It doesn’t help though: it’s still there, strong, unrelenting, it keeps him awake for at least two more hours.
He’s not stupid. He recognizes the symptoms.
He just doesn’t recall struggling with them so damn much.
_____
For those who have already read it: SORRY for posting it again, I just wanted to make it easier for people who exclusively use Tumblr to get to know this piece of fanfiction ;__; Have a great day, thanks for putting up with my antics, I LOVE YOU ALL
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multieditors-teahouse · 5 months
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Challenge #3: Vintage
Posted: 13th November 2023 (CEST - GMT+2)
Let us go back to the old times, alright?
Those vintage vibes never go out of fashion so let’s get to it!
Use those vibes however you want!
Aesthetic, decorations, filters etc!
Let your imagination run wild!
Monday (Day 1): Coloured
Some crayons, simple drawings, to go back to the beginning!
Explosions of colours too!
Tuesday (Day 2): Painting
Artisti-aesthetic and a lovely painting like vibe!
What’s not to like?
Wednesday (Day 3): Monochrome
Back to the basics, make a monochromatic edit!
Red? Pink? Your choice!
Thursday (Day 4): Sepia
Sepia colours!
Lovely gradients aren’t they?
Friday (Day 5): Black and white
Back to black and white!
Cruella’s gonna have nothing on us!
Don’t worry, though!
Some hints of colour can be used!
Saturday (Day 6): Decades
Choose a decade and hit us with its vibe!
Will you choose 80s? Or maybe the 60s?
Sunday (Day 7): Evolution
Give us a glimpse into the future!
Futuristic aesthetic!
Whether that is an hyper technological utopia or a regressive dystopia!
Have fun!
Remember to tag me in your works if you wanna show it to me!
Check #🍵 ※ “Time to party!”(≧∀≦) ※ Vintage challenge to see all the awesome edits!
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northdevonwalker · 9 months
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Thursday morning ride / https://strava.app.link/OQjoeMBudBb
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kisskissbanggang · 2 years
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Reckless
[Chan x product model!Reader - 3.4k Words, ~15min. Read, Idol!au, Suggestive, Questionable Power Dynamics, Casual Dating, FWB(?), Surprising Use of Seo Changbin]
You didn’t expect Chan to annoy you like this.
Like, there was no denying that he was nice. He was professional. He was charming.
And he was hot.
But you weren’t expecting him to also annoy you like this.
This was night one.
Back when you’d first given Chan your number, he’d been a bit of an ass by accident. That probably should’ve been your first hint. You had been standing next to the drink table at that press event last Thursday night when Chan respectfully got your attention amidst the crowd and the noise.
“Can I get two gin and tonics over at our table?”
You had balked at him, and then looked down at your outfit. The joke was on you, apparently, for going with a classy monochrome look and wearing a simple button-up collared shirt with a pencil skirt, both freebies from a promoter friend. You would think the purse on your arm would’ve tipped him off, if not your tasteful bangle and tall heels also accessorizing your outfit.
“Sure,” you nodded sarcastically, “but you’d probably have better luck asking a server.”
Chan’s eyes had comically widened when he realized his blunder, and his hand was on your elbow in an instant. You must have glared daggers into him with how he flinched. Still, he was oddly determined.
“I am so sorry,” he’d persisted. “Do you want to join me at my table? Let me apologize with a drink, at least.”
“And you think I’m here alone! Are you negging me or something?” you cackled in disbelief, easily yanking your arm away from this dork before you walked away. You were there alone, but that wasn’t the point.
“Wait wait wait wait wait!” Chan had called as he jogged after you. “I’m really sorry. Seriously. I have no idea if you know who I am, but I’m sure it’s not a good look–”
“I don’t,” you folded your arms coolly. 
Chan froze, suddenly caught off guard. “You don’t?”
You did, actually. His face was plastered all over the press event. No one would shut up about him. But it was much funnier that it seemed to bother him so much.
“I don’t,” you had repeated. “So if you’re going to insist on talking to me, I charge one drink per half hour.”
“Anything else I can get for that price?” Chan quipped in some bizarre attempt at being smooth. It almost worked, too, just by sheer force of bravery, but you had stood quietly nonetheless. He instantly shrank down. 
“I’ll go get that drink.”
You couldn’t blame him for being surprised, but it was cute watching him try to be modest. Collide or Collier or whatever this brand was called again was incredibly green but fairly promising, and Chan’s spread for their new collection was probably going to get them a lot of traction overseas. He just didn’t realize that you made up the other half of the collection’s photos on the website until you had pointed them out later that night at the press event, your photos only lining the wall behind the bar. There were your feet in a pair of chic boots, just like those were your hips in a trendy skirt, and your hands sporting all sorts of baubles and accessories. None of the shots displayed your face, but there you were. Chan had nodded humbly, having thoroughly swallowed his foot, and as a reward for being so amicable and nice, you gave him your number.
So tonight was night one.
You met up on the riverfront, after your shoot for the evening had let out late and he got out of the studio early, so it was right around 2am. This was good, you figured, since his fans would be in bed by now for work or school the next day. You were apparently right, too, since he said he was able to come out with little to no pushback from his staff.
Chan was cordial, and nice to boot; he didn't try to get a hug when you met up, and he didn't crowd you as you walked together. When you walked into a convenience store for some snacks, he only fought back twice when you tried to pay for everything before you amicably and diplomatically settled to split it. 
Not to mention he really did know how to present himself. Chan looked comfortable and handsome in an all-black ensemble. It was a simple pullover and jeans with a smart crossbody slung over his shoulder, but it still made a decent impression. You’d gone with a cozy sweater with a skirt over some leggings yourself, all nice freebies in warm neutrals that you’d accumulated over time, and your own bag rested on your hip. Truthfully, you probably made quite the pair.
What was annoying, however, was that Chan could not shut up. Comfortable silences came later, you supposed. Your favorite color, your favorite food, what music you listen to, what movies you like, what shows you watch, where you got your crossbody – he got all of it. And it wasn't just questions, either! Every single thing Chan asked you, he'd answer himself a second after you finished. He didn't even bother waiting on the bag question. Chan looked at your bag, asked where you got it, and then went on a whole rambling detour about what he loved about his bag but would like in a new one before he expectantly waited for your answer. It wasn't a conversation, it was an interactive monologue. 
But still. 
If it wasn’t so confoundingly endearing, you would’ve run at that very second. And regardless, you were so curious. Your friends who pulled higher profile jobs than you did swore up and down that 75% of male idols weren’t worth any attention more than a casual fling. They either got started in show business too early, stunting their interpersonal skills that were specifically useful for romantic or even just sexual relationships, or they were far too jaded and carried too much baggage. Your friend Sun Hee – who got incredibly natural aegyo sal done after Fashion Week and recently adopted the name Janessa – once dated an idol that called her every other night for two months after she turned him down. 
But holy shit Chan was sort of adorable! He definitely wasn’t out to get anyone; he just seemed too into his own grind to realize everything going on around him. That and he was unmistakably hot. You could go down this rabbit hole, at least far enough to figure out if your friends were right. 
At least you could if he would shut up. 
You had stopped at a short railing by the river, picking at your bag of snacks when you finally hit your breaking point. 
“–So I'm really glad we could actually meet up,” Chan prattled on, absently chewing on the end of the straw in his drink. “It's impossible to meet people on my schedule. At this rate, I assume I won't get married until I'm 35–”
“And that's what you want?” you interrupted. “That's why you want to meet people?”
Chan shrugged casually while he looked out at the river. “I'm not going to meet my soulmate while I'm locked in the studio.”
You gagged on the morsel in your mouth for a moment before forcing yourself to swallow it down. “Wait wait wait,” you backtracked, “hold on, Chan–”
“So that's why I was super excited you wanted to meet up,” he obliviously charged on, “even after I was such a tool to you. Thought that had to be a good sign–”
“Chan–” you gently attempted again. 
“I mean, who knows, right? Even if we just take it super casually for a bit–”
“Chris!”
Chan actually stopped now, more by you using his name rather than you stepping right into his field of vision. He'd mentioned the name earlier, and you thought that perhaps you weren't close enough for that, but it seemed to do the trick here just fine nonetheless. He didn’t look upset, either, rather he just looked equally surprised that it worked. 
“Chris,” you patiently repeated, “I think you're really good looking.”
He cracked a cheeky smirk. “You are, too–”
“Shh, I'm not done,” you cut him off, going ahead and brazenly pushing your fingertips to his lips. Chan appeared to be oddly enamored by this. His little puppy dog eyes glittered under the streetlights. “I think you're gorgeous,” you continued, “and you're really nice, but I am not looking for my soulmate.”
“You’re not looking for a soulmate,” he repeated, partly muffled by your hand. His lips were dreadfully soft against your fingertips. He’d fallen back against the railing a bit as he gazed wondrously at you. Was he reacting to what you said? Or, you wondered in bewilderment, was it just that no one ever so thoroughly stopped him from talking?
“Right,” you excitedly continued now that he got it, “but I am looking for a friend, because I won't lie – I'm pretty lonely.”
Chan nodded against your hand. “I’m lonely, too–”
“Still not done,” you kindly reminded him. “So we’re both lonely, and we’re clearly attracted to each other. Now, if I pull my hand off and you're good, I can tell you what I'd like to do.”
You did just that, stepping back a little and pulling your fingertips from Chan’s pout. The riverfront was empty in all directions. Chan waited expectantly, and you let that silence sit for a good five seconds. 
“Thank you,” you nodded in approval. “This can go one of two ways. I, frankly, don’t believe in soulmates, nor am I looking for anything serious–”
“That’s fine, I'm not either–”
Chan zipped it once you raised a reminding eyebrow at him. 
“You say that,” you shook your head, “but I mean it. No dates, no paying for each other, no long phone calls late at night. I’m looking for a friend, not a boyfriend, and definitely not a soulmate. And I understand if that's not something you're interested in. So we can either call it here, or…”
“Or?” Chan cautiously echoed when you let that thought hang in the air. You took one step closer. 
“Or my place is only a ten minute cab ride away.”
There it was, cards on the table, and the open book that was previously Chan had turned into indecipherable scribbles and promptly snapped shut.
Well, you silently lamented, at least this had been fun.
“... So is my place.”
Wait, what?
You stared at Chan, jaw set hard in your disbelief. Chan apparently couldn’t believe himself, either.
But then he cracked this grin.
From what little you really knew about Chan, from the times you’d come across him occasionally on tv, this was that exact same grin.
I think I'm good, I know I’m good, please tell me I'm good.
It’s like he was begging for it already. 
“Don’t you have–” you sputtered, trying to wrap your thoughts around a central mission, “don't you live with, like, six other guys?”
“Seven,” Chan corrected, “and most of them have an early schedule this morning, including my roommates. By the time we get there, we should be able to sneak right in.”
That was, without a doubt, the single most insane proposal a hook-up had ever given you. Chan was an idol, he was a good boy and a role model and a celebrity all at once. 
And he was asking you to sneak into his dorm with him in the middle of the night for a fling. 
Absolutely ludicrous… But you couldn't deny it was instantly exciting. 
“Chan,” you began carefully, “don't get me wrong. That’s a great idea… But why? I already offered my actually empty place.”
Chan shrugged, almost flippant. “You said you don't want anything serious. The guys bring over one-night-stands all the time, so why can't I?”
They did? That made sense, you supposed. It probably wasn't always easy to go over to some random person’s home instead, especially as a celebrity with stakes. Despite all your gigs, your face was almost never used in your product shots. Unlike you, people actually recognized Chan. The most you ever got was “Haven't I seen you somewhere before?” which was more than fine by your standards. 
“Got something to prove?” you lightly ribbed him. 
Chan's cocky smile was going to destroy you if you didn’t destroy him first. 
“Maybe you can say that I have an itch that needs scratching.”
“Is that so, lover boy?” you scoffed. “Thought you were looking for a soulmate. You want to get married before you’re 35.”
“But you don’t,” Chan laughed, “and I want you. Now tell me what it’ll take to have the privilege of taking you home.”
To say you were pleasantly shocked would be an understatement. The way in which Chan’s entire approach changed after you laid out what your intentions were was both terrifying and almost scarily appealing. 
Thankfully, this meant you were no longer dodging attempts at making a housewife out of you. 
Not so thankfully, you were a terrible sucker for games. 
“You want to take me home?” you sneered. 
“Yeah,” Chan nodded confidently. “Tell me what I gotta do.”
You playfully folded your arms, even tapping the tip of your forefinger against your chin for effect as Chan patiently waited. “Here’s the deal,” you finally presented. You tried not to pay attention to how his eyes lit up. “We call a cab. Whoever gets to say the address, that’s where we’re going–”
“And when I win?” Chan eagerly interrupted. 
“If you win,” you emphasized, “I'm not coming up to your dorm without a kiss. You’re better than waiting to kiss me until you have my clothes off, I'm sure. You kiss me before we get to your front door if you win, and you'll get to take me home.”
Chan grabbed your hand and tugged on your arm almost before you could do anything about it. “Can I try now?” he taunted you. However, he tripped over his own feet when you reached for the metal ladder lock on the strap of his bag, loosening it with a flick enough to drop it off his shoulder. 
“You’re smarter than that,” you jokingly scolded. “Now do we have a deal?”
“Deal,” said Chan with a firm nod. He already had his phone out to dial for a cab. “I think I like this game.”
From that moment until the second your ride actually arrived, Chan was surprisingly aloof. This must’ve been that competitive streak you sensed in him, rearing its intriguing head. There it was again, that same silent broadcast you could swear you heard him begging you to validate.
I’m really something, aren’t I.
“You don’t do this a lot, do you?” you finally asked him.
He almost looked bashful. “Me? Not really,” he replied humbly. “No one really picks up on me, and I don’t really have time to pick up on anyone else.”
Liar! you mentally refuted. Right? 
There was no way Chan never actually got out much. 
Really, you just wanted to know where he was coming from so you could correctly squash him. 
At least, that’s what you were convinced of.
Chan cordially opened the door of your taxi when it arrived, letting you in and scooching into the backseat beside you. You were all too ready to cut off Chan. If you played your cards right, he’d have the sorest pair of blue balls on the planet and he’d be the most fun putty in your hands that you’d ever gotten to play with.
“Where to?” the drivery groggily inquired from the front seat.
You were distracted for precisely one second, working the seatbelt on, but that was an entirely stupid decision.
The moment your lips parted to recite your address, Chan leaned over. He turned just a bit to face you and you hardly registered his fingertips brushing your cheek before his lips pressed against yours.
That asshole. He didn’t even have the decency to look at you when he pulled away.
Because he was telling the cab driver where to go.
Your eyes widened at the audacity of the past ten seconds. Chan, that horny little demon, had just made good on the requirements of both your agreements.
The driver wrinkled his nose at you both in his rearview before he set his foot on the gas pedal. “Any chance you’re getting some privacy?” he snidely prompted.
“Sorry; crazy night, we just finished round four,” Chan cheekily lied. He boldly set his hand on your knee for effect. Your face heated up instantly.
You were frankly flabbergasted, to a point that you couldn’t even bring yourself to say anything for the whole drive. Ten minutes had never taken so long to elapse in your entire life, but now you were frantically deliberating what exactly you were getting yourself into.
Chan wasn’t just a celebrity, he was an idol, with thousands of rabid fans and a whole management team that would eat you alive if you even appeared to mess anything up for him.
But he was here.
And he was sweet.
And he was so hot.
And he was so desperate to have you that he risked having you pummel him into a fine paste by kissing you so brazenly. 
You didn’t realize it, but you managed to kill all the remaining time and you suddenly found yourself roused out of your crazed internal monologue as Chan paid the driver. He extended his hand to you once he exited the vehicle, offering you help out onto the sidewalk. His hand was infuriatingly warm and cozy.
Chan’s building loomed overhead, staring you down as you walked inside with him and hopped an elevator. And you still didn’t speak a word to one another as you ascended, and still as you walked down the hallway. Finally, though, as you stood in front of his door, you’d had enough.
“Chan,” you began.
“Seriously,” he interrupted, “call me Chris.”
“Chan is fine,” you insisted. “We can still go to my place.”
“What’s wrong with mine?” he innocently asked. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”
“I’m not scared,” you rebuked, “it’s the implication of the whole thing. I’m not some groupie.”
Chan’s gaze widened in realization. “I wouldn’t bring a groupie to the dorm,” he assured you seriously. “We’re friends, right?”
Your heart shamefully leapt into your throat. That was atrociously attractive and good-natured of him. You grabbed at his pullover and reeled him in close, stealing your own spontaneous kiss. Chan’s lips were so soft, you miserably lamented. You’d have to see what moisturizer he used. 
His cheeks were handsomely flushed when you relinquished him, and you found that he’d wrapped his arms around your waist in your embrace. 
“Yeah,” you finally agreed. “We’re friends.”
“Good,” Chan replied, just a little short of breath as he reluctantly drew a hand away to punch in the key code.
Except the door opened before he could.
There in the doorway stood one of the other members, you assumed. He was handsome like an idol. He had pierced ears like an idol. He had dyed hair like an idol. The only difference was you never came across too many male idols that were this toned and fit, but it was certainly not an unwelcome difference. This incredibly handsome stranger blinked some sleep out of his eyes. A gym bag sat at his feet.
“Hyung,” he finally greeted, his eyes blearily darting between you two, “I thought I heard you out here. Weren’t you coming back in the morning?”
“Hey, Changbin-ah,” Chan brightly nodded as he grabbed your hand again. “Change of plans. Where are you going? The guys aren’t back yet, right?”
“I’m heading to the gym,” Changbin plainly stated. “Couldn’t sleep. Seungmin and Jeongin are still here, so you’ll want to keep it down.” With this, he scooped up his gym bag and grabbed his shoes before he edged past you. His eye contact surprised you, but he quickly softened up with a small smile. “Hi. Nice to meet you,” he politely grinned before heading out into the hall.
Chan’s hand tugging on yours pulled your lump of a heart back into your chest as he hurriedly led you into the dorm. You looked back over your shoulder until the door finally clicked shut.
Oh fuck.
[To be continued. 🐝]
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gloryofroses19 · 2 years
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Hold Her Hand
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Pairing: Steve Harrington x Henderson!reader
Song Inspiration: Prom Night by the Midnight
Minor spoiler to season 4, episode 4
There's an open road And now an open door And a pretty girl's hand beside yours Do you know what to do? She looks at you Can you leap from the ledge and bridge the two halves of the world?
[y/n] Henderson had always been a constant in Steve Harrington’s life. When he was bullied by Greg Green in October of preschool for his Easter Sunday shorts, she told Greg he looked like broccoli in his monochrome outfit. When he aced the hardest second grade spelling test, she was his desk mate telling him how lucky he was when she only got a 70%. When he had his first kiss in third grade, she did too behind the jungle gym in front of their classmates. When he lost the class hamster in sixth grade during H week of hamster parenting, she was on the floor in his laundry room enticing Nibbles with a piece of apple. When he pushed Johanthan Byers into a row of lockers in tenth grade, she disapprovingly shook her head and helped Jonathan up. When Nancy broke his heart, she watched Police Academy on repeat on his couch consuming ice cream. When he went to prom, she made sure the corsage he gave her survived when he pulled her to the dance floor. When he first tried on the Scoops A-Hoy uniform, she sat on his bed and told him “You should wear this and only this” before he pushed her off. When he put the last of her boxes in her car, she smiled and said, “Don’t let any broccolis bully you or Dustin while I’m in college.” 
They still maintained some consistency despite the distance. Every Thursday night at 9pm was their designated call time, letters were to be sent once a week and most of all, his constant love for her. 
There was a time last summer, after the Star Court mall and grief was flowing, where they found themselves on his kitchen floor. Where she smiled at him in a similar way she smiled at Dustin and he knew they loved each other.  
But leaving for college meant Steve lost her, because you can’t be a constant when you're miles away in Indiana University. 
And that lack of consistency made it hard for him to breathe. Their months apart made him realize how much he relied on her unwavering heart and steady grip on his hand to get through the days. 
Hold her hand We'll never pass this way again Hold her hand Forever I will slow dance Her breath is deep as you make it There's a chance if you take it And a heart that you break is still a heart Hold her hand Hold her hand
There was another constant in the Harrington and Henderson dynamic. The sad constant of finding themselves on the Wheeler’s basement couch taking a break from scheming. 
“Hey,” [y/n] whispered, gaining his attention. “Would you rather have feet for hands or hands for feet?” 
“What the hell, Henderson?!” he whispered confusedly as he faced another constant. The constant Henderson siblings need to ask idiotic and strange questions. 
“You looked miles away, and I’d much prefer talking to you than being alone with my thoughts.” She whispered back, not even raising her head from his chest to meet his gaze. 
“Why don’t you join dreamland like sleeping beauty?” Steve gestured to the youngest Henderson passed out and drooling on her lap. 
“Again,” [y/n] began finally meeting Steve’s gaze allowing Steve some time to breath. “I’d much prefer talking to you than being alone with my thoughts…or nightmares.” 
Steve could see the sadness in her eyes. Consistency had allowed him to learn to read them and he knew she was worried. 
When everyone broke for the night, the Scooby Doo Gang had dispersed across the Wheeler house. Nancy and Robin were sleeping in her room, Max had planted herself at the basement table, Lucas and Dustin went to Mike’s empty bedroom and [y/n] and Steve stayed seated on the couch. They had spent the first hour playing board games but when Dustin came back with a blanket and a pout, Steve put them away before following [y/n] to the couch. 
There's an open floor As the chorus soars And a pretty girl's hand beside yours Knows what you'll find But the threshold shines Can you leap from the ledge and bridge the two halves?
Returning her head to its place above his heart, Steve followed her line of sight to Max. Daylight would break soon and the ginger girl hadn’t stopped her writing all through the dark hours. 
“She’s going to be fine. We’ll figure this out.” A warm hand rubbing down her back had her shifting her attention back to Steve. He didn’t return his gaze, instead staring at the basement support beams but the flush on his cheeks let her know he was aware. 
[y/n] Henderson had two consistencies in her life, well three if you count her mother. She craved the consistency, it made living in the town of Hawkin’s bearable. Dustin had been her best friend since he was born. She never resented bringing him along with her friends and she liked spending time with his friends. It was a notable joke that the Henderson siblings had twin telepathy despite the age gap. Dustin and [y/n] knew that the other would always be there, no distance or demo-whatever could stop them. 
But her other constant, she wasn’t sure about. They had never experienced distance further than vacations and Hawkin’s town lines. Alphabetical order destined them to be seatmates and project partners in their early years. But as they grew, the consistency and banter kept them together in their later years, even before the Upside Down. 
However, the Upside Down brought a shift. Her constant protectiveness of the kids and need to control fell off around Steve, he helped her carry the burden. A shift along the trajectory from Dart to Demodog that made her realize maybe her constant warmth around him wasn’t of platonic friendship but of romantic love. 
Hold her hand We'll never pass this way again Hold her hand Forever I will slow dance Ger breath is deep as you make it There's a chance if you take it And a heart that you break is still a heart Hold her hand Hold her hand
“Stop staring.” Meeting her soft gaze, Steve tried to hold a deadpanned gaze. 
“I’m admiring.” She teased accompanied with a smile and a nose boop. Biting her finger, Steve revealed in her giggle and halfhearted attempt to get her finger back. 
Finally releasing her finger, Steve let [y/n] wipe her spit covered finger on his old Hawkin’s basketball t-shirt. She was matching him, but the earlier group’s verdict was that she pulled it off better. He claimed mutiny but Robin claimed it was scientific proof that she was prettier. 
Steve didn’t know much about science. But in sixth grade, Mr. Clarke paired him with [y/n] to make a presentation about hypotheses. What he remembers, other than his sweaty palms and racing heart, was that a hypothesis could only be confirmed after testing. 
And [y/n] Henderson proved to be a true scientist. She tested his definition of pretty every time she made eye contact with him. 
Steve decided to swallow the constant flutter of butterflies beating around in his heart. "You’re going to wake Dustin and then we’ll have to deal with a pouty-man baby.” 
“You’re a pouty-man baby, Harrington. Dusty is a pouty-teenage baby.” 
“Yeah, but we’re your pouty babies.” Steve held his breath as the words left his mouth. Over the million times he planned his confession to [y/n], never did he imagine it would be as soft as it actually was. 
Prom night turns to daylight we discovered Friends become lovers under covers
Searching his eyes, [y/n] was reminded of the T.S. Eliot quote about the world ending not with a bang, but a whimper. They covered it in ninth grade English where she spent everyday trying to stop hoping that her hands would brush the boy in front of her when they passed up their homework. But contrary to the quote, this was their beginning. 
“Yes, you are.” [y/n] replied softly, noticing the hopeful glint Steve was trying to suppress. 
“Are what?” Steve needed the confirmation. Between his dad, his reign as King Steve and Nancy, Steve craved the assurance. The assurance that he wasn’t bullshit, that he was good, that he was smart, that he was enough.
[y/n] knew all this and was happy to be that constant assurance. “Mine. My pouty-man baby.” 
Taking her hand in his, he sought to maintain the fairytale constant of a true love’s kiss. After placing a kiss on her hand, he laced their fingers. Giving a squeeze to his hand, [y/n] placed their joined hands down and returned her head to its rightful place over his heart. 
Hold her hand We'll never pass this way again Hold her hand Forever I will slow dance Her breath is deep as you make it There's a chance if you take it And a heart that you break is still a heart Hold her hand Hold her hand
The uncertainty was still there, they had no plan or explanation for what was happening and how to stop it or if they would all survive. But consistency had taught Steve Harrington that with [y/n]’s hand in his, they would figure this out. 
A/N: This is my attempt at a song inspired fic so I’d appreciate any feedback! 
A/N 2: I tend to oscillate between annoyance and denial about the Steve and Nancy situation in season 4. So piece is the reaction to the denial but there’s a chance I’ll be writing a part two AND separate angsty Steve x Henderson!reader piece.
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ART LIMITED features Masha Sapego with the art work "Линия". Visit the artist's profile https://www.artlimited.net/1047073 Published Thursday 16th, March 2023 at 12:10:56. For a chance to be featured follow our rules in the profile description of our Instagram account. Featured artists are welcome to respond to any comments posted for their art works. Thank you to our curators for their selections. #artoftheday #monochromatic #photography #naked #picoftheday #contemporaryphotography #blackandwhitephoto #fineartphotography #nude #blackandwhite #blackandwhitephotography #female #people #nudity #monochrome #portrait #blackwhite https://www.artlimited.net/1047073/art/photography-people-portrait-female/en/11833842
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