#if you’re wondering whether she generally has a face

[makerandbean]

little beast with a face full of rainbow

#beanposting #catblr #cats of tumblr #if you’re wondering whether she generally has a face #no she does not #she is a faceless little thing

[virgincels]

SCHADENFREUDE !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. p in v, kidnapper/victim relationship, stockholm syndrome, he puts u in the trunk of his car :3, sorta painal, squirting, slapping/hitting a lot.. of it, not non-con or dub-con but he keeps calling it that idk, painful sex, suicide mention cuz it’s leonnnn, sadism

note. haiii a follow up to rotten luck title has nothing to do w the fic i think :3 his character changes like every 5 mins im sorry .. readers character changed a lot too omg just blame it on stockholm! umm sorry for any mistakes please ignore them :3 rbs and feedback so appreciated :3

rotten luck

tumblr removes fics that use, for example, tw non-con and any nsfw tags in general from the tags. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.

“What’re you doing?” With a foot in the door, Leon spots you hunched over the mantlepiece.

You jump like you do when he makes a noise over thirty decibels. Luckily, you’re housebroken now, just about, so there’s no piss. Or tears. He has no desire to deal with tears. Or piss or any fluid for that matter. Leon has bad days, and then he has worse days, then there are awful days– It’s only a bad day, but that doesn’t mean he wants to spend his time forcing your head into a puddle of your own piss. Fundamentally, piss is not his concern, he’s potty-trained and has been for a good thirty-four years. He’d like to think a good forty-three years, but he was a criminal bedwetter up until the ripe age of twelve. Foster system does that to you. You make the piss Leon’s concern when you do it on his floor–

“What’re you doing?” Leon asks once more when he wrenches himself away from his piss tangent. He decides to let you off for not answering the first time ‘cause he’s generous like that. Quietly, as everything you do is scarce and ghostlike, you point at the printed photos on his mantle with great interest. There’s three because Leon only really gives a shit about three people. They shouldn’t be out in the open like that. Leon doesn’t remember leaving them out, so he’d like to blame you, but maybe this is a sign of early-onset dementia.

“Who’s she?” You nod to Ashley first, pressed to his side so tightly, so lovingly, so sure that he loves her bombardment. Her affection, whatever it is that she insists it is. He thinks back to tearing her from the clutches of emaciated beings and wonders how he can stand here so normally. As if nothing ever happened. Ashley’s name is the one in the back of his throat, shattered and bloody like glass in a domestic dispute. Then again, he is face to face with his kidnapping victim and all. So it’s not very normal when he looks at the bigger picture. Far from normal, abnormal at the very least. Fucking deranged might be the right term.

“My ex,” Leon lies to see the look of disdain that crosses your face, the unpleasant curl of your lips that irons out when he pets your head. Whether it be for him or Ashley, he wouldn’t like to know. “Joking, baby, I saved her,” Leon settles on saved because there is no other way to explain it, and because he would love for you to know that they’re not his other kidnapping victims and that you’re his one and only kidnappee and he might be impulsive, but he’s not stupid enough to take pictures of and with kidnapped girls. Well, Ashley was a kidnapped girl, not his kidnapped girl, however.

Leon is very feminist, rescuing slender-ankled maidens is his speciality, you’re just an outlier. “I saved her,” he says when you nod at Manuela next, and then for Sherry, he pauses, “I saved her.” Sherry’s face goads him into cowardice, blowing his brains out is difficult when she’s sitting on his shoulder at all times like a Vatican cherub, covalently bonded to his heart or his soul. Whichever matters after you die. “You want a picture too, baby? Autograph?” He kisses your kidnapped little fingers with the guilt of a man who has been pointlessly guilty all his life - now literally guilty by CJS standards for the four months you’ve been captive.

You smile at him, and consequently his drops. “I’m good,” you say, smiling your real smile. It upsets him. “I’ve got the real thing.” When you talk too much he remembers that you’re not a toy or a plaything or anything of the sort. That you’re a real girl.

Sometimes Leon has these moments of startling clarity. You kidnapped a girl ‘cause mommy didn’t love you enough, but daddy hit you hard enough to knock the functioning parts of your brain out of place. You kidnapped a girl ‘cause you got touched back in boot camp, ‘cause you’ve seen a couple hundred people die.

At this point, he simply can’t move on, but he can give up. Every night the gun under his pillow digs into the hollows of his skull. It’s just that Leon can’t leave you, his lucky little girl, he feels responsible for the state you’re in. Stockholm and all. That wasn’t his intention, he’d rather you be dead out of sheer terror, your frail little heart would give out mid Leon’s fucked up chimaera that is part nasty, hot sex and part brutal beating and the most he would have to do is bury your bones in his backyard.

Pretend you never existed. Your name fades into obscurity like every other name does. Your face is just another face. And no one truly cares in the end. America’s love is limited, its affections will go elsewhere, to a prettier kidnapped girl in California or a younger one in Maine. The police will pass you off as a runaway soon enough, and no one would ever have to mourn a bodiless casket. What a mess. Leon didn’t mean to be so charming, didn’t mean to make you fall for him, he didn’t know girls these days were so into getting raped on the daily. Now he’s facing the repercussions of his sex appeal. God forbid he exists in sexy peace.

You gotta make everything his problem, don’t you? Lucky little thing. Leon wonders if you’ve ever had to do anything for yourself. Wonders, ponders, thinks, but he won’t pry. ‘Cause it makes him feel, like, really fucking sucky. That he plucked you out of your perfect little life ‘cause his life is the shittiest little life in this piece of shit world.

He struggles to even utter your name– Your name, god, he bets it was picked out so delicately, so carefully– And that pisses Leon off ‘cause his dad named Leon after his favourite hooker, remove the A from Leona and there you have it! Italian enough for his ma too, hit a perfect sweet spot. Now he’s upset, the perennial guilt has wilted and he’s just fucking exasperated by you. By your luck. By your shamelessness. What twisted little bitch sits there and gloats about having the real thing in reference to her kidnapper. In actuality, it’s Leon that has the real thing.

Leon knocks you down like you’re made of styrofoam. That little yelp never gets old. You see, he’s been struck by this awful migraine and he wants you to feel the same. You should ache like he does, but you don’t ‘cause you’re young and healthy and he makes you go to bed at an appropriate time ‘cause it’s his duty as your kidnapper to make sure you don’t die out of neglect - death via beating is fine and understandable.

You sit at his feet so sweetly, a stray dog that’s wandered into the shrine of a lonely god, curling up at the foot of a wooden statuette to seek some form of solace. Unfortunately for you, Leon is no god, just a normal man with a heart and a soul and a dick that thinks for itself. He does what any man with a dumb dick would do - grabs you by the ankle and lugs you towards the bedroom like a deer carcass. It’s slightly comical, and he knows that ‘cause he hears you giggle a little.

“Rape is nothin’ to laugh about, sweetheart,” Leon says ‘cause that’s the plan, he drops you down on the bed with a thunk. Is it even rape when the other party, a very much kidnapped party, is enjoying it? Truly, you suck the joy out of his life.

“Sorry, Leon,” you go slack and stupid the second he gropes your tit, he’s not one for foreplay, it bores him most days. He’ll eat your pussy ‘cause he likes the taste, but he’s old and his cock is on its last legs and the moment his shit jumps to life it’s best to get it in ASAP.

“It’s okay, baby,” Leon lifts the hem of your shirt, “I know you’re really fuckin’ stupid, so don’t worry ‘bout it, yeah?” God, he’s way too nice. He pulls the shirt over your head and you’re left bare.

“Thank you, Leon,” You’re well-mannered, he’ll give you that, polite little thing, it's terribly endearing, has the walls of his gristly heart caving in.

“You’re very welcome, baby,” he hums, unzipping his jeans to get his dick out before it ultimately droops. Your cunt is sopping, takes to his fingers easily, he curls them upwards to hear those slick clicks. “Spread ‘em.” Leon taps your thigh, and you bend your knees outwards, a foot flat on the bed. It’s nice that you’re wet for him and all, does wonders for his ego, but loose holes are no fun.

“Not there,” you’re so cute when you whine, would look so cute stuffed in the trunk of his car, god. He’d even put a pillow between your thighs to give that cunt some friction. Keep you entertained while he drives aimlessly.

“Baby, you should know better,” Leon chides, spreads your ass and eyes up your tighter hole. “Didn’t ask you, did I?”

“Nuh-uh, Leon.” Comes your automated response.

“What did I tell you?”

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” you relay the words like you’re reading from a rulebook.

Creepy. Makes him shudder. Maybe Leon did Stockholm you purposefully, he didn’t expect you to respond so well, he was just saying shit. Like, shit that comes out of his mouth when he’s horny, and your sick little brain took his word as law. So, like, that’s your fault and you’re making it his problem. ‘Cause everyone loves to make everything Leon’s problem.

“God, you’re such a clever girl, baby,” he coos because he is so kind and gracious, giving out praise left and right. The tip of Leon’s cock is sticky, drags it through the seam of your cunt to part your folds, kisses your clit with the fat head. There’s a slight gape to your puckered hole when he grabs your ass cheek to open you up. Leon’s forced his way in countless times before, it’s no different this time. With a cock lubed by precum and your drippy cunt, he pushes into your asshole mercilessly.

“That’s a cute face, sweetheart, you gonna do that for me again?” Leon asks, taking a handful of tit as he admires the pain washing over your face— The divot between your brows that he smooths over with his thumb, a quivering bottom lip, eyes screwed shut ‘cause you’re trying to take his fat cock like a good girl should. You make it so easy to hurt you.

“Leon,” you whimper when he bottoms out. His cock kicks inside you, he pulls out to be mean, carves out space and your hole flutters ‘cause it’s so empty— Leon forces his way back in, till the ring of muscle swallows up the base of his cock, and his balls smack wetly against the fat of your ass. Two fingers find their way into your sloppy pussy once more, he feels the ridges of his cock through the spongy, thin walls of your cunt, and you’re liking it too much, fucking him back far too enthusiastically when his thumb presses down on your pulsing clit.

“You’re gonna cum like this, sweetheart,” Leon tells you matter-of-factly, removes his fingers with a pop! and wipes the milky cream dribbling down his wrist on your tummy. “Can you do that for me?”

“No, Leon, I can’t,” you shake your head, trembling fingers wrapping around his wrist to guide him back to your puffy clit.

“Yes you can, baby, you’re gonna do it for me aren’t you?” He tuts, breaking free from your sorry excuse of a grip to lay a firm smack on your jaw. It sends your head to the right, hears your neck crack, he’s sure. “We don’t use words like ‘no’ do we?”

“No…”

Aw, that was a trick question— He gives you another smack to force your head to the left. A little brain damage goes a long way. Keeps you obedient. When you get over the dizziness and face him head-on, you try to blink away the tears to no avail, they roll down your cheeks in pearlescent blobs. Clicker training is unneeded when you have a firm hand. It’s worked so well, any mention of your life outside of the time spent in his home and he’s punching your lights out, now you talk to Leon about Leon, and you think of Leon, and you fuck Leon and you love him– Jesus, okay, he did Stockholm you real fucking bad. No wonder you’re so weird.

Leon rabbits into you, short and shallow thrusts ‘cause it’s harder for you to breathe that way with his cock constantly pushing and jabbing and— Fuck, he’s practically reshaping your insides at such a brutal pace.

“I knew you could do it,” Leon snickers, presses hard on your abdomen to help you cum— And you’re so cute when you do, writhing and lifting your hips up and just looking a little stupid. There’s a stuttered breath, then you’re squirting in sharp bursts, from his cock in your ass alone. “There we go— You did it, baby, did so well—“ He is so fucking sweet to you, talking you through your high and shit. “You love getting your ass fucked don’t you?”

When you don’t respond, too busy trying to recover from an orgasm that’s left you boneless, Leon knocks some sense into you. “I do,” you gasp, teeth clattering like they always do when he hits you. “I do, Leon, I do, I love it— Love you.”

Holy shit. He hates it. That’s what drives him over the edge, that’s what makes him fuck his load into your ass till it’s dripping back down his shaft, that’s what gets his legs all shaky? It sickens him.

“Do you love me, Leon? I love you so much, Leon,” you mumble to him feverishly when he dips low to rest his forehead on yours, a hand on your cheek.

“You’re growing on me, baby,” Leon says, kissing the spot on your cheek he hit less than a minute ago. “Go clean yourself up.” He checks his watch while you limp off to the en-suite. “I’m headin’ out soon.”

“What?” You poke your head past the door frame, genuinely distraught at this revelation. “But you just got home, Leon, I was so bored— Can I come with you?”

“Are you dumb, baby?” Leon blinks at you, and he knows the answer is yes already.

“I’ll just miss you, like, lots ‘n lots.” You’re padding towards him, seating yourself on his lap. He puts his hands on your hips to draw you in, you breathe in his scent. It can’t be pleasant, but you get something out of it. “I want to come with you, please. I won’t run away, Leon, I like it with you.”

“I know you won’t run away,” he hums, squeezing your hips. “What would you do without me? You’d just miss me, baby.”

“And I’m gonna miss you when you go now, Leon.” Your arms loop around his neck. This is fucking disgusting. You’re not his girlfriend, but his literal kidnapping victim and he’s all loved up, letting you stroke his hair and kiss his neck— Fuck, he hates it, hates that he likes you so damn much.

It’s not like he could get away with it. Claire’s got, like, a database in her head for all the fucking women in the world. One look at your face and she’ll know. And how the fuck are you meant to play that off? Bringing a missing girl as your date for the night.

“You can come with me,” he agrees, just not in the girlfriend way, but in the appropriate kidnapped girl way. With a gag in your mouth and your hands behind your back, tucked into his trunk like a cute, fleshy suitcase.

Zip ties are best, rope comes second, and Leon’s tie is probably not on the list of best kidnapping tools. He just wasn’t prepared to take you with him. He’s fairly new to the whole kidnapper thing, it’s quite exhausting.

The sun sets early these days, and it’s not like Leon lives in a crowded area. Only sign of life on the street is him. And you. Panties stuffed in your mouth as a makeshift gag, wrists tied together with the tie Hunnigan got him for Christmas. You could spit the panties out at any minute, but you don’t. You could break free from the shitty knot he’s tied, but you don’t. Leon must be good at this manipulation thing ‘cause you’re so damn docile, letting him lay you down like a corpse, move you around like one.

“All good?” Leon asks, tilts his head to the side as you stare up at him with glassy eyes. Not all good. You’re terrified. He can tell. You still nod though. “Good.” He kisses your head, then shuts you in.

Leon is already a bit of a nervous driver. His windows are blacked out at least. He always feels like he’s doing something wrong. Like there’s drugs planted in his glove compartment, or he’s got blood money on the backseat, or a cute girl in the trunk— Which he does, but he doesn’t usually have a cute girl tied up in the trunk. He usually does get a ticket or two though, able to charm his way out of it, flash his ID.

There isn't a single noise from you, not even a thump, and it worries him. Leon considers pulling over, but he drives on white-knuckled and shaky. Hopes you haven’t rolled out without him noticing. Been flattened by a truck. Jesus Christ, he thought something about this would be gratifying, but his nerves have spiked and unlocked a new level of anxiety. He should hand himself in right now– Obviously, he doesn’t do that, and he parks up outside Claire’s apartment instead, and he is going to check on you, he is, he was–

“Oh, hey you!” Sherry takes him by surprise, her hand is small in his, but it’s calloused. Doesn’t feel like it did when he held it the first time. Even smaller and bloodied. When she smiles at him, soft wrinkles form. “You’re on time,” she comments, and he wants to die because there is a girl in his trunk.

“Right on, kiddo!” He says to Sherry who is thirty-seven and married. Leon would like to think he does well in high-pressure situations, he does do well in high-pressure situations. That’s a fact. He’s great in end-of-the-world-type scenarios, great at saving America from impending doom, he could do it with his eyes closed– Facing the closest thing you have to family not as yourself, but as a creepy, old rapist is insanely difficult and he would prefer to never do it again. However, he is exactly that, plus a kidnapper, so Leon will continue to do it for the rest of his days.

“Are you okay, Leon?” The corners of her lips are downturned– She knows, oh god, she knows, and she’s never going to look at you the same, and she’ll hate you for the rest of her life– “You’re not sick, are you? I heard there was a bug going around, Jake got sick today that’s why he couldn’t come.” Fuck Jake. Leon dislikes him. Her hair is longer, long enough to fall over her shoulders. He’d tell her to cut it, in their line of work it’s a risk, but she looks how she used to look, and Leon can’t say anything to her.

“No, I’m just, I’m cold, it’s cold, right? It’s cold out here, let’s go inside– Claire’s waiting,” he says very smoothly, totally without a single fumble.

“What is up with you?” Claire scans his guilty face when she opens the door, scans it like a robot, not like an observant human. She steps aside to let Sherry in, kissing the shorter girl’s cheek, and then she blocks Leon from entering. “My pipes are bust, Leon.”

“Okay? Can’t help you with that, babe.” Leon is not a fucking plumber. Doesn’t look like one in the slightest. He’s handsome like a washed-up actor, he knows that much is true, does not fit the bill for a plumber.

“You look like you need to shit really bad.”

“God, I don’t, I’m just fuckin’ cold.” Leon shows her his shaky hands as proof. It’s not proof ‘cause these are kidnapper shakes.

Claire stares at him. Ineffable. Unflappable. She scares the shit out of him, might really end up on her busted toilet if she scrutinises him to this degree all night. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good, I’m great– I’m cold, I’m fine,” he says normally because he is a normal man with a heart and soul and dick and balls and credit. All the shit normal guys have. And a girl in the trunk, he’s got that too. The cast-iron doubt in Claire’s eyes has Leon on edge for the rest of the night. It never dissipates. Or she’s just looked that way her whole life and Leon’s overthinking it.

“Nah, Leon hates those, don’t you?” Sherry nudges his shoulder.

“Huh?” Leon says intelligently, he’s painfully aware of his blundering efforts at socialising. Painfully aware of you. In his trunk. Cold, scared, and wet ‘cause you’re fucked up. He hates a lot of things like assless chaps and seven-eleven beer and swans. He drinks seven-eleven beer anyway. Does not wear assless chaps though. And he’d prefer to keep it that way. Swans piss him off ‘cause they're beautiful and violent and beautiful things should be passive like you are. Beautiful things were put on this earth to be gawked at. Beautiful things belong tied up in his car.

“Parrots,” she smiles at him again and he’s hit by a wave of nausea.

“What about ‘em?”

“Me and Jake want to get a pet, I’ve always wanted a parrot, you promised to get me one when I was a kid,” Sherry says, it’s not even to guilt trip him, just factual, but Leon feels like the shittiest guy alive, he’s very good at feeling bad.

“I do hate them,” Leon confirms, “They talk too much.” Pets are pets. They roll over, show off their bellies, wag their tails, they shouldn't speak.

“That’s what I like about them!”

Leon gets a headache when you speak for even a minute, that’s why he couldn't deal with a parrot. Or any pet other than his lucky girl ‘cause at least she’s smart enough to know when to shut up.

“It’s not like they talk a lot.” Claire fills her wine glass for the nth time. “They speak when spoken too,” she says while blinking at Leon so directly he thinks she might’ve put cameras in his house to see if he’s being as feminist as he claims he is. “And you can teach them names, I think it’s cute.”

“We took care of a puppy last year, a friend’s one, but Jake doesn’t like dogs at all. Poor thing, she got car sick when we took her out, she was in the back on her own, and she must’ve been so scared-”

A dog in the back of a car all on her own. God, doesn’t that sound familiar? Did you get car sick? Should he have checked up on you? Fuck, you might’ve choked to death on your own car sickness by now. The clock ticks and Leon checks his watch about ten times within five minutes. He can’t leave first. He never leaves first– Oh, fuck, but what if you’re fucking dead? He prays you aren’t. He would appreciate it if you were alive.

“I don’t… I don’t feel great,” Leon says not convincingly when he stands up, then he bends to kiss Sherry on the head. “I love you, sweetheart, we’ll catch up next time, alright?” And he doesn’t give either of them a chance to respond properly. Collecting his keys from the table, his jacket, his gun.

Leon, don’t you want to finish– Leon, you’re leaving– Call me when you get back– I’ll miss you, Leon– Text me back– Should you be driving–

He would love to reassure Sherry, tell her that he’ll miss her so much he could die and that he promises to text Claire back on time, and that he’s perfectly capable when it comes to drunk driving. but he’s pretty sure he’s got a missing dead girl in his trunk. Leon wonders if they can see him clearly from Claire’s fifth-story window. They don’t care about what he’s doing, but the probability that they might be able to see what he’s doing, acting all shady, is scary. The street lights flicker, and when he opens the hatch, he’s bathed in the glow of your halo. Hail fucking Mary and Joseph and Jesus. You’re there, eyes frantic, and very alive, panties still stuffed in your mouth. Could’ve spat those out by now, but you’re a good girl.

“Fuck,” Leon sighs, he smiles like he loves you. “Hi, baby, did you have fun?” He hunches over to get a better look at you, you’re in the position he left you in, on your side, balled up, almost foetal. He slaps your tit, pinches your cheek, pokes your ass like he’s giving you a physical. You shake your head. “No?” Leon pouts at you, then he leaves you in the dark by slamming the lid. The thrill has sorta settled in, or he’s just tipsy, ‘cause he’s giddy about it, about having you back there. Highways are fairly empty at this time, and so now that he’s boosted by you not being dead and cognac, Leon parks up on the side of the road. Opens up his trunk, again, it’s the most he’s ever used it, shit is gonna fall off its hinges.

“You saved me,” you say when he takes your spit-soaked panties out of your mouth. “You found me, sir, I was so scared, I-I thought I was going to die in here.”

Leon’s confused for a second, then he gets it. You’re roleplaying as… as a kidnapping victim. Which you already are. So it’s like the Droste effect, or holarchy, or more simply a thing within a thing. You’re letting him take on the hero part, which he’s most familiar with, he’s good at being the good guy, that’s why Leon is a pretty crummy kidnapper. “I saved you,” Leon says flatly, he goes with it. “You should suck my dick to say thank you.” He didn’t mean to say that so soon, he was gonna play along for longer, but you made him really fucking hard just then. Teary-eyed, snotty, looking so cute and sweetly kidnapped.

Waiting for your response isn’t his style. Leon had his dick out before you even spoke, he was planning on just stuffing it in your mouth, but you went and made up a little story in your head to get him even harder. He shuffles forward, wipes the tip on your lips, slaps it on your cheek.

“C’mon, open up, baby.” You nose at the underside of his cock, then take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and giving it to him so well, how he likes it, choking once you get to the balls. Leon places a hand on the back of your head, forces you still as he pounds your throat, hearing you gag and heave brings him comfort, ‘cause you're struggling and he loves to make you struggle, loves to make you work for it. You've had it too easy, and now you’ve started liking the sex (read: rape), so Leon’s glad he can hurt you without you getting off on it. “Okay, okay, that’s enough, baby, you can stop that now,” Leon says like he wasn’t skullfucking you into a coma, his cock slips past your lips, strings of saliva beading your chin, your neck, your tits.

The trunk is kinda small, when he puts you on your front, your head rests on the backseats, and your legs dangle over the edge. “Can you untie me, sir?” You ask in a scratchy voice, throat shredded.

Leon ignores you. He’s busy scoffing at how fucking soaked you are, misses the days he had to spit on your cunt to get it wet, when he felt all big like his cock was imposing ‘cause you were so dry he had to force his way in, and you would scream so loud it sliced his skin, and he would groan for that contrapuntal effect ‘cause hurting you is the best thing he’s ever felt. Better than opioids, better than regular sex, better than a scalp massage, better than anything that feels mildly great.

Your cunt swallows his shaft too well, and it is hot to know you’re so far gone now, but would it kill your pussy to show some form of resistance? He knocks his hips forward so hard the car jolts, thrusts all his weight into you, so his cock is doing nothing but harm, breaking your cunt in, going past your cervix, womb-fucking and all that good shit. It doesn’t get further than your cervix for obvious reasons.

‘Cause his dick is not a knife, it’s a dick and it twitches when you clench. He likes having a dick, he likes to fuck with it, likes to stick it in places it shouldn’t be, likes to disfigure and wreck and ruin with it - fly in the ointment is that it’s not immune to stupid, sloppy holes that beg for it. Leon shudders, keeps himself buried to the hilt, rolls his hips forward so the tip jabs the fleshy, firm opening of your cervix in painful grinds.

“Leon,” you wheeze, twisting like you’re getting exorcised, “Leon— Leon, it hurts—“

“I know, baby,” Leon pats your ass, giving a sharp thrust forward to make you sob. “Keep talkin’ to me like that, turns me on.”

“Hurts so bad, hurts, Leon, ‘s gonna– ‘s gonna kill me, Leon– Don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die, please–”

“Shit,” he laughs breathlessly. That was hot. Girls begging for their lives ‘cause his dick is too good. When you turn to glance at him over your shoulder, his hips stutter. “Fuck, baby– You look fucked.” Like you’re terrified of him. That's how it should be. “Don’t go pushin’ me out,” Leon grunts, words punctuated by strokes that have you reeling in all the worst ways.

“I can’t–” Your head bumps the seats when Leon knocks you in the back of the head. Hard enough to stun you into silence.

“Can’t run from it, can you?” Leon bites down on your shoulder, momentary relief from the cruel drag of his cock inside your sticky cunt, now you can focus on his teeth. How he might tear into you. Eat you up. “Gotta take it for me, baby, ‘cause that’s what you're good for. No brains just got a stupid little cunt.” When he cums, you arch into him, and he fucks into you with all he’s got, till you’re stuffed full of his seed. Something to keep your belly warm for the ride home. Leon should get an award for being this considerate.

“Leon, can I sit in the front?” you sniffle, pathetic and floppy and orgasmless.

He sneers at you. “Do you want me to get caught, sweetheart? You wanna get taken away from me?”

“No, Leon…”

Click!

That was cathartic. Leon’s glad you’ve still got pain receptors, you’re not totally gone, clinging on for dear life, but still afloat. He carries his little body bag to the door. “Want a photo?” Leon sets you down on the ground, you cling to the back of his shirt as he struggles with his jammy lock.

“Oh, yeah!” You light up, “‘Cause you saved me!”

“Yeah, baby.” Leon ushers you inside. “I saved you.” From the boot of his own fucking car.

#leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut

[komaniyaexpress]

— is this .. me?! .. ♪

sagau — they find a piece of artwork made by the creator; of .. them.

— featuring furina, wanderer, freminet, and neuvillette .. ♪

cw. none wc. 200-400 ea.

furina

it goes without saying .. furina is ecstatic. i mean.. why wouldn’t she be? she wouldn’t make this known, however, because “of course you’re going to wish to capture my enthralling beauty on paper — it’s only fair when faced with such divine radiance!” inside.. she’s a mess. her widened eyes flit over every tiny detail, every little stroke of the pen or paintbrush. “enthralling beauty”, she says, “divine radiance”, she says — but is she truly talking about herself or the way you interpreted her? never in all the centuries she’d been alive would she admit this, but she couldn’t help but feel as if you had made her look much more ethereal than she truly was. she does make it known that she likes it, though. when you turn away from her and murmur something about how you’re not the most proud of this particular piece, she scoffs indignantly. “what? how— ugh, how could you ever say such a thing? do you dare question my judgement?!” she leans back against the couch, hardly able to focus on the taste of the small pastry half-eaten in her hand. she’s incredibly grateful it’s only you two alone, because she has an entirely embarrassing blush upon her face as she chews.

wanderer

“.. seriously?” he kind of just.. glares at it. i’m sorry, but i don’t really know what you were expecting. depending on the kind of mood he’s in, he’ll either simply cast it aside without a second glance or attempt to mockingly chew you out over it. it doesn’t matter whether he actually likes it or not; he is not going to let you live it down. he’s not amused, but i can’t really imagine him actually getting upset about it either. he’ll scoff, maybe roll his eyes if he’s feeling generous enough, then go about his day without another thought to it. even with his nonchalant, near-annoyed demeanor over the whole thing, when you’ve left and he’s alone — he looks for it again and stares at it like he didn’t get to before. as his eyes travel the lines that form a quite accurate depiction of his visage — implying you spent a lot of time looking at him — he can’t help but wonder why, of all people, you chose him as your muse. he does.. appreciate the sentiment, though, even if he’ll never voice it. he catches himself before he spirals. it doesn’t matter, he reminds himself. with a huff, he sets it down again and crosses his arms, trying to ignore the fact it does indeed make him feel.

freminet

if you were expecting anything other than freminet being an absolute mess.. you’d be sorely mistaken. of course, he’s not upset at all. he’s just.. very, very embarrassed. he loves your art, he does. he doesn’t want you to misconstrue this, and makes sure you know it’s not your problem, but his own. make sure to reassure him. the moment he lays his eyes upon it, it’s evident; his eyes widen almost comically, and, suddenly, he has the surely inexplicable urge to run for his life. that wouldn’t be fair to you, though, so he bites it back and forces himself to stay put. the gears whir in his mind like he’s a piece of the machinery he holds so dear. he doesn’t know how to thank you — should he thank you? he doesn’t know what to say at all, more like. he clears his throat, unable to get any words out; his mouth goes dry and his heart practically beats out of his chest, all the while he’s looking just as frozen in time as your rendition of him. he lets out an audible sigh of relief when you reassure him that he doesn’t need to speak. he can’t handle you when you stare at him like this, and asks if you’d be okay with him putting on his diving helmet. once you’ve given him your permission — which you reiterate he doesn’t need — he quickly places it over his head, letting out a soft sigh of relief when you can no longer see his face. his gaze doesn’t leave the art, not for a moment. he stands still and stares at it, unable to tear his eyes away from the lines that, somehow, paints a clear picture of.. him. that you made. he still does not make any move to talk, and he’s very glad that you’re so understanding. eventually, he murmurs an apology, and through the lump in his throat, reassures you that (if there was ever any doubt), he likes it.

neuvillette

it was raining. it had been raining all day. naturally, this worried you, and your first thought was to check up on neuvillette. exhausted yet unchanging, neuvillette sifted through his paperwork without taking a single break to rest. however, all things must, and eventually, his tire overcame him — letting out a sigh, he placed his palm upon his forehead and leaned into it, his eyes fluttering closed. it took him a moment to open them again, but when he finally did.. after such a long day, eyes sore with the strain of reading fine print jammed together so thickly the pages looked more inky than ivory, the last thing he expected was to see was a piece of blank paper on his desk. curious, he picks it up and flips it over, assuming it to be more writing on the other side — only to be met with.. himself, staring right back at him. the neuvillette now is slightly slouched over, eyes drooping with the weight of an unrelenting week. he’s unable to see his true reflection — in a mirror or water, not a near-perfect version of him on paper — so he couldn’t really tell, but even so, he can’t help but feel as if this version of him must appear much more composed. he pushes the thought away, stares at the piece a bit closer, and he eases a bit. not only was it a splendid break to the monotony of monochromatic paperwork, it was made by you. it’s now that you walk into the room. in a split second, you realize what he’s holding. you blink. he smiles, gentle and soft. the rain stops pouring.

#✦ . ⁺ 🕊️ i. divinity at its finest. #✦ . ⁺ 🌧️ ii. furina. #✦ . ⁺ 🌱 ii. wanderer. #✦ . ⁺ 🌧️ ii. freminet. #✦ . ⁺ 🌧️ ii. neuvillette. #furina x reader #furina #focalors #focalors x reader #wanderer x reader #scaramouche x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #wanderer x you #scaramouche x you #furina x you #neuvillette #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x you #neuvillette sagau #sagau neuvillette #sagau furina #furina sagau #wanderer sagau #sagau wanderer #sagau scaramouche #scaramouche sagau #sagau #sagau x reader #sagau freminet #freminet sagau

[claudemblems]

A Kiss to End All Doubt | Albert Moriarty

Summary: When you agreed to tag along with the Moriarty brothers to a grand ball, the last thing you expected was to receive a noble's offer of marriage. Thankfully, Albert plays the part of your lover well, perhaps a little too well for his affectionate words to be fake...

Content: SFW. Fem!Reader. 3,723 words. Pining. Soooo much romantic tension. Albert is a flirt and no one is surprised.

Notes: I have been writing this fic for what feels like forever BUT IT'S FINALLY FINISHED :3 I'm so excited to finally give this to you. I hope you enjoy it 💖 I may also add an epilogue if there's an interest for one...🤭

Did Albert Moriarty, one of the many faces of the Lord of Crime, truly not have the slightest idea of the effect he had on you?

It was silly to even fathom that a man of his stature could be so oblivious, but you couldn’t help but start to wonder once he started giving your flushed cheeks and wide eyes a quizzical look.

That, or he was playing coy with you, which wouldn’t be all that surprising coming from him. He’d long since mastered the art of making noble ladies go weak in the knees.

But that was a skill he’d acquired out of pure necessity. If he had things his way, he’d refuse to give the stuck up women of the nobility the time of day. Unfortunately, he had a role to play in all of his brother’s plans, and so he continued flirting with the noble ladies just long enough to leave them wanting more.

You, on the other hand, were no noble. In fact, you had no good fortune, distinguished education, or marriageable prospects to speak of. Truly, you were nothing but a mere face hidden amongst the shadows, which was perfect for an assistant to the Lord of Crime.

You’d begun to empathize with Albert’s disdain for these royal functions, mainly the lavish balls he and his brothers had little choice but to attend. It was important for them to keep up appearances as a well-rounded noble family who knew how to mingle with the upper-class, whether they enjoyed doing so or not. While they seemed to have gotten used to it for the most part, it proved to be quite the difficult adjustment for you. Thankfully, Albert had patiently taught you the ins and outs of noble life, giving you lessons on small talk and etiquette whenever time permitted.

However, he hadn’t yet taught you how to handle a nobleman’s advances.

“You must be Lady [Name],” the man greeted, holding out his hand for you to take. You briefly glanced towards Albert, taking his nod as a sign to follow through with the gesture. A kiss was placed onto your hand before the man let go, stepping back to better admire the exquisite sights around him. “It’s quite a splendid ball, isn’t it? There’s so many well-mannered and intelligent guests in our midst, such as you, young Lord Albert.”

“Lord Darnley, you are far too kind,” Albert said, placing a hand over his heart and bowing. “I ought to be extending the compliments to you. Your presence here is most welcome, as well as that of your entourage. Would the girl you brought with you happen to be your little sister, Lady Georgina?”

“Ah, I see you’ve made sure to memorize the names of all the guests! Indeed, she insisted on joining me, and no matter what I said, she refused to take no for an answer!” Darnley bellowed in laughter, briefly drawing the attention of the other guests nearby.

“She already seems to be quite the free spirit. I’m sure she has a bright future ahead of her.”

“If you’re so interested in my dear Georgina, I would be more than willing to sit down and discuss a potential marriage between the two of you.”

You swore you saw a flash of disgust appear in Albert’s eyes, but he simply smiled brightly at Darnley, careful that his emotions did not look fake or contrived. “While your offer is certainly generous, I have no plans of marriage at the moment. I’m afraid I’m already plenty busy with my service in the royal army.”

“Ah, what a shame,” Lord Darnley sighed, but his disappointment quickly turned to anticipation when his gaze once again fell on you. Your stomach lurched at the look in his eyes, but you tried to retain your composure, copying Albert’s mannerisms by offering a surface-level smile.

“Lady [Name], I am supposing you are not yet married if you’re attending this function with the Moriartys.”

“That would be correct, my good sir. How astute of you to notice.”

Lord Darnley grinned at the news like a hunter mere moments away from ensnaring this prey. “Well then, my lady, is there anyone that has asked for your hand yet?”

Goosebumps ran down your arms as you swallowed thickly. Anyone with a right mind knew exactly where this conversation was heading.

“I…well…” Should you tell the truth? Should you lie? But then who would you say had expressed a desire in marrying you? “It’s…complicated.”

“So, that would mean no formal question has been posed then, correct?”

“...Correct.”

You heard Albert’s feet shift next to you, on guard for whatever preposterous idea this nobleman could come up with next.

“Well, it’s certainly not good for a lady of your standing to be without a husband. I, myself, am quite the romantic, and I believe a courting period fosters a genuine love between both parties involved. If you have no one currently vying for your hand, perhaps you’d offer me the chance to earn it.”

No. No. On so many levels, no.

But this wasn’t about you—your happiness or married life did not come before the liberation of London. Whatever the brothers asked of you, you would adhere to their words, even if it meant having to be stuck with a man such as…this. Though you knew they’d never even entertain the thought of offering you up to some man who cared only for your beauty and status and nothing for your heart. If you were to refuse Darnley’s advances, at the least, you were confident the Moriartys would respect your decision.

Even so, you didn’t want to cause any more trouble for them. If you couldn’t agree to the idea of marriage, perhaps a date or two would suffice, right?

Just the thought made you feel sick. 

“Well, what do you say, my lady? Will you allow me the pleasure of courting you?”

You knew you had to keep up appearances. You couldn’t allow for cracks to show in the perfect and amicable facade the Moriartys had carefully crafted. You knew that well, and yet…

This was a proposal that not even death itself could bring you to accept.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but I must sincerely refuse.”

Lord Darnley stared at you in alarm. “Come again? You didn’t just say no to my advances, did you?”

Your heart rate quickened as his words grew heated, and in that moment you wanted nothing more than to take off and hide somewhere safe and quiet in the manor’s garden, away from other people who might come up with even more ridiculous propositions.

“It’s just as you heard, my lord. I must decline.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air as Lord Darnley stared straight into your eyes, not blinking for several long moments. Your hands had begun to shake as you feared that you’d just begun tarnishing the reputation of the Moriarty family. Truly, there were fewer things more terrifying than a nobleman who felt he’d been insulted, and the consequences for such an offense would be nothing short of dire.

“Lady [Name], you are in no place to refuse my offer. You said yourself that no other man has even brought up the idea of marriage to you! Are you truly so brazen that you would reject the prospects of a life in union with mine? We all know who makes the decisions around here, and they’re certainly not made by women—!”

“My good sir, I believe you’ve said quite enough.”

A small gasp left your lips as Albert sneaked a hand around your waist, still carefully holding his glass of wine in the other. You searched his face for an answer as to what he was scheming, but he simply smiled—a true one this time—wordlessly reassuring you that all would be well.

“You see, Lady [Name] may not have received an offer of marriage as of yet, but that is only because I have been quite busy protecting our beloved country. I wish to propose when I am able to be at home more often and thus can fulfill my duties as a devoted husband to my wife. So I must politely ask that you rescind your offer, lest you make yourself seem as though you chase after taken women.”

Propose? Husband?

If you were afraid of tainting the Moriarty image, Albert clearly didn’t share your concerns.

“Taken? Why, I—! You’re bluffing, Lord Albert! You’re not planning on marrying this woman!”

“And what has brought you to that incorrect conclusion?”

“If that were the case, you would have brought it up the moment I asked if she were single!”

“To be fair, you asked if she’d received an offer for marriage, not if she was currently available to court.”

You could practically see the steam coming out of Lord Darnley’s ears, his face growing redder with each passing minute. He was still unconvinced, and for good reason, too, but you weren’t about to let Albert’s kindness go to waste.

You placed a hand on Albert’s shoulder, smiling up at him as he redirected his full attention to you. “It’s true, my lord. My affections have been reciprocated by my dear Albert, and I am patiently waiting for him to ask me to marry him. It will be a proposal I shall readily accept.”

Darnley scoffed, a hand placed over his heart in disbelief. “And you had the gall not to tell me when I’d begun to question you? Either you’re a terrible liar, or you’re just hoping to humiliate me in front of all these guests!”

“I would never dream of deceiving or insulting you, my lord. I should have made my relationship status clear to you earlier. Please forgive my carelessness.”

“I still think this is some elaborate hoax the both of you are trying to pull off. If not to tarnish my good name, then to convince every noble here that you’re worth the status bestowed on you at birth.” Lord Darnley swiped a fresh glass of wine off the tray of one of the waiters walking by, the man watching in horror as the lord downed all of the liquid in one gulp. His cheeks had started to take on a flushed hue from the great amount of alcohol he’d consumed that night, and with the way things were going, he was sure to be drunk by the end of it. “Perhaps, Lady [Name],” Darnley continued, a lopsided smirk forming on his face, “you’ve been lying about your social status, and you’re hoping that your marriage to Lord Albert will secure you a place in the upper class.”

Anger surged through you at his utterly ridiculous theory. Darnley had unknowingly gotten one fact right: you were a nobody. When you’d been taken in by the Moriarty family, you had nothing to your name but pen, paper, and the clothes on your back. But you knew one thing for sure: you had worth as a human being, and no one, noble or otherwise, would be able to change that.

And marrying a noble for status? What a laughable suggestion. As if you’d stoop so low just for some so-called “honor” among the elite.

“Well, dear sir,” you began, discreetly hiding a smirk behind your gloved hand, “I had no idea you were so foolish as to even come up with such an inconceivable thought. I once held you in high regard as I’ve heard many within the nobility sing your praises, but your current behavior is quite unbecoming of a person of your stature.”

You heard Albert try, and fail, to stifle a laugh next to you. You quietly breathed out a sigh of relief to see that he’d chosen not to reprimand your strong words. If anything, he seemed eager to encourage them.

As Lord Darnley frantically signaled for a waiter to bring him more wine, Albert took the opportunity to lean down next to your ear, whispering a simple yet heart-pounding question, “[Name], would it be all right with you to play further into these roles of enchanted lovers?”

Your breath caught in your throat, butterflies beginning to form in your stomach. “Of course,” you said. If only you knew how I truly felt, you wouldn’t even need to ask.

He smiled down at you, a sight that only stirred up the butterflies even more, and pulled you closer against him. Meanwhile, his eyes bored into Lord Darnley’s frame, darkening with every passing moment. If there was no one else in that ballroom, you had no doubt Albert would have leapt at the chance to get rid of him.

When Lord Darnley had finished downing another glass of wine, his fiery countenance returned to you and Albert. “You both are frauds,” he spat. “Everyone else here might be too dim-witted to figure it out, but I’ll make them aware that you’re not the upstanding moral characters you believe that you are.”

“It’s a shame to hear such vile thoughts coming from your own mouth, good sir,” Albert sighed. “But if I must be honest, I don’t care what any noble in this room thinks of me or the house in which I rule over.”

“Oh? And why is that, good sir?”

“Because,” Albert answered, turning his body towards yours, his visage noticeably softening when his focus returned to you, “the only person I want to please is the woman I adore. Not one person in the nobility is worthy of praise or merit—no one but her alone.”

Setting aside his glass, Albert gingerly took your hand in his own, meeting your eyes to silently ask for your permission. At your nod of approval, he lifted your fingertips to his lips, placing a gentle and almost reverent kiss against them.

“I love her,” he said, his sweet gaze reaching the very depths of your soul, “and when the time is right, I will make her mine.”

His words were like a match igniting the fire blazing in your heart, the flames fed by your deep affections for him, growing with every beat that thumped in your chest.

Your breath caught in your throat as his hand came to rest against your cheek, his touch so light yet so dizzying, more intoxicating than any wine you’d had that night. 

Albert searched your eyes as all the feelings you’d tried to keep at bay finally came pouring in like waves. You were sure he could see it all: the admiration, the yearning, the love you’d kept locked away. But somehow he’d managed to find the matching key, the truth you’d been hiding for all these years finally at his reach.

His fingers traveled along your cheek and down to your jaw, this thumb tracing patterns against your skin. You were still dazed from his words to Darnley, but you brought yourself to meet Albert’s gaze once more, curious to see what truths you could uncover in his own expression.

And you wished you hadn’t, because when you saw the affection so clearly present in them, you wanted nothing more than to throw yourself into his arms and kiss him until the night turned into day.

Albert wasn’t oblivious, and you knew it. Whatever people thought of him as—a genius, a young prodigy, a man of great knowledge—his ability to read people was beyond the average person’s comprehension. And you knew when he’d finally figured out what the person he’d been surveying was hiding. His lips would quirk upwards ever so slightly, the dimples on his face just beginning to show, and he’d cock his head to the side, pleased with his findings.

And that was exactly how he was looking at you.

You’d placed your heart out in plain view of his observant eyes, and he’d figured you out. But now that he knew of your feelings for him, what was he planning to do with them?

Albert’s thumb drifted from your jaw down your lips, careful not to brush off the lipstick staining them. He stared at them for several moments, deep in thought, before he returned his eyes to yours, a single question hidden within them.

May I?

Already breathless, you squeezed his hand once, closing your eyes as Albert leaned in painstakingly slowly, every nerve in your body alight with anticipation. This was the moment you’d only been able to imagine in dreams, on nights where you sat wordlessly under the stars, silently wishing upon them in vain. They couldn’t grant you your desires. They couldn’t give you everything you ever wanted. You were the only one with the power to seize your opportunity and make your own wish come true.

And as Albert’s lips finally fell on yours, you smiled.

Your greatest wish was being granted right before your very eyes.

His lips tasted faintly of wine, and the subdued scent of his cologne still lingered on his collar. Combined with the warm and comforting touch of his hand cupping your face, your senses were overwhelmed in the most wonderful of ways. It felt as if you’d begun to float, brought into a fairy tale-esque trance where the entire world grew still except for you and Albert.

Time had stalled to allow you this moment of pure, undeniable bliss that not even the corrupt powers of this world could take away from you.

With his lips still on yours, Albert’s hand snaked further around your waist, gently pulling you closer against him. You practically had no room left between the two of you, and so in a moment of boldness, you placed one hand on his shoulder, the other on his chest, right above his heart. Even through his suit, you could feel it beating wildly.

It only made you wonder: did he truly mean what he’d said earlier? Did he really harbor such affection for you? Did he really intend…to make you his?

Before you could ponder anymore, Albert finally pulled away, cheeks faintly dusted with rose. He appeared somewhat dazed himself, but he kept his composure, still well aware of where the two of you were at the moment.

But this time when he turned to Darnley, he smirked, practically beaming from head to toe with delight as he spoke. “Well, Lord Darnley, do you believe us now?”

If looks could kill, both of you would have succumbed to that man’s rage.

Darnley’s hands gripped his wine glass so tightly that it shattered onto the floor, the remnants of wine staining his once perfectly polished suit. Other nobles stopped their conversations and turned to him upon hearing the commotion, a few of them even pulling out handkerchiefs.

“Sir, let me get you a new glass,” a waiter spoke, holding his hand out to take the broken one from him. But Lord Darnley was already fuming, and he shoved the waiter to the side, smashing the rest of the wine glass against the floor.

“You will pay for this,” he snarled. Sending you one final glare, he turned on his heel, marching out of the ballroom, hopefully never to be seen again (at least for the night).

“Well,” Albert breathed, laughing as he ran a hand through his hair, “I don’t think he’ll be bothering us anymore.”

“You’re right…Thank you, Albert.”

“What are you thanking me for?” he asked, gaze drifting back to yours. “I’ve done nothing to warrant your gratitude.”

You shook your head. “You have, Albert. You didn’t have to step in and save me from Darnley’s advances, but you did, even though doing so could have tarnished your family name. I’m indebted to you.”

Albert frowned ever so slightly, and you cocked your head to the side, confused. After a few moments, his gaze flickered to the people dancing around the room, his cheeks still tinged a beautiful red. “If you thought I was doing all that just to be a gentleman,” he murmured, “then I don’t know what it would take to make the truth clear to you...”

Well, suddenly you were the one left blushing. 

“It’s not that. I…I don’t want to assume anything more, not when you’re such a precious person to me. I’m just scared of ruining what we have between us.”

Albert turned his attention back to you, using the hand that was still on your waist to pull you close to him again. Taking your other hand in his, he lifted it up to his lips, your faces now just mere inches apart.

“And what if I were to say that I do want something more?”

You almost wanted to pinch yourself to make sure it wasn’t all a dream.

But you still felt the press of his lips against yours, took in the smell of his cologne, and memorized the touch of his fingers running along your cheek. It was not a dream. It was even better.

Albert leaned down next to your ear, his breath fanning against your skin. “If one kiss isn’t enough to convey how much my heart yearns for you, then allow me to kiss you until you’re breathless, and no more words of doubt are left on your tongue.”

Albert smiled as your face grew redder, and with the way he bit his lip, you knew he was struggling not to comment on it.

“For a noble, you sure lack any semblance of shame, Master Albert."

Albert shook his head and chuckled to himself, that mischievous glint having once again returned to his eyes. “Keep teasing me and you’ll find out just how shameless I can be, darling.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Do you want to find out?”

Despite your flustered state, you couldn’t help but laugh, squeezing Albert’s hand tighter in yours. “If you want to kiss me so badly, do so in a place that’s actually romantic, will you?”

Taking you by the hand, Albert began to lead you outside of the ballroom and into the rose gardens. “Of course, and I’ll take my time to make sure I kiss you properly.”

You made a mental note to thank William and Louis for letting you tag along to the ball. If all went well, they would end up becoming your own brothers-in-law, after all.

But that could wait until you finally had Albert’s affections all to yourself.

#moriarty the patriot #moriarty the patriot x reader #albert moriarty #albert moriarty x reader #kat writes #IT'S FINALLY HERE #Honestly I'm so happy with this one :3

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 5

[prompt: face sitting]

male reader x ahn yujin

3.5k words

Yujin is giving you shit when it happens.

It’s been a little over an hour since she turned to you, bored and pouty about it, and asked if you wanted to fuck again.

She gives you shit in the way only the prettiest girls can get away with. Perfect smile, like she's innocent. And all low and breathy in her throat. Hitched around the vowels of your name. Threatening enough that you thought about just immediately capitulating. It was tempting. 

"Or you could stay on the floor like a lame loser bummin’ around in your pajamas." She leans up on the arm of the sofa. "Either way."

Yujin stretches and her sweater is huge. One of those cozy campus crewnecks that everybody seems to have, oversized and inviting and right. Her shorts are ridiculously small, just enough of her stomach peeking out over her waistband for you to want to feel it, touch it, have the pleasure of sinking your tongue into the shallow groove.

She's teasing you because she never quite knows what to do with her energy. Lacks an outlet big enough, really, but is also selfishly delighted in getting any response at all, no matter how halfhearted it might be. You stare at her. You watch and don't speak when she runs her fingers up her stomach to pull her sweater up with it. You groan. She grins. She is pretty, her lips full and eyes soft. The laugh that follows her is because it's always obvious when she's won and you wish your body wasn't so prone to giving away your weaknesses.

"Hey." She blinks slowly, lifting one leg up. Her bare foot, warm, toes flexed, against your thigh, nudges against you once, and again.

"How many orgasms until I feel a little more forgiving towards my good friend who, I know, is super super sorry that he can't afford the pizza money because he chose to use his own allowance to do something as silly as pay rent, I wonder?"

"I paid half last time."

"Doesn't make sense because you ate it all.

"You said you weren't hungry." You start to object because you do have an objection. A list, actually, prepared, of instances you think you're owed. But Yujin arches, and when a separate but related complaint rises swiftly to the foreground, your throat goes dry -

"Orgasm tax."

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” she asks, and you’re struggling to answer truthfully, honestly.

She rolls over, lets you see everything she has, the tiniest shorts in the world tugged even higher, the generous curve of her ass and thighs in silhouette. You didn't ask for this but you weren’t about to die without it, you think, looking up from the floor and staring, wetting your lips, absolutely sure. She does it all on her own and it takes an absurd amount of effort to peel your hands off the ground.

"Stay where you are," she snaps, seeing it too - and in a second of deliberate slowness, hooks two fingers into her shorts, tugging them aside before looming over you. "Or you're not fucking me today. At all."

You let your head thud down against the rug beneath you. "That's not fair."

"You've gotta come up with something better than that. You could suck up, beg, maybe I'd forgive you if you just told me how much better I was than the cash I could use on literally whatever."

Your eyes cut down.

Part of you wonders if you've always been such an easy mark - whether being here has changed you, if all these months of dangling carrots in front of you are paying off or if you're just a willing accomplice to your own exploitation.

Part of you isn't stupid. Yujin's taken an almost disturbing amount of pleasure in flaunting herself since the first night you drank too much, said too much, resisted too little - you can tell the way it starts, a smile toying in the corner of her mouth, before she taps the band of her bra, waits to hear you swallow - to hear how hot you get - before she casually asks what it would take, "to convince you", to change the conversation from whether she wants something from the vending machine, or she just forgot it was laundry day, or where the hell that note from Wonyoung had gone, to what she'd like the answer to be. What would you let her do if it got you another chance to get under her shirt, see her all bared, eyes dark and hair like a veil across her collarbones, pretty nipples and swells of her breasts pushed up, until you put your mouth on her.

Yujin tilts her hips so it's easier for you to follow, her hand snaking beneath her body as she speaks. A gentle grunt gets muffled in her sweater, her toes curling into the space between your knees and it hurts, stings a little, the desire you're holding back, and then it goes right through you like fire, sharp.

(Part of you is incredibly stupid - but you think the truth is it doesn't matter.)

Yujin's kneeling over your chest, and her bottom lip, plump and lush, catches between her teeth. "Can you think of anyway to be useful?"

"A lot," you choke. It's true.

Yujin makes a noise. "Proof. Evidence. Put up."

The movement she makes - twisting of legs and stomach flexing and the fabric of her shorts down off her ankles - is one single, fluid motion and for a second you're distracted by how quickly she's gotten you there. Thighs resting over your shoulders, the only thing your lungs seem to remember how to do is want.

"Come on." She bounces her knees a bit. "Dick or mouth, get going."

You should really say something smart, show her how clever and charming you can be, how you've actually got a lot to show the hottest girl in the world - and sometimes Yujin giggles like she's shocked  about it all herself, but right now her eyebrows are raising, expectant and challenging and it makes it difficult to think when there's an open invitation inches away for you to bury yourself in. Your lips feel like sandpaper when you kiss the inside of her thigh. Her hips stutter and drop an inch as your tongue works its way out, thick and obscene and it shouldn't be so thrilling to hear her so low, so urgent when you have no say, really, in how this is going to go -

"Take care of me, yeah?" she practically whispers the words - all while your fingertips drag along her outer thighs until her spine straightens, gets her shoulders pushed back, her breathing louder, somehow, as if you couldn't feel her need without knowing already exactly what you can do for her.

And the most honest thing you could say in the moment, because Yujin has her panties stretched to the side, revealing the inviting creases where her long legs meet her hips - for god’s sake, her pussy is right fucking there, inches in front of you; glistening slightly in her own slick and looking so, so pretty - the words get kissed right into the curve of her thigh: "It's not fair."

The look she gives you makes it worth it. "Excuse me?"

"You asked, didn't you. It's not fair that your pussy's so good that I can't think about anything else."

She huffs, her thighs shaking just a little with the effort of staying put. "So, what," and your mouth closes in, kiss deep, your nose pressed in right at the peak of her folds, her entrance, and you try not to drool as you inhale and drag the flat of your tongue in, hard, where she's desperate for you, "you think this should all go in reverse or something, like I should worship your dick until you stop being a useless perv - "

But the insult dies in her throat. A moan comes out instead, harsh, deep, loud and enough that Yujin slaps her palm over her own mouth before throwing an impatient scowl down at you.

Here's what you'd tell her, if you weren't busy licking circles into the ache leaking from her core, eating her cunt like a starving man, if you had the audacity. Yujin can't control herself. Doesn't help that she's sloppy. When her orgasm hits she will get louder and she doesn't even like the things that come out. That's the thing about Yujin, really. She says all this shit, and really, in the end, she wants a good fuck so bad she can't keep her mouth shut, but the noises she makes are exactly the same as the sounds that you choke on -

Because as pretty and easy and fun to kiss as she can be, the absolute best thing about your relationship is that the more orgasms she gets the less she can breathe, much less control what the fuck she's saying to you. It's cute and hilarious and beautiful, when she forgets, when she gives everything up because in the end it's never any competition, the way she fucks, is so desperate. Her hips work themselves into your grip, over and over and over again, like they are meant for this. 

For getting off on your mouth alone.

All you know right now is that with the way you have your hands on her - one still holding her panties open and the other squeezed tight around the muscle of her outer thigh - it's like her clit's directly in line with the back of your throat. If you press your lips around her pussy and hold them firm, just like the way her knees are starting to tighten around your face, she's going to come. It will hurt her and it will leave her completely boneless, and you've fucked this much to the point where you have learned, well, she can never complain.

Not that she would. The slick dripping down your cheeks and throat and down to the front of your shirt - it's fucking everywhere - makes it obvious: any ability to talk is replaced with her just grinding her pussy against you, bucking and shouting, riding and writhing until you decide her pretty little pink slit can have another taste. 

Her only other option, really, is clenching and throbbing and cumming as hard as she can all over your waiting tongue.

"Hey. Get your fucking mouth back down," she breathes, taking her fingers out of her cunt and then promptly pushing your head back in, "and - uhnn, I - yeah, exactly. Mmmnghh - "

You smile, muffled and hot against the fabric of her thighs, her fingers twisting in the hair behind your ears and tugging firmly. "Oh."

"What did you want again?" she asks - except her body tells a different story, all flushed and keening and, fuck, absolutely soaked from your touch - she rocks against the base of your chin, slumping and dropping down and letting gravity do its work. You work your tongue over her throbbing clit, again, again, and Yujin moans loudly. So pleased.

Just this mess she's made of you. The smell that coats your nose, and chin, the way it feels when she ruts her whole body against the place where she's worked the hardest. Her breath stalls where you start to breathe in, and looking up at the cinched look in her face you press further.

It’s every little circle lick and lave and gentle nudge of the tip of your nose, where the feeling makes her cry out, where the sensation, overstimulated, is close to that perfect balance between too much and not quite enough, all while working your fingers into the swell of her ass, and finally her hips make small, greedy, selfish thrusts into your mouth.

She sobs for you. You sigh, contented, because you don't even need to ask.

"You're so fucking good," she murmurs, heel of her palm pushed into her eyes like she's struggling with a headache. "God, fuck, do that again."

It's so wet on your chin already, but you do it again, just for the way she bucks into it.

You give her the closest thing you have, your thumb riding the rim of her ass, tongue rubbing, stroking her pussy faster. Yujin's teeth work against the insides of her mouth as her hips shift forward, and she is clenching and begging for the cock you know would make her scream if you just stood her on her hands and fucked her from behind - it's such a cruel way of making her work to feel so fucking amazing - but you're here to indulge, and really, when she shivers and pleads the exact way she does, your mouth still full, how are you supposed to do anything besides fucking obey.

Yujin reaches up to grab onto the edge of the couch, anything to brace herself as her cunt sloppily gets wetter. The thickest part of your tongue is good enough for this. Everything about her clit is just this dull, swollen throb. Begging to be worked over the way you're licking at the entrance to her pussy, inside and all, kissing, sucking, kneading, pulling, - fucking her just right - until she starts fucking cursing up a storm.

"Oh god, god, oh fuck fuck, fuck," her hips shift until she's the only one riding, the only one fucking. Until you just get to lay there with your lips slack, drooling open, hands a frame for her entire body while she works your face, and nothing could be better - "yeah, oh, fuck, fuck yes - yeah - fuck, hahhh. You're going to make me fucking cum-"

And you almost say it: that's your line - it's not enough, you'll never have enough of her cunt - her clit or the slit, where she leaks, thick and sticky. Her slick tastes heavy on your tongue, and you can't swallow fast enough. Your fingers are so deep into the pliable skin of her ass - digging and needy and reaching for where she's tightest. Her hands pull sharply at your hair. You feel her, tightening her ass around your finger, cumming wet across your cheekbones and -

It goes on, her body pressing into you, until with a sudden snap of a cry, she cums.

“God, fuck-”

If Yujin doesn't have to see the look on your face after getting her off this hard, it's only because the pressure in her body has her knees across your eyes forced shut. A spasm clenches, almost rhythmic, through her thighs, and god, Yujin just cums her brains out. It's pretty hot. You make it count: pushing your fingers just as deep into her pussy, working, exploring - right as her whole body is tensing and coming apart and your other hand circles, two fingers, dipping down and through the cleft of her ass and into her tightest, hottest hole -

You know better than to rub at her entrance once the ripples and waves start - instead, it's more pressure.

Pushing up as deep as you can and your lips mouthing at her folds while her hips squirm for something harder, something stronger and with intent - like, maybe, if she thinks she is trying to push away, she will start to believe that the mess running from her hole isn't hers. It's yours. All that liquid heat pooling below her and what could ever make sense other than she needs more? She needs the way she trembles and shakes, the way her pussy weeps as you wring it for the pleasure that's well on its way -

You always feel like an idiot after, stupid with how much you enjoy this, what she gives you, but how could it be anything but fantastic, your vision dizzying when it swims from lightheadedness and the lack of oxygen to your brain. Yujin's holding you right where she needs, right between her thighs and next to perfection, just tight enough for you to groan, to make a low whine build in the back of your throat and that gets her, too.

There is the rush and a wave, the heat, of something that crests and breaks in her that has to match the absolute loss of control she seems to have all along - the only part you feel you are sure about is that Yujin always rides her cunt - all dripping lips and aching holes, swollen and flaring and practically begging to be fucked harder and more thoroughly - into every orgasm she's taken from you, until there's no where to run.

Even through your nose, and you're suffocating, her legs trembling with the rush of it all. You're gasping and shaking but she's shaking apart and you need that: to feel her melt from where her body collapses all its weight onto you and the way the aftershocks have to make it seem, at least for a moment, that she’ll never, ever recover.

"Fuck," Yujin sighs, "I fucking hate you."

(Translation: she can't fucking live without you.)

"Any time," you murmur and her entire body falls into you, straddled across your chest and slumped there, sweaty and spent. Your heart beats the moment, trying to remember when it was you could stop feeling this way about your roommate.

A part of you believes that, once upon a time, before all of this started, that your desire, your lust was rooted in seeing a friend who was beyond hot and simply unavailable.

A bigger part of you knows that asking for clarity isn't the point - because maybe, right now, in the way your hand has started massaging the soft skin under the curve of her spine, you should realize you can't live with it never happening again.

"What's my balance," you ask, rubbing your thumb into the crook behind her knee.

"Mm?"

You exhale.

"Two. I think you're good for two."

You laugh. "For real?"

She stretches.

"Or I suppose we can go for four or five, but that means you're paying for dinner, too." Yujin does this thing with her hair when she's excited. Swings it back, smiling wide.

Which is fair, you think, given the pulse between your legs throbbing and twitching as you picture it: the curve of Yujin's waist and the drop of her lower back, her bare ass. Her soaked little slit that can't help but beg to fucked and fucked and fucked, until she's trembling and quivering and leaking-

"Then I'm gonna eat," you promise her, "every last inch. Going to taste you and swallow."

Yujin shifts, sitting astride you.

You hum. "Still interested."

She simply kisses you - breathes you in - tasting herself on your lips and tongue, before leaning back with her palms flat against your chest and taking it slow as she starts to ease you into the kind of sex that doesn't leave either one of you with a throat quite so raw and dry.

So it's quiet in your apartment, just for a little while, when the afternoon starts to settle in and she rolls back onto her heels, not able to support the rest of her. You fuck her deep and it's amazing how quickly you both fall into rhythm. Yujin's clutching hard on either side of your hips. Folding herself back. Trying, by the end, to bury you where her fingers have been.

By the time she gets herself up on the couch, belly flat against the cushions and her hips arched back as she fucks herself with the length of your dick, you're just desperate. Aching in a way you know will happen any moment and even so, you can't even bring yourself to consider stopping because this is perfect - it's everything, really. To push her down, hold her still, and fuck her so thoroughly that she cries and shudders as you spill into her.

To have her.

Yujin holds a part of yourself so tender, something you have kept close for far too long, and watching her with her arm reached behind herself, clutching blindly with her fingers, as her moans go quiet with just these whimpery, little things, a thought occurs to you, of exactly how dangerous your roommate is -

Because with you fucking into her like this, this is more than sex ought to be. More than it’s ever been.

(More dangerous yet is thinking: maybe - perhaps - it is exactly what Yujin wanted, from the start.)

#yujin smut #ive yujin smut #ive smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

[tyonfs]

the marriage and baby project (teaser)

PAIRING ▸ mark lee x fem!reader

GENRES ▸ smut, fluff, crack, college au, fake dating (marriage?) au

SUMMARY ▸ mark lee has had the biggest crush on you for years, so, naturally, he’s over the moon when you’re both partnered for a group project. however, he underestimates just how close two people can get when they have to pretend they’re married for a month while taking care of a fake baby.

ESTIMATED WORD COUNT ▸ 8k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ the dunk shot series is not dead guys :’) sorry this series was sort of at a standstill for a bit but here’s the teaser for mark’s installment !! ♡ send me an ask or comment if you want to be on the tag list! (warnings will be added in the final fic) 

THE ONLY REASON WHY MARK TOOK FAMILY AND CONSUMER SCIENCE WAS BECAUSE his friends told him it would be an easy A for a general education requirement he needed to fulfill. No one clued him in on having to become a married man and father.

“Hi, Mark,” you greeted with a smile, sliding into the seat next to him. “I guess I’m Y/N Lee for the next few weeks.”

He felt his heart drop to his stomach.

Here was a brief rundown: you were essentially a femme fatale, a drop-dead gorgeous it-girl; and Mark was a loser who was somewhat good at playing basketball. On top of that, Mark harbored the biggest crush on you since forever.

Forever dated back to high school. Although Mark never spoke to you much, he had always thought you were the most breathtaking individual he had ever seen. That was probably why he was malfunctioning right now. He had never gotten the opportunity to be around you like this, mostly because you were dating Vernon Chwe up until last year. All he could do was admire from afar helplessly, eyes lingering as you strode down hallways.

Chenle told him that there was a definite shelf life on relationships like yours and Vernon’s—relationships that were mostly physical—so he was confident you two wouldn’t last. And he was right. When you and Vernon broke up, Mark felt bad seeing your sad eyes, but an ugly part of him had been waiting for it to happen.

This situation, however, was like winning the lottery. Not only was he partnered up with you, but he had to play the role of your husband? Things like this never really happened to Mark, so he figured some misfortunate was coming his way soon.

“Hey, Y/N,” he managed to get out.

“Come up and get your babies,” the professor instructed. “These RealCare infant simulators use wireless programming to track and report on your behaviors, which is why I had you all sign those consent forms.” She held up one of the dolls for everyone to see. “I’m not gonna require you all to keep your dolls in a car seat, but I will be able to see records of misuse, clothing changes, temperature changes, whether you’ve rocked, fed, or burped your baby, or respond to its cries.”

Great. He had to walk around campus with a plastic baby. Mark’s friends were never going to let him live this down.

He wondered if the RealCare infant could play basketball.

He turned to face you again. “Do you want a boy or girl?”

“Mark Lee,” his professor chided, and he nearly jumped when saw her standing right beside his desk. “You don’t get to choose the gender of your child in real life, so I’ll be randomly assigning each couple a baby.”

“I don’t think we’ve considered the possibility of gene editing.”

“You can take that up with Congress.”

GENERAL TAG LIST ▸ @papiiimark @jaehy9ngs @chanluster @jjhmk @marksflute @superhajimark @jeongyoonohs @marklexleaf @dnylwoo @kpop-bambi @miyrisa @jjikyuu @venesiun @seventeeneration @chenosaurus16 @kylomeyon @infnteen @ohmarkly  @weish5n @thejeongjaehyun​ @lovesjenmoong​ @infnteen​ @wownajaemin​ @haruharux23 @pewpewpwe00 @scxrlettkx @pckeia @keijikunn @sapiowoman28 @atiny-doodles @loki-in-hogwarts @baekhyuns-lipchain @repjaehyn @chan-s-laptop @jen0zen @michplusb @yutassecrettime @minkis-simp​ @dreamyyang​ @catscoffeeandkpop​ @ahgastayzen​ @ryu-naa

#mark smut #nct dream smut #nct 127 smut #nct smut #nct scenarios #mark scenarios #mark x reader #mark lee smut #mark lee #mark lee x reader #nct dream imagines #nct imagines #nct 127 imagines #nct oneshots #nct dream oneshots #mark oneshots #mark imagines #nct hard hours

[pilot-boi]

Pilot, I know you primarily bully Jaune. But would you mind having a go at Papa Arc talking to the Vacuo mural?

Orion Arc is not a hero, even though his son always thought he was. He’s just a man who loves his family and tries his best to do right by them.

So it’s more than a little strange standing there, in front of a mural of his own son’s face. His boy immortalized and honored in ways Orion could never dream of.

His son looks like a stranger.

“Mr. Branwen thought it might help to talk to ya.” Orion’s hand brushes over the palm prints of countless children, all paying their respect to his boy. “Don’t see much point, ain’t gonna bring you back.”

His son watches him, all quiet confidence and bravery. A true warrior, a hero. Where is his brash anxious son who begged to join the Huntsman Academies? How much of his son did he lose when Jaune finally left home? Somewhere along the way his boy grew into a man and he wasn’t there to help him.

“Your uh…” He clears his throat. “Your mother misses you.” And it sounds pathetic even as he says it. Even in front of a facsimile of his son he can’t say what he needs to.

“She was beside herself when you didn’t come back from Haven.” So was he, even more so than his wife. Orion paced the house for days, worry driving him to throw himself into work, into anything that would take his mind off the attack and the fate of his boy. “We were so relieved to hear from Saph about you and your friends.”

His friends. A group of seven that from all accounts Jaune grew closer to than even his sisters. Orion glances up at the others in the mural. Four of which fell alongside his boy, and the other three were left grieving.

Ren, Nora, and Oscar, he remembers them being called. He never thought he’d see his grief echoed in faces so young.

“As soon as we saw the broadcast, your mother was packin’ our bags.” Orion chuckles. “You shoulda seen her, she was fixin’ to march up to the General herself and teach him a lesson. If I ever wondered where you got your fire, I got my answer.”

His face falls, crumpling like paper. “And I triedta douse that fire.” How many times did he tell Jaune it was okay if he failed? How many times did he refuse to train him? How many times did he let his fear guide him to crush his son’s dreams?

“When you walked into the livin’ room with your transcripts in hand sayin’ you were gonna be a Huntsman whether I wanted it or not, why…” His eyes are stinging. If there’s anything his son inherited from him, it’s his tendency for emotions to live near the surface. “Why that was the proudest day of my life.”

He’d never been more proud. Never. His boy standing there with those papers clutched in his fist, and a defiant look on his face. “I won’t let you down.” Jaune had said.

You could never let me down. It’s what he should’ve said. Why didn’t he just say it?

Orion scrubs the heel of his hand into his eyes. It does nothing to stop the flow of tears. “Did I ever once tell ya how proud I am of you?” His voice is cracking and hitching, but if he stops talking now Orion knows he’ll never start again.

“You’re so brave and you don’t quit when things get tough. I saw how hurt you were after the Fall of Beacon, but you just got right back on that horse.” His baby boy, the most caring and most stubborn of all his children. Strapping the family sword back onto his hip because “Somebody has to, dad.”

Letters where it’s clear his boy isn’t saying half the trouble, but he’s saying enough that they know what trouble is. Hearing about the attack on Haven, a week and a half of terror. Saphron sending word that Jaune made it to Argus.

And then nothing. Nothing until the broadcast from Miss Rose.

Packing in a whirlwind, sending the girls to stay with Saphron. Renting the first available airship to Vacuo and contending with his wife’s motion sickness. By the time they got there, they were met halfway by a near armada.

But no Jaune.

Orion’s hand rests on Jaune’s painted cheek. A child’s hand against the larger-than-life hero his boy grew into when he wasn’t there.

Did he ever tell his son how much he loves him?

“Come back to us,” Orion begs, no longer trying to stem the flow of tears. Why bother? His son isn’t here to see them.

#rwby #jaune arc #papa arc #mine #asks #my writing #freshmiraclecheesecake #healing rust au

[melpomene-writes]

my celebrity crush

minatozaki sana x fem!reader // fluff, smut

you are so gay.

as if there has ever been any doubt about that.

the photo on the screen of your phone is just further unnecessary proof of that fact. you try telling yourself that you’re just appreciative of an expensive matching lingerie set but the truth is that you’re halfway in love with the gorgeous model and the voluptuous curves that the lace frames.

besides, you might as well appreciate the latest photograph that underwear model minatozaki sana has posted to her instagram account — it’s been shared to be looked at, though perhaps not with the kind of meticulous attention that you use to admire every pixel of the frame.

there’s no question about it, minatozaki sana is gorgeous. anybody with a working pair of eyes can see that. that she was placed upon this earth specifically to model underwear, you have no doubt. but sometimes you wonder whether sana’s existence has a secondary purpose — to torture you with those pretty brown eyes and her smiling lips and each flash of delicious skin.

“you’re so gay.”

tzuyu’s comment, while undeniably true, is the unwelcome gravity that sends your thoughts plummeting back to reality.

“she’s so pretty,” you whine, staring mournfully at the picture for a few seconds, before you continue scrolling down your instagram feed.

“yeah, because you were definitely admiring her face,” tzuyu comments drily, giving you a knowing stare. she nudges you with her elbow, then gestures at the drinking game that you’ve been ignoring in favor of drooling over an unattainable model. “come on, it’s your turn.”

you reach into the center of the circle and flip over a playing card, before pointing across at dahyun and gesturing for her to take a drink.

“trust you to fall for a girl who’s famous,” tzuyu says, when the game has moved onto your other side.

“i haven’t fallen for her,” you pout. “i’m just appreciative of her work.”

“you get a notification whenever she posts a new photo,” tzuyu reminds you. “i don’t even do that for the people that i’m dating. you’ve got it bad.”

you scroll back up to look at sana’s picture once more, and your heart twists painfully in your chest at the smoldering gaze that sana gives the camera. finally deciding to stop torturing yourself with daydreams about what will never be, you lock your phone and slide it into your pocket, then gesture to the half-empty bottle of vodka on the floor between yourself and tzuyu.

“i need a stronger drink.”

///

you’ve got a nice o’clock class in the morning, yet you still allow tzuyu to ply you with a generous amount of vodka, still allow yourself to be drawn in by the increasingly raucous drinking games, still allow yourself to be dragged out into town to continue your night at a club when you promised yourself earlier that you would only have two drinks and then be in bed by eleven.

it’s a dangerous game to play, but once you become aware that you’re way drunker than you planned to be, you decide to embrace it and order the next round of shots — tequila this time —much to the delight of your friends.

your mind’s fuzzy as you stumble away from the dance floor and down a dark hallway with unpleasantly sticky floors towards the women’s bathroom. there’s a queue lining up outside, a string of drunk girls complimenting each other’s dresses and catching loudly over the thump of music as they wait for one of the stalls to free up and you join the back of it, fishing your phone out of the pocket of your pants to pass the time.

when you unlock your screen, it’s still open on the instagram post from earlier, and your eyes pop out of your head once more as they’re greeted by the sight of minatozaki sana’s lace-clad body. the sight knocks the air out of your lungs, and you feel giddy. (it might be the alcohol, but you’re pretty sure that this photo really isn't helping the matter.) you feel as though you could stare at this photo all week, that sana’s sultry brown eyes and the expanse of creamy skin on display could keep you sustained better than the food and oxygen that science says your body needs to survive.

tzuyu’s words from earlier ring in your mind. trust you to fall for a girl who’s famous. end despite your earlier denial, you know now that it’s true. you’ve never been this addicted to a girl in real life, never felt like your life would be incomplete without somebody. and its fucking ridiculous because minatozaki sana’s a famous model, and you’re just an insignificant speck in sana’s extensive follower list. you might dream of an alternate universe in which a chance encounter with the model leads to a fulfilling relationship and a fairytale happy ending, but the reality means that this will never actually happen.

which is why what you do next is so easy.

it’s almost certainly the alcohol that pushes you to start typing out a comment on sana’s photo, fueling the resentful part of your mind that’s reminding you that sana’s not the only incontestably gorgeous, but that as a famous model she would never even glance twice at somebody like you, pushing your thumbs to tap away at the keyboard on the screen of your phone before your brain has the chance to catch up.

“nice underwear, bet it would look better on my bedroom floor...”

the line moves forward just as you tap send, and you slip your phone back into your pocket and forget about the comment entirely.

///

when you’re finished in the bathroom, you return to the dancefloor with a clear conscience and a renewed enthusiasm for having a good time. you dance with tzuyu, shimmying your hips and waving your arms around above your head in ways that would bring you great shame if you weren’t impaired by the buzz of too many units of alcohol. as it is, you dance like you don’t give a fuck — and you don't.

that is, until your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you take it out while continuing a half-dance kind of thing, startling yourself with the bright glare of the screen as you unlock it in the darkened nightclub. you turn down the brightness, then look for the cause of the vibration — an instagram notification telling you that somebody has sent you a private message — and read the words on the screen.

“nice face, bet it would look better between my legs...”

you read the sender’s name once, twice, three times before it registers that it reads minatozaki sana — your celebrity crush minatozaki sana — and it is only after that the contents of message itself hits you.

and you nearly drop your phone.

no way.

no fucking way.

you read it all again, read your own shame-inducing comment that you barely remember typing earlier in the night and then read sana's private response. and it just doesn't make any sense. sana’s making fun of you, she has to be. you’ve made an unwanted and inappropriate sexual comment on a stranger's photo and sana’s calling you out for it.

you have to believe that’s true because the alternative is that sana’s message is genuine, and that is far too much for your alcohol-fogged brain to handle.

there is no way that sana would be interested in somebody like you.

you’re a firm believer that the multiverse theory is entirely plausible, but you cannot comprehend that there could be a single universe in which you get hit on by somebody as completely out of your league as minatozaki sana.

especially not in this universe.

especially not after the awful comment that you sent.

you wish that you could rewind time. it's stupid, to be completely honest, because you've spent months dreaming up impossible scenarios in which sana notices you amongst the thousands of fans, but now that the day has finally arrived, you don't think you've ever been this mortified in your life.

you need to be sober. you also need to rectify this situation as soon as possible, and because sobriety seems to be several hours and a few pints of cold water away, you settle for working on the latter.

"i'm so sorry! i've been drinking and i don't know what i was thinking when i wrote that! i promise i'm not a creep!"

it's word vomit in written form, but you aren't capable of typing out anything more articulate in your current state and you're at least grateful that the message contains no spelling errors. you hit send and push the phone back into your pocket, as if putting the whole thing out of sight will wipe it from your mind.

if only the world worked in that way.

“what’s wrong?” tzuyu bellows into your ear from just a few inches away, and despite the proximity, her words are still almost drowned out by the thump of the bass.

you try to act normal, realizing quickly that ‘normal’ behavior is a lot harder to pull off when you’re thinking about it, and just shrug, before answering, “just not feeling it anymore. i’ve drunk too much.”

“we can go if you like,” tzuyu replies. “i’m pretty much done for the night too.”

your phone goes off again in your pocket, and you try not to be too eager in taking it out, just in case tzuyu notices your strange behavior and probes further.

“why don’t you enjoy the rest of your night, and we’ll see if you’re still interested when you’re sober tomorrow?”

you frown down at the screen, because the words don't entirely make sense and you don't know if that's your fault or sana's fault or the alcohol's or some fiendish combination of all three.

“interested in what?”

you press send and sana’s next message comes back almost immediately, and you can’t help but picture sana somewhere with her phone in her hand, waiting for your message so that she can reply straight away. (sana’s scantily clad in this scenario, and draped across a bed, because apparently your mind enjoys straying to inappropriate places after too many shots, and oh boy, if your mouth wasn’t dry before then it certainly is now.)

“in seeing my underwear on your bedroom floor.”

you lock the screen of your phone in panic, lest anybody around you happen to see the conversation with sana and put it away as you lean towards tzuyu and say, “yeah, let’s get of here.”

///

when you wake up, the only thing to hit you before the hangover is the shame.

you remember everything. well, there are clear gaps in your memory — you don’t remember the journey to the nightclub, nor getting food on the way back home even though there’s an open pizza box with two and a half uneaten slices lying in plain sight on your bedroom floor, nor the exact set of circumstances that led you going out on a night that you’d promise yourself you would stay in. but you remember everything about minatozaki sana, about the obscene comment you posted on sana’s photo, about the inexplicably propositional message that you received in response.

and you’re mortified.

you unlock your phone with the greatest reluctance, because you're hoping that there’s a tiny chance you drank so much last night that the entire thing was merely a dreamed-up product of your own alcohol-addled mind but nope, the messages from sana are most definitely glaring up at you, which means that you did the unspeakable and pretty much sexually-assaulted a stranger via an instragram comment.

the third thing that hits you, once you’ve confirmed that last night’s events really did happen, is the realization that you should’ve been in class twenty minutes ago.

you drag yourself out of bed, grateful that you at least had enough sense to change into pajamas when you got home in the early hours of the morning, rather than passing out fully nude, as you’ve done before, and take your phone with you out of your bedroom and into the kitchen where tzuyu sits at the table, chewing on a slice of toast.

“tzuyu, we have a big problem,” you announce.

tzuyu glances up from her plate, an expression of mild surprise on her face before she swallows her mouthful of food and replies, “for the last time, y/n, skipping class because you’re hungover is not the end of the world.”

you feel a bang of sadness for the loss of your unblemished attendance record this year, but then shake yourself out if it when you remember that there are far worse things that you’ve done in the last twenty-four hours than forgetting to set an alarm.

“no, something happened last night,” you explain. when panic flashes across tzuyu’s face, you hold out your phone, which is open on the comment you made on sana's photo last night, and quickly say, “no, nothing like that. look at this.”

tzuyu squints at the screen, mouthing the words of your comment silently as she reads it, before her mouth drops open and she stares up at you with shock in her eyes.

“jesus christ, y/n. that’s not like you at all.”

“i know!” you whine, taking back your phone so that you can open up the message conversation that follows on from your comment. “i’m mortified.”

“i mean,” tzuyu says, taking another bite from her toast and continuing in a muffled voice, “that photo has hundreds of comments. i’m sure she hasn’t seen it.”

“hold on,” you tell her. “i’m not finished.”

you show tzuyu your phone once more, this time open on the surreal conversation with sana, the one that you wouldn’t believe actually happened if you didn’t have the hard physical evidence of it in front of you.

tzuyu’s reaction is predictably astounded.

“what the actual fuck?”

“so, you see it too?” you ask, just to confirm, as tzuyu takes the phone from you to look at the conversation in more detail. “i haven’t just fantasized the entire thing?”

tzuyu frowns down at the screen with an expression of disbelief that matches how you feel, and then answers, “it would appear not.”

the phone in tzuyu’s hands vibrates with a new message, and you lunge forward to snatch it from your best friend, only for tzuyu to use her height advantage against you to keep you the phone to yourself.

“it’s from her!” tzuyu announces gleefully, before she reads out, “‘morning cutie!’ — oh my god, i’m going to be sick already — ‘hope you aren’t too hungover. the offer still stands. i’m in dc for a shoot next week if you’d like to go for a drink?’ holy shit, y/n. she’s serious.”

you finally triumph in taking your phone back, reading over sana’s newest message to find that tzuyu didn't make a word of it up. minatozaki sana, a famous model so gorgeous that you’re certain she could date anybody she wanted, has actually asked you out.

“it’s a joke,” you say aloud, for your own benefit more than for tzuyu. “it has to be. retaliation for the gross comment that i left her. she has to be making fun of me, trying to see if she can trick me into saying yes, before she jumps out and tells me that of course somebody like her would never be interested in somebody like me.”

“okay y/n, this may be news to you — and don’t you dare repeat this conversation to anybody because you know i hate it when people think i can be sincere — but you’re actually kind of hot." when you open your mouth to protest, tzuyu shuts you up with a dismissive wave of your hand and continue, “and i know that girls could be flinging their panties at you and you’d still come up with a completely illogical explanation for why they might still not be interested in you, but it’s not completely unreasonable that minatozaki sana has checked out your instagram account, decided that you’re a hot piece of ass and wants to screw you.”

you chew on your lower lip, because that’s an unlikely story, even though the messages that stare up at you from the screen of your phone seem to support a similar idea.

“look,” tzuyu says, reaching out to rest one hand on your arm, “if you don’t want to then you don’t have to. but just remember that most people would give anything to be asked out by their celebrity crush.”

it hits you then. this is your celebrity crush, the woman that only ever appears in your fantasies. an opportunity like this would never present itself again.

“okay,” you finally concede. “but if i turn up to meet her and find that she’s there with a half dozen police officers waiting to arrest me for sexually harassing her online, then you are paying for my legal fees.”

///

you’re terrified. you’ve been a jittery ball of nerves all afternoon, and now that the minutes until you meet sana are down to the single digits, the pounding of your heart is deafening.

“y/n?”

you’re so nervous that you startle when you hear a voice saying your name, and you jump to your feet when you see sana standing in front of you.

sana is… she’s shorter than you imagined her to be. she’s only fractionally shorter than you, but it still surprises you that this figure you’ve built up in your head to be such a monumental idol in your life doesn’t actually tower over you in reality.

sana seems completely normal too, as if she’s just a regular person, rather than a famous model with hundreds of thousands of online followers. and yeah, of course you knew sana wasn’t going to show up in just a fancy set of lingerie, or wearing a glamorous ball gown, or anything like that, but there’s something about seeing sana wearing a pair of turned up jeans with rips in both knees, a leather jacket, a plaid scarf bundled around her neck, that just grounds the entire situation.

she’s still gorgeous though. you think that sana could have turned up in a pair of sweatpants and with unwashed hair and you would still momentarily forget how to breathe in her presence.

sana’s eyes are browner in real life, and her smile even prettier, and if you weren’t at least fifty percent in love with the model before this moment, then you definitely are now.

“sana?” you choke past the dryness in your throat to finally stop gaping like an idiot and say something. “hi! um, can i get you a drink?”

“sure!” sana answers, unraveling her scarf from around your neck and taking off your jacket, folding both over one arm as you lean on the bar and flag down a bartender. “i’ll have a white wine, please.”

“a white wine and a vodka lime soda, please,” you tell the server behind the bar, reaching into your purse for some change to pay for the drinks.

“you look great, by the way,” sana says, nudging herself into your side as she leans on the bar beside you.

“so, do you,” you say. “i mean, wow.”

you turn to look at sana with the intention of physically acknowledging how good sana looks but find brown eyes much closer than you expect. you falter, intimidated by sana's proximity, and have to look away for your own sanity.

“don’t be ridiculous,” sana dismisses your comment with a wave of the hand, as if she hasn’t just dazzled you with a simple gaze. “i came straight from a shoot so i didn’t even have time to properly get ready.”

the bartender places your drinks on the bar, and you take the opportunity to distract yourself from the heat rising to your cheeks in sana’s presence by reaching out for your purse and counting out the correct change to pay for your drinks. passing the glass of wine over to sana, you pick up your own drink and lead the way over to a small table for two not far from the bar.

“i want to apologize for the comment that i left on your picture,” you say, almost as soon as you both have each taken a seat, desperate to get your apology in early so that you have a chance to redeem yourself and prove to sana that you can be so much more than just a creep from the internet. “i was drunk, and i know that doesn’t excuse anything...”

“don’t worry about it,” sana says, taking a sip from her wine and then placing the glass on the table. “it’s not the first time i’ve seen a comment like that. admittedly, they’re usually from gross teenage boys or pervy old men...”

“i’m incredibly sorry,” you repeat, mortified at being placed in such a category.

“look, i can tell that it’s out of character for you,” sana reassures you. a sly smile quirks her lips, and she adds in a lower voice, “besides, i like a girl who isn’t afraid to say that she wants.”

your mouth goes incredibly dry from the combination of sana’s words and the look that sana gives you in that moment, like she wants to launch herself across the table and do unspeakable things to you regardless of the bar’s other patrons, and you have to reach for your drink to cool yourself down.

“do you do this often?” you dare to ask, almost scared to hear of all the other people sana must’ve invited out for drinks, just like this.

“do what?” sana frowns.

“go out for drinks with fans.”

sana shakes her heads and answers, “actually, this is the first time.”

you almost choke on your drink. you had been expecting sana to say that she does this all the time — she must do this all the time if she's doing it with you — but the reality is a complete surprise.

"then... why me?"

it doesn’t make sense. sana has over ten million followers on instagram, and out of them all, she has chosen you.

“i don’t know,” sana shrugs. “something about you intrigued me. when i saw your comment, i was curious because it came from a woman. and then i looked at your photos and i liked what i saw.”

you feel your cheeks flush when sana confessed to browsing your own instagram account. you use it to post pictures of sunsets and hand-picked flowers and the cat that followed you home from the library last week. nothing that would make a lingerie model swoon.

and yet sana’s still there, sitting in front of you with a drink in her hand that you bought for her.

“what about now?” you dare to ask. “do you still like what you see?”

sana’s gaze slowly lowers, staring at your eyes and then dropping to your lips, where she lingers before her stare slides down the rest of your body, as if she’s checking you out through the table that sits between you both. when sana’s eyes flicker upwards once more to meet yours, she doesn’t answer your question verbally. instead, the way she raises her eyebrows at you, along with the renewed hunger in her eyes, is more than enough of an indication of her thoughts.

“so,” sana eventually drawls, “it took you a great deal of alcohol for you to post that comment, right?” when you nod an affirmative, sana continues, “and how many drinks before you’ll let me take you back to my hotel?”

you glance across at your drink, already half empty from the way that you’ve been sipping at it regularly as a distraction from the mounting arousal that has you clenching your thighs together. your decision is instant, and you reach for the glass, knocking back your head to pour the remainder down your throat.

wincing at the taste of the vodka, slightly stronger at the bottom of the glass than it had been at the top, you put the glass down with a thud and reply, “one’s more than enough.”

sana’s eyes light up in delight and she finishes her own drink in one gulp, before collecting her purse and jacket as she pushes back her chair.

“then let’s get out of here.”

///

if somebody were to ask you at a later date to recount the journey back to sana’s hotel, you would only be able to do it in the vaguest terms. it’s a blur of sana’s hand in yours, and sana’s hand on your waist, and sana’s hands drifting lower so that it's not quite grazing the curve of your denim-clad butt when you both have the privacy of the elevator up to sana’s room.

the two of you talk about... about something. the two of you must do, because the journey isn’t an awkward one, not entirely anyway. you think that you both talk about sana’s current shoot, and your college classes, and other such idle chitchat that happens entirely on autopilot. none of it really registers in your brain, because you’re still completely overwhelmed by the fact that you’ve met your celebrity crush, let alone the fact that said celebrity crush has invited you back to her hotel room for what promises to be the most mind-blowing evening of your entire life to date.

you’re still half-convinced that this whole thing is just a hoax, that sana’s hand seeking out whichever part of your body it can find to hold as you both make your way up to sana’s room is only there to stop you from running, that you both’ll step inside sana’s room to find a television crew armed with cameras and a half dozen confetti cannons ready to jump out and tell you that you’ve been pranked.

because there’s no way that sana actually wants to have sex with you.

but the two of you make it up to the hotel room, and when sana unlocks the door with her key card and ushers you inside, there’s nothing waiting for the two of you except a king size bed that’s equal parts inviting and intimidating.

“can i get you another drink?” sana asks, dropping her purse and jacket onto the floor beside the dresser and opening the door to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room to inspect its contents.

“no,” you answer, deciding that although a little liquid courage would be more than welcome right now, you want to be sound of mind to experience this for whatever it turns out to be. “i...”

“oh,” sana says, shutting the fridge door again and crossing the room to you, her hands seeking out your waist and slowly guiding you back against the wall next to the door. “is there something else you'd rather be doing?”

“i...” you stammer, your throat almost painfully dry, “i have a couple of ideas.”

“yeah?”

you hesitate before you act, searching sana’s face for any possible sign that she doesn’t want you to kiss her, but when you find none, and when sana’s hands tighten on your waist in encouragement, you lift one of your hands to cup sana’s cheek and pull her in for a hot kiss.

despite waiting for you to initiate the kiss, sana takes control as soon as your mouth meets hers. she keep you anchored against the wall with her hands, while her mouth opens and her tongue swipes against the crease of your lips, requesting access that you’re only too happy to give. and you’re grateful that sana’s taking the lead. the entire situation still drips with surrealism, and your brain can’t keep up with the fast pace of the evening's developments.

you’re kissing minatozaki sana. you’re in sana’s hotel room, with sana’s hands low on your hips, and sana’s tongue sweeping into your mouth, and there’s no fucking way that this isn’t just a hyper-realistic dream. except that you’re too aware of each tiny detail for this to be a dream, too aware of the thudding in your ears with each pump of the blood through your veins, too aware of the way that sana’s hands burn through the material of your top, too aware of the ache between your legs as you subconsciously push your hips forward into sana’s as if seeking contact where you so desperately need it.

it has to be real.

almost as if she senses that you need a respite to let your brain catch up with your body, sana pulls back from the kiss, far enough for you to see that sana’s brown irises have almost shrunk entirely behind the black of her blown pupils, before sana’s parted lips descend on your neck, tracing dangerous paths over tendons and fluttering pulses.

it’s still very distracting, the way that sana’s teeth and tongue work at the skin of your neck with no real predictability in their movements, but without the intoxication of sana’s lips on your own, you do manage to remember that there are things you planned to say to sana before things could get to this stage and with your mouth free to speak, you choose now to attempt to vocalize them, if only to give you something else to try and focus on instead of succumbing entirely to your desire.

“i just want to say,” you manage to husk out, impressed with your own ability to string words together in the face of sana’s valiant efforts at making you lose your mind entirely, “i think you’re… you’re a great rolemodel to young girls, a real icon. the campaigning you do for body positivity… and, uh...” you let out a little grunt as sana’s teeth close around a sensitive spot on your neck, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to regain the composure needed to finish your sentence, “and the lgbt community. you know, bisexual represen—”

“y/n,” sana says, lifting her mouth from your neck and cutting your words off with a disarming arch of her eyebrow, “i would love to hear all this later, but right now i can think of much better things that your mouth could be doing.”

you let out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a groan at the implication of sana’s words, but you get a sudden surge of confidence, sliding your hands under the hem of sana’s top and bunching the fabric upwards.

“can i take this off?”

sana smiles as she detaches her own hands from your hips, allowing just enough space between your bodies for you to lift sana’s top up and over her head.

you don’t know how to cope now that sana isn’t wearing a shirt. it seems silly, because you've seen this sight before — sana’s breasts covered in satin or lace — but before it’s always been part of a carefully constructed photoshoot intended to be shared with millions of other people. this is completely different because it’s a private showing. nobody else but you get to see this view, and knowing that sana wants it to be you and only you seeing her body tonight, is more of a turn on than anything that you’ve ever encountered in your life before.

“shit,” you groan, closing your eyes as arousal throb in your veins.

“your turn,” sana husks. “i want to see you too.”

sana’s hands tug at the hem of your top and you raise your arms above your head, allowing sana to pull the garment up and off, before she drops it on the floor beside her own.

you almost want to fold your arms across your chest, feeling incredibly self-conscious about standing there in your bra in front of a woman who gets paid to be photographed wearing the same amount of clothing on her upper half. you decided earlier today to put on your nicest bra, just in case things escalated this far, but you’re still just a poor college student, and your nicest bra cost about thirty-five dollars, compared to be obviously far more expensive that sana wears.

“fuck, you’re beautiful,” sana exhales appreciatively, stroking the fingers of one hand across your cheek, then down the column of your neck and over your collarbone before her palm comes to rest over your lace-covered breast. “i can’t wait to get you naked.”

you surge forward, pressing your lips against sana’s, and the force of the movement causes sana to stumble backwards, one hand anchoring itself on your waist while the other palms your breast generously.

“bed,” you mumble, between hot kisses full of tongue that swipe messily at each other and teeth that nip at swollen lips, as you attempt to steer sana backwards towards the bed in the middle of the room, something that only becomes more difficult as sana’s thumb and forefinger pinch at an already puckered nipple through the fabric of your bra.

the two of you make it to the bed, somehow, by which time your jeans are caught around your knees and your fumbling hands have propped open the button on the front of sana’s. you kick your jeans off, tossing them on the floor somewhere behind you as you climb on top of sana, disconnecting your lips long enough to help sana tug denim down her own legs.

“come here, gorgeous,” sana says, smirking at you as she lies back on the bed, propped up on her elbows.

you follow sana’s request, crawling up sana’s body with your legs on either side of sana’s hips, your aching center hovering just inches above sana’s lacy panties as you lean down for another kiss. your long hair tumbles over your face, and you have to take a moment to flick it all over one shoulder, before you connect your lips once more and let your hand slide up the smooth skin of sana’s side until it’s resting on the other curve of sana’s lace-clad breast.

“can i?” you mumble against sana’s lips.

“take it off,” sana says, arching her back off the bed so that you can reach your hand underneath sana and unsnap the clasp. “i want your mouth on my breasts.”

you’re only too happy to oblige, undoing the bra with a shaky hand before throwing it to the floor. you don't allow yourself time to think — or time to realize that sana’s now lying topless before you, because that would almost certainly be too much for you to handle — before you descend on sana’s breast, wrapping your lips around a rosy nipple while you send one of your hands up to give sana’s other breast a generous squeeze. you swipe your tongue over the nipple as it puckers and sana’s hand finds the back of your head, tangling into brunette curls to keep your mouth against her breast.

you’re not satisfied with just this though. now that you have a taste of sana’s skin, you want more, you want to put your mouth on every tantalizing inch of sana’s body. you replace your mouth with your other hand, giving attention to the hardened bud with your fingers, while your tongue traces a path down the valley between sana’s breasts and down sana’s stomach.

sana’s body is even more perfect in person than in her pictures, and you get more and more proof of that with each second that you spend worshipping it. sana’s belly has a slight curve to it, unlike the stereotypical stick-thin model, and you make sure to lavish the soft skin with attention. you trace mindless patterns over sana’s stomach with your lips, stopping every so often to place kisses or draw pictures with your tongue. you seek out sensitive spots, reveling each time sana lets out a gasp or arches away when your lips brush over a ticklish area, making sure to return to these places until sana’s a writhing mess beneath you.

the hand on the back of your head grips tighter, then try to push your mouth down further. you smirk against the warm skin of sana’s stomach, knowing exactly where she wants your next destination to be.

but you won’t give in that easily. you lift your mouth from sana’s stomach and settle on your knees between sana’s legs. sana lets out a groan of frustration, but it’s one that dies in her throat when she realizes that your hands have gone to her hips, seeking out the elastic of her underwear to pull the lace down her legs and discard it on the floor.

you’ve been in this situation with girls before, but you don't think you’ve ever wanted it this much. and it’s not just because sana’s famous, or somebody that you’ve been harboring an unrequited crush on for way longer than the other girl has even known of your existence. there’s just something about sana, about the way that her kisses taste like perfection, about the way that you seem to know exactly what to do to elicit each gasp of pleasure from sana despite being a thrumming ball of nerves, that gives you the inexplicable sensation that your life was always supposed to end up in the moment, whether you like it or not.

you definitely like it. there isn’t a question about that. and, judging by the smear of sana’s arousal that coats your stomach when you settle back between sana’s legs, sana likes it too.

minatozaki sana is into you. which is just way too strange for you get your mind around. sana’s so beautiful, both in looks and personality, that she might as well be from another universe, while you’re just... well, you’re just you. you’re nothing special. completely ordinary.

“i need your mouth,” sana begs.

you’re only too happy to oblige. you trail another path down sana’s body, similar to before but with more purpose now. without the scrap of lace covering sana’s center, your destination is in sight, and you waste very little time getting there, only stopping briefly over sana’s breasts and her navel and that sensitive spot just above sana’s left hipbone that you discovered during your earlier exploration, in attempts to drive sana wild.

everything about this situation is incredibly surreal, but you decide the moment that trumps it all is the one when you slide your tongue through sana’s wetness for the first time. you can’t believe you’re here in sana’s hotel room, let alone going down on the woman you admire, but the heady taste of sana’s arousal on your tongue is eerily familiar, yet also different to anything you’ve ever tasted before.

instinct kicks in. no longer is this you and your celebrity crush, this is you and a girl who wants you, a girl who needs you, if the way that sana’s hips cant up into your mouth is anything to go by. sana sends a hand down and tangles it into the hair on the back of your head, keeping your mouth against her while she bucks her hips and gyrates against your mouth.

it’s really fucking hot, is the first thing that crosses your mind. and there’s no second thing, because you lose yourself in it all. sana’s enthusiasm is smearing her arousal all over your chin but you fucking love it, love the way that sana just can’t seem to get enough of your mouth.

“yes, baby,” sana mounts out encouragements between whimpers. “yes!”

you’ve never been called baby before, but you decide that you like it coming from sana’s lips. you double your efforts in response, wrapping your lips around sana’s aching slit and lashing your tongue against it. sana bucks her hips again when you do that, lets out a few more murmured encouragements and a gasped ‘fuck’, and you hum against sana’s center in approval.

you realize that sana’s going to come really fucking soon if you keep this up, and while the thought is an encouraging one, you aren’t quite ready to be done yet. you slow down the ministrations of your tongue, moving away from sana’s sensitive clit to drag lazy paths up and down sana’s folds, while bringing up a hand to spread sana open for you.

“do you want...?” you ask, lifting your mouth from sana’s center as you dip the tip of an exploratory finger into sana’s opening.

“god, yes,” sana groans, lifting her hips off the bed in an attempt to get your mouth back on her. “do what you want, y/n. fuck me. i need... yeah, just like that.”

you go straight in with two fingers, knowing that sana's more than ready for both, and you let out another hum of delight at the sensation of sana clenching deliciously around your digits. you curl your fingers against sana’s front wall, seeking out the erogenous area that you know will drive sana crazy, and you know you're successful when sana’s back arches off the bed and a husky groan erupts from her throat.

“fuck. y/n, just like that.”

you speed up your motions, thrusting two fingers in and out, and lean down against to put your mouth against sana’s center. there’s no pretense anymore, no need for further delay. you need to see sana come for you and you need to see it soon. you swipe your tongue against sana’s folds once, twice, then dive right in, giving sana’s clit the unwavering attention of your lips and tongue while your fingers slowly work sana higher and higher.

“shit, baby. i’m gonna…”

no amount of warning could prepare you for sana’s orgasm. you know it’s been building but it still takes you by surprise, from the way sana’s hips lift off the bed, to the shout of pleasure that escapes her lips. you use your free hand and splay it over sana’s hips, keeping them anchored to the bed, while you use your fingers of the other, still buried in velvety warmth, to coax yet more sounds from sana’s mouth.

sana’s body stutters through the climax, trembling beneath you with unpredictable jerks, and even when you think you’ve drawn the last of sana’s pleasure from her, sana’s body still twitches once more, before she collapses onto the bed with a contended sigh.

you withdraw your fingers and wipe them on your thigh, not minding the sticky mess they leave behind, then crawl up sana’s body.

“did i do okay?” you ask, because even though sana obviously just came for you, you need to know if it was good enough, need to know if you’ve done enough for sana to stick around long enough to return the favor.

sana’s hands pull your head down for a kiss. there’s almost too much tongue, but when you realize that sana is merely tasting herself on your lips, you decide that there can be no such thing as too much tongue, and you let sana’s filthy kiss take control.

“you’re so cute,” sana mumbles against your lips, her mouth turning up into a smile. “way more than okay.”

in a sudden move that takes you by surprise, sana flips you both over and hovers above your body with a predatory smile on her face. she lowers her mouth to your neck, closing her teeth over your pulse point and sucking what is going to turn into a dark mark into the pale skin there, before moving even lower.

“what was it you were saying earlier?” she asks, between kisses that draw a path over the swell of your breasts and down towards your navel. “i believe you used the words ‘feminist icon’. why don’t you tell me a bit more about that while i eat you out?” 

your head falls back against the pillow and your hand finds the back of sana’s head. the moan that spills from your throat when sana’s lips close around your clit can probably be heard from the hotel lobby many floors below.

///

six months later

you hum a jaunty tune under your breath as you slot your key into the front door of your apartment. you smell like an airplane, and you haven’t eaten all day but none of that matters when you’re still riding the high of a weekend spent in your girlfriend’s bed. 

you’ve been dating sana for six months now, and it still feels a little bit like a dream that you’re praying you’ll never wake up from. that night in sana’s hotel room was one of the best of your life, and once the two of you were done exploring each other’s bodies over and over again, the two of you both stayed up talking into the early hours of the morning until you both were too tired to stay awake any longer.

as you push open the front door and drag your small suitcase inside the apartment. you smile to yourself at the memory of that night and the morning that followed. if sana asking you out for a drink was surreal, if sana taking you back to her hotel room and fucking you until you couldn’t remember your own name was surreal, then nothing could have prepared you for sana inviting you along to the second day of her photoshoot the following day, nor the way that sana took you twice in her dressing room during her lunch break, nor the relationship that blossomed from there.

it’s been a really great six months.

“tzuyu?” you call out into the apartment, leaving your suitcase by the door and walking toward your roommate’s bedroom. “you in?”

“yeah!” comes tzuyu’s reply.

you push open the door to tzuyu’s room and find your friend sitting up against the headboard of her bed, her laptop on her thighs, which she moves to the side when she sees you standing in the doorway.

“so, how was your weekend away?” tzuyu asks.

“it was good,” you grin.

‘good’ doesn’t even begin to cover your weekend spent with her, but then none of the other words in the dictionary do either. you don’t think you’re going to be able to stop grinning for days.

“have you been on instagram lately?” tzuyu asks.

“no, why?” you frown, fumbling for your phone in your jacket pocket and opening up the app.

“take a look at your girlfriend’s latest post,” tzuyu tells you, her voice full of glee and eyes lit up with delight.

you scroll down your feed until you find the photo in question and read the caption.

there’s nothing quite like letting your girl take it off you at the end of a long shoot…

your eyes flit up to the picture, a photo of a pair of lacy underwear lying discarded on the floor, and heat rises to your cheeks as you realize that sana must’ve taken the photo while you weren’t paying attention.

the thing is you recognize the underwear. in fact, you remember picking the set out at the mall specifically to wear on this trip to visit sana, and you remember the nerves you felt while putting them on and wondering whether sana would like what she sees, and you remember the satisfaction of sana popping open the clasp of the bra and drawing the lacy panties down your legs with only her teeth.

“shit,” you groan, letting your head fall against tzuyu’s doorframe with a soft thud.

“what?” 

“that’s not even a picture of sana’s underwear.”

tzuyu’s shriek of glee is a sound that isn’t going to leave you in a long while.

probably the most requested one...

#kpop x reader #kpop imagines #twice x reader #twice imagines #twice sana x reader #twice sana imagines #minatoazki sana x reader #minatozaki sana imagines #sana x reader #sana imagines #girl group imagines #gxg imagines #kpop #twice #twice sana #minatozaki sana #sana #girl group #gxg

[a-mint-bear]

Yandere Girl Types

The Super Fan

● She can't help but trail after you like a lovesick puppy. She looks at you and everything you do with the rosiest of rose-colored glasses. Whether you're the talented type or just an average person, she looks at you like you are her everything, because you are!

● Whenever you're together, she's a little clingy. But it's nice to have someone who likes you as much as she does. It makes you feel special, wanted. She's not shy about making the first move, and she's especially not shy about telling you how she feels. But she makes sure you know that you don't have to say it back if you're not there yet. She knows you will though. Soon.

● She sits and smiles at the pictures of you all over her room. Anything you've touched, she considers her greatest treasures. She saw you drop your favorite pen one day and meant to give it back to you, honest. But the moment she touched it, it was like something came over her. She stuffed it in her bag and took it home, and ever since, she can't help but take your things. Especially the stuff that smells like you. She keeps taking more and more of your things, but it's not enough. It's never enough...

● She makes copies of your keys when you "lose" them on day. At first, it's just to sneak into your place and take things she can't get otherwise, but it quickly escalates. She lets herself in and plays house, imagining your life together. Soon, she's watching you sleep and even lies down next to you, just for a little bit. She wants to touch you so badly...

● She wonders... if you woke up, would you smile like you always do? Would you hold her close? Would you be hers?

The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

● On the outside, she's the nicest girl. Whenever you see her, she's always got a sweet smile on her face and is always willing to help you if it means she gets to spend a little more time with you. You think of her as the kind and generous type, but she doesn’t extend this behavior to anyone but you.

● She doesn't really seem interested in dating. Anyone who actually has asked her out gets turned down gently. But a few of them swear they could see a look of disgust flash across her face for just a second before the rejection, but they always thought they just imagined it. In reality, there's only one person on her mind, so no one else can even compare.

● No one sees the other side of her. The way she stares down the girl who always laughs at your jokes. How she swears under her breath when she sees how your best guy friend just casually touches your arm, how her nails dig into the palms of her hands until they bleed. But when your eyes meet hers, you’d never guess the things she’d just been imagining.

● She hears a rumor that someone is going to ask you out. At first, she just plans to put them in their place and remind them that you deserve better, maybe just harass them or scare them. Or maybe ruining their life a little, poisoning their friends against them or getting them fired. But the thought of them getting pity from you or running to you and telling you how she acts when you’re not around… The thought of you holding them close, telling them you how much you love them... Something in her just snaps. She catches them when they're isolated and gets rid of them. Nothing can ever be traced back to her.

● She can't risk you seeing her in a bad light, even if it's so the two of you can be together. Everything she does, it's all for you!

The Secret Admirer

● She's had a rough home life. She has no one in her corner, no one's been there for her. She doesnt have anyone she can call her own. Until she sees you for the first time. Something about you is just... right. You fill that empty spot she's felt her entire life and the thought of you is the only thing that makes life worthwhile.

● She's quiet, reserved, and always looking your way. You can feel someone watching you sometimes, but when you turn around, no one's there. You don't connect it to the girl you've seen around lately. It doesn’t matter to her how you treat her, whether you say hello, smile politely, or give her a look for staring. Any attention, good or bad, is everything to her. You're everything to her. But she can't tell you, not yet. If she messes it up, if you reject her... She couldn't live with that.

● You start noticing things. Little gifts someone has left you, sometimes snacks and treats. The book you've been reading suddenly has a pressed flower inside the front cover, baby's breath. You find love notes in your bag. Some are flowery poetry, others get a little steamy, but it's all a bit clumsy, somehow. At first you think it might be one of your friends pranking you, but no one you know would pull something like this. Maybe someone actually has a thing for you? But how are you supposed to respond when there's no way to give anyone an actual answer? You decide to just ignore it until this person actually decides to meet you face to face.

● You don't smile when you see her gifts anymore. The notes she pours her heart into get left where you find them. Seeing you just walk away when she does something for you shatters her. Love her, hate her, anything! Just don't ignore her!! Without you, she has nothing to live for... Please... Don't leave her behind. Through her tears, her agony turns to desperation.

● You can't get rid of her. She won't let you. Maybe... it's time for you to meet.

The Boss Lady

● You've been working under her for the last few years. She's powerful, she's beautiful, and so very, very intimidating. She gets what she wants, no matter who she has to step on. She seems to have locked onto you for some reason, having you run and get her things and having you stay and work overtime.

● She seems to like running you ragged and seeing you flustered. You have half a mind to believe that she’s been “accidentally” brushing up against you reaching for files or leaning to talk in your ear as you sit at your desk, her charming, sultry voice sending shivers up your spine. Your damn body is betraying you. You don’t want to think that damn tyrant is attractive! Your coworkers are jealous that you're spending so much time with her, but you think they'd think twice if they were the ones picking up her dry cleaning and coffee orders, day in and day out. You tell a coworker you'd quit, but you need the money too much.

● One day, she calls you into her office. She says she has a proposition for you. She wants you to be her executive assistant. It comes with great benefits and a HUGE pay raise. The work will be harder, sure, but you'd have to be an idiot to say no. But the conditions get more specific and odd. You would accompany her on all her business trips, eat all your meals with her, you'd even be living in her penthouse suite. At first, you think it's just a weirdly intensive position, she just needs someone to manage her life. But the way she's looking at you... it's like she wants to possess you entirely.

● All you can think to ask is, why you? There's a bored look on her face as she starts talking about her career. How her job and climbing the corporate ladder were the only things she put any effort into. Everything else was so tedious and dull. Until you started as an intern, dropping off her coffee order with that nervous smile. She started noticing how hard you work, how you never turn down her requests, how you try to hide your smile when she praises you... How your breath hitches when her hand brushes yours. And how, every day when you clock out, her world stagnates until she sees you again.

● Say yes, and you'll have everything you could ever want. But make no mistake, you'll be hers. And she has no plans to let you go.

#yandere girl #female yandere #yandere imagines #yandere #yandere oc #i don't know why but #lady yanderes are a bit scarier than the guys #in a good way but still #boss lady is my fav #i dont like making these too mature but #she would def get you a collar lol #also #baby's breath can mean everlasting love and undying devotion

[danikamariewrites]

Hiii

I love seeing people write more of azs soft side soft az doesn't get enough love I was wondering if you can could you write one where az and his mate are having sex and she suddenly blacks out and has a panic attack and is physically shaking due to past trauma aswell as finding it really painful and azriel comforts her and takes care of her gives her painkillers holds her and is generally a very loving boyfreind and mate ?

Comfort You (smut)

Azriel x reader

Warnings: mentions of SA, smut, trauma, angst, and anxiety

Azriel laid his head on your chest as he continued to thrust into you. His breathing was heavy and started to become uncomfortable on your skin. You felt like the room was closing in around you, the sheets felt like sand, and suddenly Azriel’s weight felt unfamiliar and unwanted.

You felt like you weren’t in your room. Your eyes screw shut and your body freezes. The pleasure you were feeling moments ago is replaced by pain. The next few moments are a blur to you. You swear you hear Azriel calling out your name but you aren’t in control of your body.

He starts to rub your arms gently, trying to coax you back into your mind. It takes all of your strength but you force your eyes to fully open. The pain was gone but you were still shaking uncontrollably. Azriel had pulled the sheet up to cover you in his panic. You fist at it as it starts to feel soft again.

“Hey,” he coos at you, “hey, you’re ok. You’re safe baby.” Azriel wipes at the tears rapidly falling down your cheeks. You blink up at him, trying to clear your vision. After semi-calming down you sit up as best you can, crossing your arms over your chest to keep yourself covered.

Azriel went to touch you but held his hand back in case you didn’t want to be touched. You take a few shaky breathes and try to give him a tight lipped smile. “I’m sorry.” You kept repeating the words as Azriel tried to comfort you.

“It’s ok y/n, it’s ok. Take your time. Take your time.” As you collect yourself Azriel races around the room getting your clothes and putting pants on so you can be comfortable. After you dress he sits next to you. “Do you want to talk about it.” Wiping at your eyes again you nod and clear your throat.

“Years ago I had a boyfriend who wasn’t so nice, especially when it came to…this.” You gesture at the bed and realization flashes on Azriel’s face, then anger. But he pushes it down, relaxing his fists. “One night he took it too far and didn’t listen to me.”

Your hands were shaking at this point. You hadn’t admitted this to other partners before. But none of them had ever stuck around like Azriel, or been as kind as him. “I’m healing from it, but sometimes it just hits me out of no where like tonight.”

You leaned into Azriel’s side to show it was ok to touch you and to keep you grounded. Azriel gently wrapped his arm around your shoulders, holding you close to his side. He felt himself tearing up a little. How could anyone ever hurt you like that? He would have to hunt the male down later and teach him a lesson.

He rests his head against yours as you take deep breathes together. Helping you calm your heart rate even more. “I’ll be right back,” Azriel whispered into your hair, leaving a quick kiss on the crown of your head before getting up.

When Azriel returned he had a glass of water, a tonic to help your pain before you felt it, and a small snack. As he sat down you climbed onto his lap, resting your head on his shoulder. Azriel didn’t tell you no or move you. He let you sit however you were comfortable. He would give you whatever you needed right now, whether it was physical touch or silence. Azriel would never deny you.

He handed you the tonic which you quickly downed. Then took a few sips of water before handing it back to Azriel for later. You felt your body become heavy with exhaustion. All you wanted now was to sleep. You buried your face in Azriel’s neck, taking in his scent, letting it wash over you and calm you.

“Az,” you mumble out. “Yes my love?” “Can we just stay like this for a while?” Azriel slowly brings his wings to wrap around you for extra warmth. “Of course we can.” You let out a sleepy hum. A few moments of silence pass between you before you speak again.

“Thank you, Azriel.” He tilts his head to look down at your tired face. “You don’t have to thank me, y/n. I’ll always be here to hold you.”

Minutes later Azriel felt your breath even out against the skin of his neck. He would stay like this all night with you. Azriel didn’t want to chance you waking up. It didn’t matter, Azriel would stay like this all night if it meant you were comfortable.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar reader fic #acotar reader imagine #acotar imagine #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel x you #azriel angst #azriel imagine #azriel fanfic #azriel fic #azriel

[highonmarvel]

Dilated [I]

Steve Rogers bumps into a woman whose pupils are larger than normal.

Previous Part: [Prologue]

content warnings here!

You startle at the contact and quickly slap his hands off, immediately groaning at the cramp suffocating your left upper arm as you pull it back. You can’t really see the tall man in front of you through your watery eyes, and you can’t wipe your eyes due to your sweaty palms.

You’re struggling to really comprehend what he’s saying; you know he asked if you’re okay, and then?

“Can I take you home?” his voice comes through hazily.

“Wh- What?” you ask, the question immediately flying out of your head as your eyes rapidly scan the streets, like looking for signs of danger, when you’re sure there aren’t any.

“Can I take you home,” he repeats, slowly and louder. You turn your head to wipe your face on your shoulder as he continues, “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.”

That’s Captain America, no?

With your eyes less blurry now, you’re just able to make out the blue eyes and golden hair under the warm streetlights.

“Okay!” is all you can muster, and you’re not sure to what he took it: okay to take you home or okay that’s his name? Maybe you should give your name in response but you don’t, you can’t. When he asks for your address, you snap something at him that you think is where you live, though you can’t tell through your irritation; he’s really agitating you for some reason; he’s done nothing, but he’s got you annoyed, or maybe you’re just annoyed in general after Sharon cut you off. You wonder why, because it’s not like she doesn’t have a supply, and it’s not like she cares whether you live or die.

You stumble a few times and sway slightly as you stay just a little ahead of him in beat to get to your flat but refuse his offer of a strong, steady arm around your waist to keep your stable. You don’t want to touch him at all, feeling hot and hotter even just walking beside him, everything radiating heat, but especially his body.

You get to the entrance of your building and push your shoulder against the door to stumble into the hall. You don’t notice Steve come in behind you under he places a large hand on the small of your back and you jump in fright with a yelp, whipping around to face him.

“Sorry!” he apologises, “I’m sorry, but I really need to make sure you get in safe. Is that okay?”

You wish he would stop talking, and you guess he knows you’re not really processing what he’s saying, but you don’t really have the drive to snap at him, just letting him trail you as you walk up four flights of stairs to get to your door. He stays alert behind you, ready for you to fall backwards and into his arms, but you make it, surprising even yourself.

You fumble with your keys, ignoring his offer to help as you drop the key four times before you get it in the lock and then another three trying to turn it. You don’t kick off your shoes, don’t take off your jacket or even pull your sling bag off, you just crash face first into the couch and fall right asleep.

***

Steve is surprised at your exhaustion. His first guess was heroin withdrawal but that’s more likely to cause insomnia, and then he worries you may have died in front of him, but your breathing slowly returning to regular and your snoring assure him you’re alive. Well, barely.

He has to stay overnight, how can he just leave you like this? Tomorrow will probably be worse, you can’t be alone by yourself right now. He’s not sure if he should pull a blanket over you, take your shoes off and rest your head more comfortably on a pillow. He decides to leave you, worried if he takes one thing off he may not be able to stop.

But he should probably get something to help you, right? And he needs a glass of water himself. Your kitchen opens right into the living room so it’s easy to find. He pours himself an ice cold glass, sipping it as he walks back to you and settles in an armchair across from the sofa you’re passed out on. Your place isn’t really decorated; he can see lighter squares against your walls, and wonders if you sold those pieces of if you’ve recently moved and a previous tenant took their frames.

Maybe you’re an artist; he’s heard artists are tortured, a lot of them do drugs, or maybe a musician; he should probably check your bedroom to be sure, just to learn about you so tomorrow he can get you the appropriate help.

There are only two doors, one leading to the bathroom. He’s immediately drawn to your medicine cabinet to check if you’ve got anything here, because if you do, he needs to get rid of it. He finds more bottles of sleeping pills than needed and a prescription for depression or anxiety meds, making a mental note to flush the sedatives down the toilet in a few hours; not now, he doesn’t want to wake you.

Adjacent to the bathroom is what he assumes if your bedroom door, which he is right about, and as messy as expected (he wondered how your living room, kitchen and bathroom appeared tidy enough—if you were in this state often, you’d definitely be unable to maintain even basic cleaning). Maybe you didn’t use those rooms. Not even the bathroom?

Clothes are scattered on the floor and pillows and blankets have been thrown off the bed, sheets too, leaving a bare mattress with a small bloodstain on it. A desk sits by the window, looking out to just another red brick apartment complex, with a broken laptop and scraps of paper cluttering the surface and the ground, a small bin overflowing with paper and broken pens.

He finds a manuscript laying on the floor—so you’re a writer—and finally he can put a name to your face. Should he clean your room, or is that really weird? In less than an hour he’s developing this caring instinct, and he tells himself it’s just his job, Captain America wanting to help everyone and all, he’s a superhero after and before all.

Steve gets another cold glass of water and settles in his seat across from you. For the first time tonight, you look at peace; your eye lids aren’t moving as rapidly, your breathing is steady and deep, your limbs aren’t trembling, muscles aren’t cramped, and your wild sweating has slowed, though he can still even see the layer sticking to your skin.

***

When you peel your eyes open, you’re grateful for the overcast weather, though you’re still a little blinded by the light. You feel like pure shit: weak and sore with a pounding headache and overwhelming nausea. You turn your head to vomit off the couch, surprised to land it in a bucket waiting for you and not your stained carpet. Blinking is hardly helping as you try to get your lashes to unstick each time they flutter. Your heartbeat is slow, slow enough that were you feeling more aware, it would concern you, and you wonder if you’re dying.

You’re hardly regaining full consciousness when your gaze finally lands on a man sitting across from you. You scream as you sit up and jump further back into the couch, but you can’t hold yourself up for long before you tumble back to the cushions, your shoulder hitting the edge making you wince in pain and heavy head lolling over the armrest, straining your neck.

“Relax, relax, you’re gonna hurt yourself, you need to calm down. I’m Steve,” he introduces himself in a friendly manner but he doesn’t smile, instead scanning your face with furrowed brows like he’s looking for any injuries.

He looks like the man from last night, yeah, and it takes you a few moments to grasp that he’s Steve Rogers, Captain America himself. Your breathing rate increases as your mind races to find a reason as to why Captain America is in your apartment. You vaguely remember being turned away again by Sharon last night, and you remember someone mentioning she was dealing some more serious shit than what you needed, had he found out about that? Thought you were an accomplice? Or maybe you were in danger; maybe Sharon had found out you knew and was going to kill you, and he was here for protection. Did you do something really illegal last night to the point one of the world’s greatest superheroes had to watch over you?

“I know who you are what are you doing here?” you plead for an answer, desperation coating your tone as your heart beats wildly.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he coos, taking a step towards you and keeping his hands visible, like approaching a stray dog, “I was really, really concerned about you last night, I couldn’t in good faith leave you, I had to make sure you got home safe.”

But… it’s the morning. Did he stay all night? You kind of hope he did instead of leaving and somehow breaking into your place when you were passed out, if anything.

You’re shaking, and you can’t tell if it’s from withdrawal or if you’re scared. But why would you be scared? You have the world’s greatest protector concerned with your health and safety. Something about him is unsettling, and at first you think it’s just your agitation finding reasons for anxiety when there are none. He was just being nice, being so much more helpful than you could have ever asked for, but you can’t help but wonder, wouldn’t he have better things to do? More serious threats to take care of? Why would an Avenger prowl the streets and take such an interest in a random woman rather than an inter-dimensional threat?

Something just isn’t sitting right, and you can’t tell if it’s your scattered imagination or a real possibility of danger.

⍟

[taglist; @cjand10, @pr300877, fill out this form if you’d like to be added]

#dilated #dark!steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x you #dark steve rogers x you #dark!steve rogers x y/n #dark steve rogers x y/n #yandere!steve rogers #yandere steve rogers

[undiscovered-horizon]

Ah, wonderful choice, Little Wanderer! Browse the stories, take your time. If there is something else you would like to read, just come back to me. If you don’t find what you’re looking for, make a request to the librarian.

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist&lt;<

1. Kaz Brekker

➳ "Old dog, new tricks" -> Looking for someone to give you a quote on a stolen painting, you run into an old friend who's less than happy with your way of life.

➳ "The clockmaker, the crow and the mantis" -> Kaz becomes part of an assassin's conspiracy to uncover who paid to have him killed.

➳ "Return to sender" -> When an old admirer continues to bother you with his letters, Kaz makes it his priority to put the fiasco to a stop.

➳ "Apple tree" -> Kaz sometimes hums a melody no one can recognize. The one who sang it to him has bewitched him as much as the tune.

➳ "Agnus Dei" -> You're a Grisha hiding from the Black General. When you reveal your power to save the Crows, Kaz must make a decision: your life or theirs? ➳ "O Rubor Sanguinis" -> Facing the Black General, you must choose whether to do the smart thing or the one you truly crave. Kaz shows affection, just not with words.

➳ "Amendmends" -> Two of your thugs get into a fight at the Crow's club, so you go apologize in person to ensure there won't be any retaliation. Kaz seems suspiciously happy at having the infamous Golden Panther indebted to him. ➳ "Amendments II: The Panther and the Duckling" -> The day comes when you can repay Kaz Brekker with the help of the mysterious "Duckling". Kaz claims you're infuriating but there might be more to his confusing feelings than he realises.

➳ "Espionage" -> You and Kaz pretend to be engaged so you can get him into a banquet and from there - to a safe.

➳ "Four Crow Investigation" -> After Nina notices Kaz's heartbeat quicken when you're around, she recruits three friends to investigate your relationship. ➳ "Four Crow Investigation II: Lovebirds' Outfox" -> Aware of your friends' nosiness, you and Kaz ensure they have hardly believable gossip to share.

➳ "Could you ever fall in love with me?" / "I can’t even fall asleep." -> angst blurb

➳ "Embroidery" -> When his glove gets torn, you're more than happy to sew it back together and add a little detail of your own.

2. Nikolai Lantsov

➳ "Little Sun" -> Return to the sanctuary means a reunion with his beloved Солныщко. Kisses and slaps are exchanged.

➳ "Sparring" -> You face him in an army sparring match. Despite his noble title, Nikolai can't stop himself from sharing suggestive remarks.

➳ "Man of Faith" -> Nikolai's interest in the Sun Summoner makes you jealous but being the sweetheart he is, he's quick to reassure you about his devotion.

➳ "Femme fatale" -> When you reveal how you won the suspiciously heavy bag of coins, Nikolai is overwhelmed with anger at the thought of you being intimate with another man.

➳ "The King and the Swallow" -> Unexpected reunion with his childhood friend and the sworn protector of the royal family takes a dramatic turn when Nikolai inquires about her uncharacteristic, cold demeanour. Confessions are shared - the good ones and the bad ones alike.

➳ "Cinderella" -> Nikolai is a party person, you're not. But he's also a fool in love, so when you quietly disappear, he wastes no time finding you.

➳ "In Emerald Hearts, Emerald Minds" -> When Vasily asks you to forget his half-brother and marry him instead, you escape the Little Palace along Alina. Nikolai realizes something strange is going on when Kaz mentions seeing a similar emerald ring on the woman that came with the Sun Summoner. With how much you and Nikolai have been running in circles to find each other, the reunion aboard Volkvolny feels almost fated.

➳ "Sea shanties" -> Alina witnesses Sturmhond's love for his boatswain. Hurting yourself while fixing the net leads to singing sea shanties and Sturmhond almost kissing the love of his life.

➳ "Who am I to complain?" -> When your parents come to visit, Nikolai finally understands why you've never been keen to talk about them. Being the King and your husband, he isn't afraid to defy them.

#shadow and bone #six of crows #shadow and bone imagine #shadow and bone masterlist #six of crows masterlist #masterlist #shadow and bone fanfic #shadow and bone fanfiction #shadow and bone x reader #six of crows fanfic #six of crows x reader #six of crows imagine #six of crows fanfiction #kaz brekker fanfic #kaz brekker #kaz brekker fanfiction #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker x you #nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov imagine #nikolai lantsov fanfiction #nikolai lantsov x you #nikolai lantsov x reader

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Could I request “accidently sitting on their face” but instead of twst characters, could it be the Overlord floor guardians with a SB! Reader?

Accidentally Sitting on Their Face | Yandere Overlord

Whether as a fellow Supreme Being and especially as Flower of Nazarick everyone trips every now and again. It’s only a matter of who’s doing the tripping and into what. With a generally soft body and a human behind all of it, it’s up to you to play it off as a mistake or a highly calculated move as a higher being. Too bad the Floor Guardians would never care:

Demiurge 

It probably happens during training 

As the flower of Nazarick, you’re powers are truly limitless but getting a grasp on what you can do is what Ainz put Demiurge in charge of

“Alright (Y/n)-sama sprout wings that look like mine and go as high as you can.”

“Okay got it! Whoooooo!”

“Don’t go too far up otherwise you’ll hit the–”

BANG 

Crack

You weren’t outside

You were on the training grounds of the sixth floor 

and you've just broken and banged into the roof of the floor

Momentarily stunned you’re on your way to the ground

You’re on the level of Ainz you won’t be hurt but Demiurge still prepares to catch you

“Oooh! Oh no Demiurge are you okay?! Wait where’d you go?”

He’ll wait for you to notice 

Remaining still as a plank as you get up embarrassed

When he does get up he’ll bow his head 

“Excuse me. (Y/n)-sama.”

He teleports to his floor

Before practically destroying the place with his tale 

As he morphs into no specific monster

His servants are horrified but when the thrashing tail of his stills 

There’s a wide smile on his blushing face

He’ll return to train you and act as though nothing has happened

But for the next two weeks, his tail will randomly thrash around in trickling excitement

A Supreme Being touched him 

A Supreme Being sat on him

A Supreme Being sat on his face

Shaltear has nothing on him

“Shall we continue (Y/n)? As your designated instructor I will let nothing impede your blossoming as a true ruler of Nazarick,”

“You’re…not embarrassed at all?”

“Never. Any contact especially of something so intimate is a gift in and of itself.”

Albedo 

Shadowing her when Ainz says to becomes a common routine

helping her as much as you can though she deems most tasks unworthy of you

You learn to seek her guidance

To follow after her 

To ask her what’s the right thing to do

while Ainz is adamant about correcting her more violent or overprotective lessons there are many he misses

“Uhm A-Albedo I don’t think this is umm a normal thing.”

“(Y/n)-Sama this is for your own good! Learning to punish your subordinates for the filth that comes from their lips! Like that blood-sucking trollop!”

“B-b-b-but Shaltear betrayed all of Nazarick and attacked Ainz.”

“Remember this, my Supreme Being! Ainz has warned us all not to underestimate humans. Yet I’ve insulted them and in front of you when you asked that I wouldn’t! That is worth of punishment!”

“Uh okay but only for a little while…”

“YES! THANK YOU MY FLOWER!”

You’re slow about it 

Too slow in Albedo’s opinion 

 she’ll grab your thighs and hold you in place

She’ll sniff and drool as she bucks her hips into the air

Should anyone walk in they’ll get a knife between the eyes

When she’s done climaxed

She’ll let you stand up and drink in your embarrassed expressions

“T-thank you for the punishment, (Y/n)-sama!” 

“I-I’m going to my room!”

“I’ll join you~shortly!”

If Ainz gets any wind of it she’ll claim that it was all a lesson on properly punishing your subjects

And all you got was flustered from using force

Shaltear

During a training session, it happens 

Filling in for Demiurge she trains you on her fighting style 

Encouraging you to launch yourself in her direction for practice

But by using too much power you overshot

So instead of front ways tackling Shaltear

Your butt is on her face 

“Oh Shaltear I’m s-sorry..?”

You’re slow to speak as you hear her moan

You wonder if it’s from pain 

So you’ll get up slowly worried that she may be hurt

And her nose does appear to be broken as a blood streak trickles down her blushing cheeks

She’s shaking in excitement 

Jolting in excitement as she hugs herself moaning about something you can’t choose not to pick up

She’ll be like that for a little while 

So you should come back after a little while

Maybe then she’ll be able to form a coherent sentence that isn’t your name

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere harem #yandere overlord anime #yandere overlord x reader #yandere overlord #yandere overlord albedo #yandere albedo #yandere shaltear #yandere shaltear bloodfallen #yandere demiurge #yandere demiurge x reader #yandere overlord x flower of nazarick #Flower of Nazarick Reader

[philtstone]

jaime/claire -- holding the other's chin up

after literally one million years i finally finished this. this is not technically an om-shanti-om au but it's not not one, either

On Wednesday morning, Jamie and his Ghost had a row.

It is now Thursday afternoon, and Jamie is sitting in a hospital room, covered in muck from head to toe and wondering if this isn’t God’s great punishment for daring to leave his bloody flat.

He’s not sure when he started referring to the Ghost as his. Traditionally, if you’re the sort to believe in such things, ownership of ghosts runs through 1) ancestry or 2) a familial home. His aunt Jocasta, for example, had an ornery old Frenchman in the cellar of the MacKenzies’ old brick tower who had no relation to any of them, but wouldn’t let the damned house go generation after generation; Jocasta claims the bastard had been the mysterious lad who seduced that one grand-cousin of theirs into batting for the other side, which led to his divorcing his wife and moving to Cuba – and who is Jamie to have his doubts, really, when he’s got a ghost of his own.

The argument could be made that Jamie’s ghost has taken up residence in his flat — hence his turn of phrase. But he’s only renting after all, and more than that, he’s got a weird feeling she never snooped through the previous tenants’ bookshelves or sock drawers or anything either.

Now she won’t speak to him. It is four months to the day Jamie moved in, and, not two hours later, made her acquaintance while having an angry cry on the toilet. It’d been a rough go of it – between the accident and Jenny and Da —

Jamie had, at that time, resigned himself to the inevitability of his flunking out of graduate work before he’d ever started it. He’d barely been making it to his physio appointments when the Ghost appeared, let alone his classes; either he wouldn’t answer Jenny’s calls or she wouldn’t answer his; and in the twenty four hours he’d been in his new flat, the upstairs neighbours had already had audibly angry sex twice, which was two times too many for Jamie’s fragile mental state (not to mention his resounding lack of girlfriend). It was amidst all of this that The Ghost materialized.

The Ghost glows like a firefly, speaks like she stepped out of a World War Two-era black and white film and can’t seem to stay in one spot long enough for Jamie to see her face properly. She hasn't got a name, has given no indication of a family, and won’t tell him how and where she died. She’s miserable when she isn’t cracking laughs out of him by snooping through his old copy of Descartes and wondering aloud whether he actually reads the books he owns. She herself has no patience for reading (though she accidentally knocked a lamp over exclaiming at his battered copy of Lord of the Rings), endless patience for his sporadic monologues on morphological theory, and a complete fascination with his mobile phone. Also, the soapy mess that is Grey’s Anatomy, which was playing on the telly once. 

“How old were ye,” Jamie asked one day, blowing on his instant noodles, which the Ghost had been eyeing with great skepticism for the latter half of the last fifteen minutes. He supposed she had every right to judge, if she were once a twentieth century housewife, but very little about her suggested an abundance of housewifely skills.

“What are your thoughts on knitting?” asked the Ghost, apropos of nothing.

“I asked first.”

“Did you.”

“When ye went, I mean. How old were ye?”

For a moment it was hard to look directly at her, because she was suddenly far less clearly formed than before. Then, quick as a wink, she was young and mostly corporeal again.

“Terribly,” said the Ghost. “I had white hair and everything.”

He mulled this over. “I can imagine it must’ve been quite somethin’ tae behold,” he says. “Sorcha.”

She smiled, all brilliance, all tenderness – very different from the sadness that lingered around her otherwise. Slowly she floated over, under his silent observation, and with hands that were not fully there and made of the stuff of nightlights cupped his face, lifting his chin. There in his sad little kitchen she glowed. Jamie kept blinking behind his glasses, like maybe if he did it hard enough, he could finally see her. Did she have a husband she missed? Jamie thought. Was it paining her something awful to be stuck in his sad little studio, with the two plants left living and the little grey cat no one in the building would properly claim ownership of? 

Then, “Knitting,” she said. So Jamie confessed what little his Mam had taught him as a kid.

She knows all the scientific names of the bones and ligaments and tissues in his body that were damaged in the accident, and – perhaps due to her ghostly nature – can preternaturally guess when each thing is paining him. It upsets her to realize that her hands are not solid enough to sooth the hurts, and gladdens her when he assures her companionship is taking his mind off things a bit, before – incomprehensibly – she looks miserable again. She swears like a sailor and would probably fart in her sleep, were she not an incorporeal being with a transmutable form not in need of traditional rest.

She’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. Nevermind he can’t really see her; Jamie just knows. Her hair is one large amorphous cloud of curls and she stares at him with such unspeakable sadness and makes a little humming noise when she’s at rest, like the singing of a hundred little stones. And there is a soft sort of buttery halo around her, which was enough to stun him into silence at their first meeting and has become oddly soothing now, enough that he gives her that silly little nickname, and he’s lonely, something feckin’ awful. 

It’s not like he’s not self-aware. Problem is, now she might be gone forever, and it’s all his fault.

He keeps playing it over and over in his head. He might’ve been a little churlish, sure – he was tired from his early lecture, he’d kept his contacts in too long, the anniversary of Da’s passing was coming up on Friday and Jenny kept insisting that he ought to come for a visit …

That was it, wasn’t it? Jamie didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to go home, and the Ghost in all her sort of sad floaty care for him snapped in the way of a brittle little twig. She had an awful temper sometimes. He’d heard her yell at the kitchen wall once when she found she couldn’t float through it. 

“James Fraser,” she said in her posh little accent, “are you going to continue wallowing in this miserable fucking flat or are you going to get up off your arse and face the bloody world like a man?”

Jamie found this somewhat infuriating. He had left his flat, thanks very much – he went to class now, and he was making real progress in physio, and, well, sure, he’d turned down the lads the last few times they invited him out for a match, but maybe he’d go this time – there was no proof he wouldn’t! So it wasn’t feckin’ fair of her, to talk down to him so. Jamie refused to be called a coward in his own flat.

By a ghost, no less.

“It’s no’ like you ever leave either,” he’d snapped in response, the discomfort of being seen rankling under his skin and sharpening his tongue into something rude. 

“I’m dead,” said the Ghost.

“Aye,” muttered Jamie mutinously. “Well.”

“Don’t be an arse.”

“Ye’d be fair lonely wi’out me here tae keep ye company, would ye no’?”

“I’d – read your books,” she defended, unbelievably. “You – you just – don’t you want a happy and vibrant life?”

“What do you think?” he picked up his books, which were strewn over the living room couch, for something to do.

“Well, I don’t know! You keep hiding!”

“I’m no’ hiding!”

“Yes, you are!”

“Mary, Michael and – why do ye care so much, ye irritating apparition!”

“I care because I bloody well have to!” 

Had he not been so caught up in his own irritation, he would have noted the odd strand of desperation in her voice. 

“Fine,” said Jamie, waving about An Introduction To Language And Linguistics, Third Edition with finality. “Well. I’ve plenty of reasons to be a homebody, ken -- right ones, real ones. But if that’s the case, then yer whole existence is sad.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the Ghost. 

“Aye,” Jamie was really working up to something, he’d thought, “Ye clearly havenae anywhere else to be, hangin’ about this dump.”

“Where else would I bloody well go?”

“I dinna ken, do I?” He couldn’t see her properly – the details of her face were always a mystery, but now she kept glowing in and out of focus as a general ill emotion build within her in the far corner of the room, “as ye tell me nothing about yerself and spend half the day actin’ like a time traveller and the other half the day lookin’ at me like ye’re about tae cry! I don’t think I’m the one wallowing here, Sorcha, and at least my presence is wanted by the feckin’ landlord! No one asked you tae show up!”

Perhaps he had gone too far; something about the Ghost’s presence blanched, like he’d given her a true fright. Then, after an awful moment of strangulated silence … she snapped back.

It devolved pretty quickly from there. In between the mutual screaming, Jamie got the feeling that she would have thrown things, could she have gotten her incorporeal hands on them properly enough to harness physics.

At some point, he had run out of steam, stormed out, and slammed the door behind himself, intent on finally taking up the offer of rugby with his friends.

Too bad about the torrential downpour. Too bad Rupert tackles like a giant lout, and Jamie slid five feet on the grass before slamming down directly on his shoulder and popping it out of socket.

He sighs, miserably. The hospital room is cold, mostly because he remains so thoroughly damp; his hair is plastered to his forehead and his jeans cling to his legs. So much for going out and partaking in the wide human world like a man properly recovering from a year’s worth of back to back traumas. Hmph. Jamie sniffs and wipes at his glasses (smudged) with his free and un-dislocated arm. He supposes he is recovering, sort of. It’s been easy to miss, given how simple the Ghost has made everything feel, but he feels exceptionally more human now than he did mere months ago. Jamie of September would never have dislocated his shoulder, because he was too busy being depressed.

He squirms in place. He ought to go home and check on the Ghost. What if all the yelling caused her to simply vanish? What if she’s hiding from him, indefinitely? He doesn’t think Edinburgh local business bureau has any reliable sort of ghost hunting service listed on its website. When Angus stopped by to pick up Jamie’s laptop so he could at least get his readings done for class tomorrow via hospital room, he responded to Jamie’s possibly-deranged Ghost-related line of questioning with an honest, “I’ve looked everywhere, mate. Cannae see hide nor hair of any ghostly lassie. D’ye think she’s gone tae her sister’s, perhaps?”

Even if this were a helpful question, Jamie hasn’t any idea whether the Ghost has any siblings at all.

Shite. He groans. It’s bad enough the shock’s worn off, and his shoulder is starting to properly hurt now. He hangs his head and leans his forehead against his uninjured wrist, squeezing his eyes shut against the mess everything’s become. He’s still facing the ground with his eyes shut when the faint sound of heeled footsteps swells louder and turns the corner, entering the room with a neat swish of hospital bed paper and curtain.

“Mr. James Fraser, is it?” says a light, distinctly British female voice, evidently scanning over whatever chart they’ve got set up for him, “that’s a nasty glenohumeral dislocation you’ve got there. You wouldn’t have happened to be playing rugby in the rain like an idiot, would you?”

Jamie cracks his eyes open specifically to roll them. He doesn’t get very far: the doctor standing in front of him is a tall young woman, with a mass of thick, dark curly hair tied out of her face, wry laughing eyes and an upturned little mouth that makes it very clear they are both supposed to be in on whatever joke she’s trying to make. She has a slender neck, a very competent set to her brows, and could be described as somewhat twiggy in figure save for her wonderfully curved arse, which Jamie gets an unexpected view of as she leans over the chair in the corner to close the bed’s curtain properly.

Jamie unsticks his throat with a bit of effort. “Hm?” he says, very eloquently.

“I asked, are you feeling dizzy at all? Nauseous?”

“No, I feel fine. ‘Tis just my arm, Sassenach.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Between the dislocated shoulder and the woman in front of him it could really be anything that’s causing his complete discombobulation – enough to put his foot in it, it seems – but something about the tone and inflection of her sharp little question has Jamie’s head spinning more than the rugby tackle.

“Er – Doctor Sassenach, I mean. Or rather – jest Doctor, but I didnae mean it as an offense – it was just an observation. Granted, we’re in Edinburgh, so it wouldn’t – but I’m from – that is, my family, I grew up far North, so …” he trails off; she is now very industriously poking and prodding at his collar bone. Oh, right – he does remember her saying she was about to do that. “I meant no offense,” he concludes.

“No offense taken,” says the Doctor. She sounds like she’s on the verge of laughing, this time at him.

“Ye’ve got a very gentle touch,” Jamie says, like a right idiot.

“Thank you,” says the Doctor. “Now, I’m going to reset your arm – there’s nothing else for it, it’ll hurt like hell for a minute. But you’ll be alright Mr. Fraser.”

They go through the motions together; Jamie follows her instructions, marvels at how strong and precise she is with skinny arms and small hands, and only blacks out a little when his shoulder pops back into place.

“God,” he gasps, blinking. In front of him, the Doctor is looking over him with concern. 

“Everything alright? How are you feeling?”

“A little bit like someone’s punched my lights out, I willnae lie.” She laughs, but her hands remain on him, gentle first on his chest, then neck, pushing him upright.

“An expected feeling,” she says. “Hold still a moment, I’m going to properly check you for a concussion.”

And before Jamie can protest that he’s fine, she has taken his chin in both hands and gently tilted his face up towards her, so as to better shine the little flashlight into his eyes.

It’s as if a giant multi-metric tonne train has slammed into Jamie at twelve hundred kilometers an hour. The nice Sassenach doctor is glowing like a firefly and eyeing his ramen with skepticism and asking him about knitting and crying and yelling and touching him so gently because now her hands can actually touch him and he knows her, he swears he knows her deep deep deep in some inner place inside of him and quite possibly he is in love with her, and maybe has been, forever.

Jamie comes back to Earth. She is making an altogether undignified face as she moves his chin back and forth and examines his reaction time. Her tongue sticks out a little. Bits of frizz have popped out of her ponytail and are decorating her hairline like a halo.

“Hi,” Jamie says breathily, like a fool.

She stills, and looks over to meet his eye, and for a moment they stare at each other like that, nose to nose. 

“Hello,” she says. 

Then she pulls away and marks something on her notepad; the interaction is all but over. Off to her next patient, probably. “Alright. Well, no concussion, from what I can tell. I’ll ask you to self-monitor, though, and I’ll prescribe you some pain meds for the shoulder. I’d go home and get some rest if I were you,” she hesitates, and in a curious sort of way adds, “is everything alright, really?”

“Fine,” says Jamie. “Only, just now I felt like I’d seen a ghost.” He laughs, and it’s an overall strangled sound, which can and should be forgiven. “Ye ever felt anything like that, Sassenach?”

She is halfway to the door already, and he’s sure she will call him a nutter on the way out, even if in that wry way of hers. But she stops. Turns back. Smiles at him – not quite radiant, nor tender, but curious and familiar.

“You know … I think I do?”

“Aye?” 

“It’s Claire, by the way.”

He blinks. “Your ghost?”

“No,” and now she really is laughing at him. “My name. Dr. Claire Beauchamp. But if you must call me an outlander, James Fraser whose family lived in the North, then I suppose I am alright with that, too.”

She leaves Jamie grinning more widely than he has in months. He’s got the odd feeling that whenever he gets home, his flat will be empty. Strangely, this is not an upsetting premonition. He’s more concerned with somehow getting Dr. Claire Beauchamp’s phone number – and somehow, he’s pretty sure the Ghost would approve.

#i havent written jamieclaire in literal years so i hope the characterizations are ok #my truest beloveds actually. i missed them so much #outlander #jamie fraser #claire beauchamp #claire x jamie

[leahsgf]

Hey! I saw that your requests were open and I was wondering if you could write some head canons on how Nat would be as a partner. I’d love to know how you think she would react to affection and whatever else you might think up.

Thank you!

dating natalie scatorccio

pairings. pre crash! natalie scatorccio x reader

i find nat such a fascinating and layered character, i really enjoyed delving into a little part of her with this. i particularly focused on her and showing affection in the beginning & then spiralled into into pure fluff towards the end. i hope i did her justice and it’s what you had in mind! thank you for the req!

-

one thing i truly believe about natalie is that she has an incredible amount of love to give, despite the tough exterior that she puts up.

when she loves someone she loves them so deeply that it completely consumes her, despite the unfamiliarity of it terrifying her.

natalie has an immensely complicated relationship with intimacy and affection almost ingrained in her. it is when she feels her most vulnerable, and as she’s only been shown affection in the past solely for the other’s sexual benefit, building the trust in not only you but your intentions took time, and was a learning curve for the both of you.

her emotions hugely drive her actions, and this especially reflects when it comes to her love for you.

she is fiercely loyal and protective over you, and will go to any length to defend you, not wanting you to feel even a glimpse of hurt.

she is almost unbelievably observant. she knows all of you, and pays attention to every minuscule detail to which most turn a blind eye. she knows by the slightest twitch of your lip exactly how you’re feeling - and how to react to this. she knows all of your cues.

physically showing her affection, and allowing herself to be shown it was not something that came naturally to her in the slightest.

despite this, she knew exactly when you needed it, and was always more than happy to comply, secretly finding comfort herself within it, though rarely initiating in the beginning.

with time, she learns her own cues and allows herself to give into them, whether it be gently intertwining your hands whilst in public, allowing her fingers to freely roam your back - tracing a variety of shapes and doodles, or even pressing kisses all over your face until she reaches your lips, grinning and pretending not to melt as you blush furiously.

above all, nat’s values reassurance, alongside quality time with you.

you would tell her all day everyday if she needed, that you loved her with all of you, and that you aren’t going anywhere.

-

just some general wholesomeness

-

you go on a surprising amount of dates. they’re rarely the stereotypical fancy dress up dinner ones, especially because the few times you’ve attempted to, you never managed to actually leave the house due to natalie…..distracting you….when she sees you dressed up.

they’re more experiences, skinny dipping in a lake at midnight and forcing yourselves underwater when the nearby house’s lights switch on, or something like mini golfing, which natalie never loses (she does, without fail, everytime. sometimes you think she’s messing around. she’s that bad. but you’d never tell her that.)

skipping class together was more of a regular occurrence than either of you actually attending

she gets jealous easily, and has to bite her tongue when you even glance in the direction of another person, but at least she looks hot whilst doing it

you fall asleep in her lap or slumped against her shoulder, tucked into her neck, on a regular basis. she teases you relentlessly for it, but secretly, when you’re asleep she’ll be whispering for everyone to shut up through gritted teeth so you aren’t disturbed, throwing up the odd middle finger or two at taissa’s whip noises.

literally being the grumpy vs sunshine trope

making out in the locker room when the room is empty for more than a second, regardless of whether you’re on the team or not

the entire team just loving how happy you both make eachother and it actually adding to team spirit

you both balancing eachother out perfectly, you were calm where she was tense and she was outgoing where you were anxious.

#natalie scatorccio #natalie scatorccio x reader #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #headcanons

[mint-yooxgi]

{3} - Written in the Stars - Yandere!Idol!Yeosang X Tall!Chubby!Reader

Soft Yandere AU & Idol AU

Genre: Mature, Horror, Angst, Fluff, Slight Humor, Slow Burn

Pairing: Yeosang X Reader (ft. platonic Ateez ensemble)

Words: 11,000

Warnings: Slow burn. Mentions of Jonghyun. Brief conversation to start about past insecurities. I think that's all. This is a Yandere story, it will contain themes such as stalking, violence, obsession, possessive natures, and just general overall creepiness and swearing. You have been warned.

A/n: So, this chapter we get to see a little bit of how our dear Yeosangie is feeling. I'm doing my best not to make it a super sudden infatuation, but the feelings are there. Boy just doesn't want to admit it yet. That being said, I am super excited for a scene I have planned next chapter, so I hope you'll all look forward to it!! On a side note, I finally got my glasses!! Yay!! Anyways, as always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy~

Also, gentle reminder that I don’t do tag lists.

Disclaimer: It's not often this chapter where this applies, but the following is important to note:

"This represents a line spoken in Korean."

"Bolded represents a line spoken in English."

"Bolded and italics represents a line spoken in Japanese."

Mini Masterlist - Part One - Part Two

Yeosang is not jealous.

He doesn’t get jealous when Atiny comment to him that San’s arms are more muscular than his are. Nor does he get jealous when other fans tell him that their bias is someone else, or would prefer a selfie with a different member other than him during fansigns. 

Knowing whether people like him or not is none of his business.

So, when he notices that you seem to be messaging Hongjoong all day today leading up to the award’s ceremony instead of the group chat at first, he most certainly is not jealous. It definitely doesn’t bother him that the Captain of Ateez gets the fun, close-up pictures of your face while you’re getting ready for tonight. The kind one would normally only send to close friends. Nor does it irritate him that you only start sending those same selfies to the group chat once Hongjoong suggests it. 

Jongho’s and Wooyoung’s whining also has nothing to do with it, of course.

Most of all, he doesn’t care that the guys all compliment you before he does when you send them all a proper photo of your face once you’re ready for tonight. It’s not like he wanted the honour of praising you first, or anything.

Yes, Kang Yeosang is certainly not jealous.

“I wonder what type of outfit she’s going to wear.” Jongho wonders aloud, managing to pull Yeosang out of his much too loud thoughts for the moment. He can see the younger flipping through all of the photos of your face that you sent them this afternoon, seemingly deciding between the two he likes the most.

“Does she usually get super dressed up for events?” Seonghwa asks, not even bothering to shift his gaze from the window.

“I think I’ve only ever seen her in dresses for formal events like the Writer’s Guild awards.” Hongjoong comments, gazing down at his phone. 

He must still be chatting with you.

Yeosang’s jaw twitches. He blinks.

“I think I remember watching a clip from a question’s panel where someone asked her about it once,” Yunho hums, tapping his fingers over his knee as they make their way towards the venue. “From what I recall, she doesn’t necessarily like wearing skirts or shorts all that much.”

“Why?” The question is out of Yeosang’s mouth before he can stop it.

“If I recall, she gave a two parted answers.” Yunho replies.

“Oh, I think Bin sent me this clip before!” Wooyoung pipes up from the back seat. “I think she said something about a lot of clothing always being a bit too short for her height. She said something about being more comfortable in male styled clothing because of it. It’s also why she doesn’t wear a lot of short dresses.”

“The struggle is real,” Mingi sighs, shaking his head in understanding.

A comforting pat is given to his arm from San who sits beside the taller male for the moment.

“And the other?” It’s Seonghwa who asks, and Yeosang feels a subtle weight lift off of his shoulders at not having to ask again himself.

A frown pulls at Jongho’s features as he looks down at his lap.

“What?” San tilts his head, curious as to the sudden silence in the car. “What is it?”

“She said she just doesn’t like the way she looks in them.” Hongjoong voices from the front seat, a subtle downturn of his lips.

“I’m pretty sure she used different words that that, cause I remember Bin going off about it.” Wooyoung chuckles. “Give me two hours between them and she’ll never feel insecure about her thighs again.”

“Wooyoung!” Seonghwa’s eyes look about ready to fall out of his head.

“What?” He complains. “It wasn’t me that said it! It was Changbin!”

“Doesn’t mean you have to tell us.” San smacks the male sitting on his opposite side.

“Like Jongho isn’t always thinking it.” Yunho teases, receiving his own harsh smack from the aforementioned male.

“He’s not the only one.” Mingi mutters, but not lowly enough.

“We’re about to arrive at the venue.” Hongjoong’s sharp gaze turns to look at all of them. “Keep it in your pants, and control yourselves.”

San sighs. “Just another casual day.”

Turning onto the street that will lead them directly to the red carpet set up at the venue, Yeosang remains quiet. Again, his jaw twitches, focussing his gaze on the passing scenery outside of the vehicle. He doesn’t know why the other’s comments bother him so much, but they do. Yet, he does whatever he can to not let it show.

“Her makeup still looks really pretty.” Jongho sighs, somewhat wistfully as he looks out his own window.

“Oh, will you ask her out already?” Yunho nearly rolls his eyes.

Jongho’s whole face begins to turn red as he sputters out a response.

“We all know you want to.” Hongjoong joins in on the teasing now, brow quirking in amusement as he sees Jongho avoiding his gaze.

“Nah, Jongho won’t be able to ask her out.” Wooyoung shakes his head.

“And why’s that?” Seonghwa shifts his body towards Wooyoung in the backseat.

“Cause Mingi or I will do it first.” Wooyoung states, rather proudly.

The tips of Mingi’s ears burn bright red as he begins to chuckle nervously, leaning back in his seat when he notices the death glare sent his way by the youngest. However, before any one of them can comment more on the matter, the car stops.

“We’re here.” Yeosang states, rather pointedly, as he nearly flings open the door to exit the vehicle, leaving the others stunned in silence behind him.

The second his foot makes contact with the carpet, screams and cheers erupt from the surrounding fans. Some go as far to start calling his name, hoping for him to spare a glimpse in their direction. Of course, he smiles politely, bowing to everyone around him as cameras flash periodically.

A minute later, and all of Ateez make their way down the carpet, stopping to pose for the cameras every now and then. The second they make it to the designated picture area, even more cameras start going off.

Through the thicket, Yeosang spots a few of his fansites. Though, with how the official photographers of the show quickly shout directions at the eight of them, he quickly forgets all about them. That is, until a small hush settles over the crowd.

The screaming fans seem to go silent as another car pulls up to the venue. The confusion as to why becomes apparent as soon as the person steps out of the vehicle.

The moment you step out of the vehicle, Yeosang cannot take his eyes off of you. Yet, it seems, neither can anyone else.

You seem to be wearing a sort of overcoat, reminiscent of a cloak. It’s deep red in colour, hiding whatever outfit you’ve chosen to wear tonight. All except for the black lace sleeves adorning your arms that poke out of the slits in the fabric. Yet still, the cloak suits you, and it matches the sinful shade of red painted elegantly on your lips.

Briefly, you make eye contact, and Yeosang swears his heart is about to burst out of his chest. The smile you send his way only confirms it.

The palms of his hands begin to sweat. A feeling of which he hasn’t experienced since their debut stages.

Just what are you doing to him?

An organizer approaches, walking beside you and whispering lowly in your ear. You seem to nod quickly to whatever she says, for in the next minute, you’re pausing in your steps to scan the crowd. It seems as if the call of your name has drawn your attention.

There, standing next to some Atiny’s he noticed earlier, is a small group of fans that seem to be completely awestruck by you. A few hold copies of your books in hand, smiles wide on their faces as you approach. The way he notices one of the males say something to you, only for you to turn your face away for the moment bashfully has an uncomfortable feeling settling in his chest.

Why does he want that to be him?

Yeosang only wishes he knew what you were saying, but from the way the fan’s faces light up, he can just tell that you’re probably making their entire evening. When you go so far as to sign the copies of their books and take a photo, he knows that you do. Though, that same male that complimented you seemed to be getting a little too touchy with you, in his opinion.

The feeling of someone gently nudging his side pulls him out of his thoughts of you. Blinking, his vision clears to see Wooyoung motion for him to continue down the line towards the red carpet interviewers that are now ready for them.

Just as Yeosang goes to take a step, they get told to wait once more.

“We’d love to get a few photos of you with that author for public relations.” A few photographers say, already having talked it over with the event’s staff.

The eight of them share a brief look before nodding, and Yeosang knows he’s not the only one that cannot control the upturn of his lips.

A kind greeting is the first thing that escapes your lips when you walk up to all of them. You bow politely, to which they bow and greet you back. A moment later, and the photographers have instructed you to stand in the centre of all of them, having four males on your either side.

Mingi and Yunho get told to stand directly beside you to offset the height, causing both Wooyoung and Hongjoong to get shifted to the ends. The fact that you stand just a smidge taller than Yunho signifies that you must be wearing some type of heels. From the way Jongho is staring at you like you’ve hung all of the stars in the night sky, Yeosang knows he’s probably right.

His brow twitches, his smile suddenly looking a little forced. 

Soon, the photographers get you to shift poses slightly so that him, San, Hongjoong, and Wooyoung are crouched in front of the five of you behind them. While doing so, Yeosang manages to school his face back into that neutral expression everyone is used to from him. A moment later, and he’s posing for the cameras.

The minute you get told to place your hand onto Yeosang’s shoulder, he can feel the tips of his ears turning red. He just hopes people assume it’s from the chill gracing the night air. A stark contrast to the sudden way that he can feel his skin burning beneath your gentle touch.

A few more photos are taken like this until all of Ateez are finally told to move on to the interview portion of the night. Besides, the photographers want to get a few shots of you by yourself. Apparently, there’s going to be a big Naver article written about you attending these awards tonight, and the company wants as many photos as possible to choose from. The more they can get with you interacting with the other celebrities in attendance, the better.

Stepping up onto the little platform that they have set up for the interview, Yeosang follows wordlessly behind San. Three microphones gets passed to the group, one assigned to Hongjoong, one to Yunho, and one to Jongho. Though, with how they’re positioned, Yeosang knows that both Yunho and Jongho were just the unlucky ones to get stuck with the talking bits.

A few questions get asked, and he vaguely registers answers being given from his group mates beside him. He gives nods here and there in agreement, and that seems to suffice for now. That is, until one question draws his attention back to the two interviewers.

“We’ve been asking all of the artists here tonight, and some of their answers have shocked us.” The female host begins.

“There seems to be a common answer among certain groups, so we’d like to ask the members of Ateez now that same question.” The male host continues.

“Who’s performance are you looking forward to the most tonight?” The female host asks, looking between all of them.

As always, Hongjoong answers first.

“Ah, well, as Captain of Ateez, I’d say most of us are hoping Atiny will be looking forward to our special performance tonight.” Hongjoong begins with a smile, his eyes shining. “So, I will say I’m most looking forward to our stage.”

“Spoken like a true leader,” the male host nods in approval before turning his head to the member standing beside Hongjoong.

Mingi takes the mic Hongjoong offers him. “For me, I would have to say that I am most looking forward to Stray Kids performance tonight.”

Seonghwa is next, a soft smile painting his features. “Twice.”

Raising the mic back to his lips, Jongho is quick to answer. “Ah, well, I’m very much looking forward to hearing a particular speech from my favourite author.”

A few ‘oh’s and ‘aw’s are heard from the hosts and surrounding crowd.

“Yes, she seems to be a very popular choice in response tonight.” The male host notes. “Stray Kids’ Bang Chan said something that her performance is something he wishes he wrote himself after hearing it in rehearsals yesterday.”

“I cannot wait to see what it is!” The female host smiles, her eyes crinkling at the sides. “What about you, San?”

The mic in Jongho’s hands gets passed to the aforementioned male.

“Well, I’m personally excited for Seventeen’s performance.” He smiles.

“Ah, yes, a few members of Seventeen also said that they were excited to watch you all perform tonight, too!” The female host comments, nodding her head.

Wooyoung is next, but San already sees him holding onto a mic, so he passes his back to Jongho.

“My mind is telling me Stray Kids, but my gut is telling me NCT.” Wooyoung says, and the hosts share a chuckle.

“Changbin of Stray Kids said the same for your group.” The female host chuckles, a subtle blush rising to her features.

A blink, and the mic is back in Yunho’s hands.

“I would have to say that the performance I’m looking forward to the most is ours.” A wink is sent to the camera. “Atiny, we have a very special stage planned for you tonight. Please support and cheer us on!”

A roar erupts from the crowd, and the eight men all smile.

Finally, it’s time for Yeosang’s turn to answer, but again, he finds himself distracted by you. It looks like you’ve just finished up with the photographers who had made you take some photos with all of NCT just shortly after they had arrived.

The feeling of a microphone being shoved into his hands draws his attention back to the present, the hosts blinking at him expectantly.

Raising the mic to his lips, he has his prepared response ready, and on the tip of his tongue. Only, when he opens his mouth to speak, the answer that comes out shocks even him.

“Seems as if that author is a hot topic tonight!” The male host chuckles. “I certainly hope that she can live up to everyone’s expectations.”

“Speaking of, look who is coming to join us!” The female host motions for you to join all of them after being prompted by the staff.

Slowly, you begin to ascend the side steps, and all Yeosang can do is stare. His mind screams at him to move, to offer you his hand as you step towards him, but it seems as if he’s frozen in his spot. What only makes it worse is when he sees Yunho eagerly hop passed him and help you the rest of the way up onto the platform.

A polite ‘hello’ escapes you as you bow to both of the hosts, and all of Ateez again. A moment later, and they’re bowing back.

“You look absolutely stunning tonight, doesn’t she, boys?” The female host comments, a large smile on her face. Though, in the next moment, she leans into her co-host. “Oh, I forgot, can she speak Korean?”

“Yes, I can speak Korean.” You confirm, but only the people on stage hear you. You notice both host’s eyes going wide before the female motions for you to take a microphone in hand.

Yeosang graciously passes you the one in his hands, seeing as he stands on one side of you, while Yunho stands on the other. The moment you repeat the phrase, both hosts smile at you.

“It’s lovely to have you here with us this evening.” The female continues.

“It’s lovely to be here amongst such admirable people.” You reply, a soft smile painting your features.

“Kind, and beautiful,” the male comments, a small twitch to his brow upwards. “You must be very popular.”

Something about the host’s tone rubs Yeosang the wrong way.

A bashful look crosses your features. “Ah, thank you.”

“We were just chatting with the members of Ateez about who they’re most looking forward to seeing perform tonight,” the female host begins. “You seem to be a very popular answer amongst all idols.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet!” You place a hand onto your cheek. “I certainly do hope to live up to everyone’s expectations.”

The male host lets out a small puff in amusement.

“We talked with SHINee earlier in the night, and they informed us that you personally spoke with them about an aspect of your speech.” The male says. “Would you please divulge that with us now?”

“Unfortunately, that was a matter between myself and those four wonderful men.” You reply calmly. “Besides, I think I would rather let my words speak for themselves. You’ll all find out soon enough why, anyways.”

“Understandable!” The female continues. “Anyways, one final question for you before we bid farewell to Ateez for now.”

You nod, eagerly.

“Who are you most looking forward to seeing perform tonight?” She asks, leaning in slightly to catch your answer.

“Oh, excellent question!” You chuckle. “You see, I’m very indecisive, so my immediate response is everybody. This truly is a dream come true for me. However, if I have to choose, other than these fine gentlemen here,” you motion slightly to the Ateez members around you, “I would always have to say SHINee. Though, I think my one friend might have something to say if I don’t add NCT in there, as well.”

The hosts laugh along with you, though the male’s seems a little strained.

Yeosang frowns, but not even a millisecond later, his expression is neutral once more.

“Well, thank you so much for stopping to answer our questions!” The female smiles. “We have a few more for the lovely author here, but the Ateez members are free to head inside.”

Reluctantly, Yeosang begins to follow the other guys inside the venue, only catching little snippets of the hosts beginning to ask you some more questions. The way he looks back to see some NCT members waiting at the side of the stage, Mark at the forefront of the group and looking up at you in awe, twists his stomach.

“Didn’t realize you were looking forward to her speech that much, Yeosangie,” Wooyoung teases as soon as they’re out of earshot from the press.

“Shut up,” the male grumbles, rolling his eyes slightly.

“I wonder what type of outfit she’s wearing under that cloak,” Jongho wonders aloud, almost absentmindedly as they all make their way towards the green rooms to drop off their coats.

Luckily for them, there seem to be a few screens in the backstage area playing the interviews taking place outside. One of the hosts must have just asked you that same question, for you chuckle fondly.

“Well, avid fans of my first published series will certainly be very pleased.” You wink at the camera, and the female host pretends to swoon.

“I absolutely adore those books!” She says. “I can’t wait to see what you have in store for us tonight!”

Unfortunately for Yeosang, the members get ushered away from the screen to prepare for the beginning of the show. Well, at least Hongjoong does since he’s participating in your speech. 

The crew had everyone rehearse in reverse show order yesterday, which means you’re the opener. You’ve already expressed your slight nerves to the group chat, them all reassuring you that you’ll do great. From how well rehearsal went yesterday, Yeosang has no doubt in his mind that everyone will love what you have planned.

Walking out into the artist area after dropping off their coats, the boys (minus Hongjoong) move to their designated seats. Yeosang waves to a few fans that call his name, as do the other members, bowing politely to their seniors and smiling at their juniors. The second they sit at their designated couches, Changbin is leaning over from the one beside theirs.

“Heard staff muttering you got to take photos with everyone’s favourite author tonight.” He meets Wooyoung’s gaze, and Yeosang notices Felix also looking their way. “We are so jealous.”

“We got told Chan commented on her speech during the interview.” Yunho hums, leaning back comfortably in his seat.

“Minho had to subtly elbow him to prevent him from taking things further.” Jisung grins knowingly. 

“The way he was praising her might draw some unwanted attention from dispatch.” Minho shrugs casually.

“Not that our Channie Boy would mind.” Seungmin grins teasingly, a wiggle to his brows.

“Says you!” Jeongin cuts in. “Who’s the one that started lamenting about serenading her first at karaoke, and then asking her to sing a duet with him?”

Yeosang shifts in his seat, somewhat unknowingly.

“Like hell I’m letting you serenade her first!” Jongho frowns, meeting Seungmin’s gaze from across the two tables.

“Bring it on, Apple Boy.” Seungmin quirks a brow in challenge as the others simply look on in amusement.

“Careful, he might threaten to split you in half like one.” Yeosang comments, tone a little firmer than he intends. A fact which does not go unnoticed by his group mates.

“What? Speaking from experience?” Changbin laughs.

“I think you’ll have to fight Hyunjin asking her to learn Red Lights with him first.” Jisung casually adds, taking a sip from a water bottle provided for each of the members at the couches.

“Hyunjin wants her to learn Red Lights with him?” Mingi’s eyes nearly bulge right out of his head.

“He said he’d also be willing to perform Red Velvet’s Psycho again with her if she asked.” Seungmin hums.

Another cheer from the crowd erupts as NCT enters the area, and Yeosang notices how one-two-seven ends up being assigned the couches on the opposite side of them. Polite bows and greetings are sent their way, and Yeosang cannot help but notice that Mark sits the closest to their own seats.

“That’s not to mention how both Felix and Hyunjin both want to teach her Taste.” Minho huffs out a laugh, leaning back in his seat.

“We told you that you’re welcome to join us,” Felix comments, a chuckle falling from his lips. “Man’s too proud to say that he was impressed by her dancing skills.”

“She might feel too crowded having three males teaching her that type of dance.” Minho replies with a shrug, but he cannot hide the way he averts his gaze to the floor somewhat bashfully. “I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, is all.”

“That won’t stop Changbin.” Jisung teases.

“Hey!” The aforementioned male whines.

“Aww, does our little Lee Know have a crush, too?” Seungmin teases, Jeongin joining in quickly at the way the elder male’s cheeks flare.

“Hey!” He smacks the both of them on their thighs.

“Should we start that ‘simp squad’ now?” Wooyoung leans over to Changbin, hands gripping the armrest of the couch.

“What do you mean ‘start’?” Changbin laughs. “Felix and I have already been members for months.”

“And you didn’t invite me?” Wooyoung gasps, absolutely appalled by this turn of events.

“Oh, make sure you go around to all of the groups with the sign up list.” Johnny’s voice from their opposite side draws their attention. “I know plenty who would gladly join. Right, Mark?”

At the way they all turn to face NCT now, Johnny chuckles. Even Mark’s face begins to go bright red.

Yeosang exhales a deep sigh through his nose, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans further back into the couch. It appears that Twice has just arrived, the females taking their seats on the couches in front of them. Again, more polite bows and greetings are sent to the other artists, to which they are given back.

“Actually, I think combining them would be better.” Jungwoo joins in on teasing his bandmate. “Mark’s already president, vice-president, and head of his own. A merger might incite better relations in the simp community.”

“This is a completely casual conversation.” San nods, blinking a few times in earnest. A moment later, he’s nodding to himself. “Everyday, normal topics.”

Laughter erupts from around him.

“Just because you and Yeosang don’t read her books, doesn’t mean we don’t.” Jongho grumbles.

“Believe me,” Seonghwa leans back, crossing his one leg over the other. “We know.”

More laughter erupts around them.

“Not my fault you all don’t have taste.” Mingi huffs, a slight pout pulling at his lips as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“You know, as a curtesy, I think you should read at least one of her books now.” Yunho hums, looking between both San and Yeosang. “You’re both technically friends with her.”

“How come you’re not harping on Hwa for not reading her books?” San whines, motioning to the aforementioned male with a jerk of his chin.

“Because unlike some people, I actually borrowed her first series from Joong after we met.” Seonghwa snorts, amusement dancing in his gaze. “Never thought I would like that type of genre, but she writes it quite well. I just wish she would mention Star Wars more.”

The pout that pulls onto his lips is almost comical, and Yeosang nearly rolls his eyes.

“It’s not her favourite series.” He replies, somewhat bluntly.

All heads turn to him, some with quirked eyebrows.

“Then, what is her favourite series?” Jongho quirks a brow almost smugly, appearing ready to correct the elder and prove how much more he knows about you.

“Lord of the Rings.” Yeosang states, blinking as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Wait, how do you know that?” Wooyoung frowns, and Yeosang notices he’s not the only fan of yours that does so.

“She told me on the plane.” There’s a subtle quirk to the corner of his lips as he says this. A certain undertone of smugness that causes him to sit a little straighter in his spot.

However, before any of them can respond, the lights are dimming throughout the venue, and a hush settles over the crowd. An opening VCR begins to play, introducing the acts that will be performing tonight, interspersed with live shots from all of the artists sitting in their designated seats. Cheers erupt from the crowd as certain groups appear on screen, a grand instrumental accompanying the visuals.

Turning his head slightly, Yeosang can spot multiple varying lightsticks throughout the crowd, shining brightly in the darkness. The way the little glowing orbs shake along with the fan’s cheers makes him smile softly, and he knows he’s not the only one.

A voice booms through the speakers at the end of the video, announcing the start to the ceremonies, and outlining the safety procedures for the evening should they be needed. Once it has finished, another hush settles over the crowd as the stage is revealed, only for a loud roar to erupt in anticipation.

From the back of the stage, you begin to walk forward towards the lone microphone standing at the front. You seem to be holding a small notebook and pen in your hands, clutching them close to your body as you step forward slowly.

The moment the spotlight hits you, the crowd goes silent. Then, it’s as if many share a collective gasp as your full form takes centre stage. Finally, your outfit for the evening has been revealed, and from the way he can hear the sharp intake of breaths from your self-proclaimed biggest fans, he knows that what you’re wearing holds some sort of significance to you.

The dress is beautiful. The black lace starts with an off the shoulder neckline, trailing all the way down to your wrists in an intricate design. The material flares slightly at the waist, reaching all the way down to the floor, dragging elegantly over the stage as you walk forward. Gradually, the black material fades into a navy blue, until it bleeds into a vibrant royal blue at the bottom. The design is slightly form fitting, too.

Yes, there is no question about it. The dress is stunning. Yet, even more so, the person wearing it.

From his vantage point, Yeosang can practically see you glowing up on stage. The smile you wear is radiant, those sinful red lips of yours pulling across your features as your eyes shine. The screens projecting your image to the audience only serve to accent every little thing about you, and Yeosang can feel his heart skip a beat in his chest.

He swallows thickly.

“Holy shit.” Jongho gasps, and the elder male swears the younger has stopped breathing for the moment.

“What?” Yeosang frowns, noting all of the awed stares you’re receiving from the idols around him. Hell, even the way some of the Twice members squeal lowly in front of him only causes his brow to furrow even more. “What is it?”

“She’s wearing that dress.” Yunho breathes, blinking in awe as he leans forward in his spot to get a better glimpse of you on stage.

“What dress?” His brow furrows deeper, eyes scanning over your figure once more.

From in front of him, he can vaguely hear the Twice members muttering about how you look absolutely divine.

The corner of Jongho’s lips quirk upwards, a small puff of air escaping his nose. “Read her books.”

Yeosang shoots a pointed side-eyed look the younger’s way, jaw twitching as he clenches his teeth in annoyance. Why does Jongho always feel the need to gatekeeper everything about you that Yeosang asks about? It’s not fair. He wants to know you, too.

A still silence settles over the entire venue.

“Hello, everyone,” your voice comes out smooth and steady as you address the crowd, welcoming all to the ceremony and introducing yourself all the while. “Tonight, a celebration will be taking place. A celebration of life, beauty, and music. A celebration I am honoured to be apart of, and am grateful to be experiencing with all of you.”

Soft smiles paint the faces of the people around him, but none are as proud as Mark’s looks right now. The special gleam Yeosang can see shining within the males’ eyes has him huffing out a small breath, focussing back on you in the next second.

“Tonight, we are all here for one common purpose,” you state, eyes staring into the camera before you. “To celebrate art.”

The screens light up behind you, the words appearing in golden writing upon a pure black background.

“Art comes in many different shapes and forms, but to many,” you smile softly, “art is life.”

A brief pause as the screens begin to play a video showcasing different forms of art.

“It fills a room with music.” A new voice - Bang Chan - says.

The lights on the composers come up and a collective gasp is heard from the audience as both him and Jihoon are revealed. A montage of both Jihoon and Bang Chan working in their studios appear on screen.

“With vibrance.” Seulgi’s voice is heard cutting through the silence as the lights come up on the three visual artists.

Images of Renjun’s, Hyunjin’s, and Seulgi’s art are displayed on screen. A few pictures and silent clips of them working on said items or presenting them with smiles on their faces appear as well.

“And elegance.” Momo is the next to speak, Ten and Taemin flanking her on either side as the dancers are highlighted.

Clips of all three of them dancing in their respective practice studios flash across the screen, and even some of the collaborations between artists. Momo’s cover of Taemin’s Move appears, and even some different Super M performances focussing on both Ten and Taemin are displayed briefly.

“It showcases one’s highs,” Key’s voice is heard after a moment, Onew standing right beside him with a smile on his face.

Live performances of each male during concerts and comeback stages are shown, and even a short, silent clip of Onew performing Nessun Dorma.

“And their lows.” The lights on the rappers come up, Dahyun grinning widely at the crowd as Taeyong smiles beside her.

Performances of both NCT and Twice flash on screen, both idols in the midst of rapping their verses for their respective songs.

“It allows us to express who we are in different ways.” The idols you have chosen to represent fashion are showcased next, and Yeosang immediate recognizes Hongjoong’s own voice coming through the speakers.

Behind them, a montage of Baekhyun at his Privé Alliance premiers are combined with clips of Hongjoong refashioning clothing. Even a few shots of Hongjoong attending Paris Fashion Week for Balmain are shown.

“And even become who we are not, even if just for a short while.” The actors are brought into the spotlight, Minho standing proudly beside Kyungsoo as the former finishes speaking.

Multiple shots from each male’s respective dramas are shown, showcasing their versatility in the acting field. Even a few interviews and behind the scenes footage are shown wherein the two speak about their various roles they have performed over the years.

“Art encompass all aspects of a person’s life, and lives in collaboration with the artist, just as we do with one another.” Your voice draws everyone’s attention back to you for the moment, still standing at the front of the stage. “It has many angles, just as we as people do. When you change your perspective, it can become many different things. For art is not defined by one, single thing, nor will it ever be.”

“However, it does not do well to forget that despite all of its joys, art can be lonely.” You say, and Yeosang notices quite a few nodding along with your words, especially the idols on stage. “It allows us to channel our inner thoughts and feelings into a process so that others never have to feel as alone as we do. It is there for us in our darkest times, and shines with us in the light. For, even when we are alone, we always have art. It is constant and reassuring. It allows us to all express our fears, and our vulnerability. It allows for others to observe such pieces ands say, ‘I understand, for I have felt this way, too.’ Most importantly, it says, ‘you are not alone.’”

Clips of personal hardships are shown of the various idols standing on stage with you. Tears of joy, of pain, and of sorrow are shed, along with demonstrations of all of the hard work, time, and effort that go into each different art form.

Pages upon pages are edited together, showing scribbles and writings across them. Some end up torn out of the notebook, while others are shown being crumpled up and tossed aside.

That’s when Yeosang realizes, that this is your portion of the video. Your own art form taking shape in writing as a blank page with a cursor blinking almost ominously overhead is shown.

“Art can be simple, and it can also be complex.” You say. “Yet, always. Always, always, always, it starts with a single idea.”

A stereotypical ‘Once upon a time…” is seen being typed out onto the blank document showcased onscreen.

“Art starts with a vision, and a dream.” You say, and your fingers tighten the slightest bit on that pen and notebook clutched in your hand. “For me, it starts with a blank page, and a pen. All it takes is a single spark. A moment of clarity through the chaos that is life to help guide us in a way that we wish to experience with other people. Yet, at the core of all of this, is one binding factor.”

Quickly, you flip open that notebook and scribble something onto a page. Turning it around to show the camera reveals a close up shot of your writing spelling out the word that immediately appears on screen. 

The word for ‘love’ appears in big golden letters above your head, and a collective gasp is heard from the audience. A fact which is only emphasized when each idol standing on stage with you pulls out a piece of paper of their own, the word love written in their mother tongue in their own handwriting on each.

“Every artist is passionate in what they do; art encompasses the mind, body, and soul of the person who creates it. Art is meant to be shared in all of its forms, and it is you who allow us to continue to be our authentic selves through such self expression.” You continue, voice strong as you stand tall. “The amount of love, time, dedication, and energy put into a single piece always shines through. I can think of no better example for this that the late Kim Jonghyun, who’s artistic views have not only inspired me, but so many of my fellow artists around the globe. His dedication and love for his craft was clear in everything that he did, and continues to be a guiding light for many artists still struggling in the dark.”

Behind you, the camera picks up a single tear trailing down the side of Minho’s cheek. Though, from the looks of things, some of the other idols sharing the stage with you do not fare any better.

“No matter what type of life we lead as individuals, we are all bound by a common love for art.” The soft smile is back on your face. You take the time to look around at the artists before you sitting in the couches, along with many of the staff continuing to work to keep the show running. You briefly meet Yeosang’s gaze. “It is what connects us, for art is eternal. Love inspires art, and art inspires love. It is apparent in everything that we do, the people we are, and who we are meant to become.”

“Tonight, we are all here on common purpose,” your gaze is back on the camera before you, bars of music appearing on the screen behind you as notes begin to form on the sheet music. “Tonight, it is our love of music which connects us all.”

More nods are seen all around, a few even already shedding tears along with your words.

“As a beautiful poet, and artist once said, "Even though we can’t communicate using the same language, we use music instead.””

Both Key and Onew swallow thickly. Tears now trail a path down both of their faces as the quote appears on screen, Jonghyun being cited beneath as the speaker of such words.

Many sniffles are heard from the surrounding crowd, many openly sobbing along to your final words as you begin to wrap up your speech for the evening.

“Art is timeless, and knows no bounds. It transcends cultures, languages, and even memory. For even after an artist has passed, their legacy lives on. It lives on in their work, yes, but it also lives on in all of us. Each of us carries that passion, that drive, to strive to be our best selves, and produce art that we can all be proud of. We as artists pour our blood, sweat, and tears into everything that we do, in hopes to share it with you. For art is love, and without love, there would be no art.”

“After all, a heart without art is just eh.”

A few chuckles are heard throughout the crowd as you speak those words in English, shrugging along to them lightly. The video behind you demonstrates the word ‘Heart’ failing as the ‘Art’ portion is removed.

“I would like to end now, with a final quote from Jonghyun which has inspired me, even in my darkest times. For more than everything I have said here tonight, it is always important to remember this: we, as individuals, are all priceless pieces of artwork in our own rights.” Your eyes begin to shine with unshed tears, your breath hitching in your throat momentarily as you look out into the crowd one final time. Taking a deep breath in, you begin to speak once more, the quote appearing in perfect time with each word you go on to say, “The most beautiful thing in all the world is right now. This moment. You. Don’t ever forget that.”

A brief pause where you swallow thickly, a single tear sliding down the side of your cheek. 

You bow deeply. “Thank you very much.”

The moment you straighten back to your full height on stage, a tremendous applause greets you. Yeosang hasn’t even realized he’s started crying until he feels the first of his tears land on the skin of his hands, yet he knows he’s not the only one. Inside that venue, he’s pretty sure that there’s almost no dry eye in sight. Besides, the response from the crowd is too authentic and loud to suggest otherwise.

A blink, and Mark Lee is standing to his feet, followed immediately by all of the NCT members present at the event. Twice is the next group to stand, Jongho springing up as well before any of the members can stop him.

The crowd seems to follow the idol’s lead, for a moment later, the entire venue is giving you a standing ovation. Even both Irene and Wendy are reluctantly on their feet, tears falling freely down their faces despite their attempts to hide them.

What makes this moment even more special, is that on stage, the idols you have chosen to help you all step towards you. However, it is the four members of SHINee that approach you, bowing to you in tandem as you bow back. A moment later, a staff member hands something to Taemin onstage.

It takes a few moments for the applause to die down and for everyone to settle back into their seats. Once they do, it’s like a new sense of calm and understanding has passed over the entire crowd as the members of SHINee address you.

“You have once again proven your elegance with words here tonight in front of all of us,” Jinki begins, a fond smile gracing his features.

“You have reminded us all of why we are here, and why each and every one of us continues to strive for perfection in everything that we do.” Minho is the next to speak, standing tall as he looks upon you with pride.

“We would like to now thank you for your hard work and dedication to your own craft which you have shared with all of us tonight.” Key tilts his head in acknowledgement at you, eyes shining as Taemin approaches you with an award held in his hands.

“In honour of this ceremony tonight, we would like to present you with this artists award for the written word.” Taemin speaks lowly, handing the little statuette to you as a few more tears escape your eyes. He leans in, the cameras catching the way his own tears continue to fall freely down his face. “Thank you for honouring our brother.”

Another round of applause is heard from the audience.

“May this award solidify the relationship between artists, and the bond of love that we all share towards a common craft.” Minho smiles at you as you bow once more, thanking each one of them earnestly without a moment’s hesitation.

The transitional instrumental begins to play over the speakers as you all exit the stage. Most of the idols around you begin to congratulate you on your way out, you inclining your head to them in time and smiling widely.

Yeosang only wishes he could be up there, too, celebrating in your own victory.

A minute later, and the first idol performance kicks off, the crowd cheering along with the music. It takes a few minutes before most of the idols return to their groups after helping you with your performance, but still, you do not appear.

No, you do not appear in the artist’s area for over twenty minutes. Twenty painstakingly long minutes where Yeosang subtly keeps glancing towards the side, hoping that you’ll appear at any moment.

Once you do, though, it’s as if all eyes are drawn to you.

Walking with a staff member to your designated seat, you get stopped lightly by a few groups. Congratulations are heard all around, some idols going so far as to stand and bow to you, mumbles of gratitude falling from their lips. Of course, you immediately smile and bow back, talking lightly to those that wish to converse with you during the small interludes between performances.

Finally, you reach your seat, and it looks las if they’ve seated you right next to Twice, but in front of NCT for the show. A fact that normally Yeosang wouldn’t take much notice of, were you anyone else. However, the fact that it’s you, and that you’re so far away bothers him.

It’s not like he wants to congratulate you himself or anything.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he notices both Jongho and Wooyoung stand to their feet. Both Felix and Changbin do as well. Not that Yeosang is keeping tabs, or anything.

“Where are you two going?” His gaze narrows at them suspiciously.

“To congratulate our friend,” Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “What does it look like we’re doing?”

“Joong already did, though.” Seonghwa frowns, a hint of worry on his features as he glances around at all of the cameras watching their every move.

“We know.” Jongho hums, shrugging nonchalantly. “So, if anyone asks, we’ve just gone to the washroom.”

“Let them go,” Hongjoong huffs out a laugh. “I certainly don’t want to listen to them whining about it the whole show.”

“They’ll be a few seats away, and it’s not like idols haven’t switched couches before during shows.” Yunho hums, amusement dancing in his gaze.

Yeosang can only watch, frozen to his spot as the two youngest members make their way over to you with both Felix and Changbin shortly after that. 

Currently, you appear to be talking lightly to both Sana and Mina for the moment. The three of you lean closer in to one another as a small break is taken as the stage gets set for the next performance.

The second you see Felix, Changbin, Jongho, and Wooyoung appear, you smile. However, due to the angle Yeosang is sitting in, he cannot tell what you’re saying. Instead, he opts to lean back onto the couch, a huff escaping him as his lips tug downwards in the corners.

“If it bothers you that much, go with them.” Hongjoong chuckles, taking notice of the pout Yeosang seems to wear.

“I’m not bothered.” Yeosang is quick to reply, diverting his gaze to the men sitting beside him.

“Mmhmm,” Yunho hums, a knowing quirk to his brow. “And Jongho isn’t on his knees proposing as we speak.”

Yeosang’s head whips in your direction.

A boisterous laugh greets his ears as he sees you continuing to casually converse with the four other idols. None of them are on their knees, nor have they even moved a single inch.

If looks could kill, Yunho would be ten feet under.

“Oh yeah, definitely not bothered.” San quirks a brow, the corner of his lips quirked upwards smugly.

“Shut up.” Yeosang grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Just admit you’re starting to like her, and be done with it.” Mingi shrugs, patting the male beside him lightly on the knee.

“It’s not like that.” Yeosang shakes his head lightly, eyes catching on the way you seem to throw your head back in laughter at something Wooyoung has just said. His jaw twitches in annoyance.

“Sure, it’s not.” Seonghwa grins.

“It’s not!” Yeosang can feel his face heating beneath their knowing stares. “I haven’t even known her for a month!”

“It doesn’t take long to start developing feelings for someone.” Hongjoong comments casually, turning his attention back to the stage as the next group walks into position.

“You guys are making a mountain out of a mole hill.” Yeosang huffs, turning back to face forward as well.

Even though the guys all choose to say nothing as both Jongho and Wooyoung return to join them, Yeosang can just tell that they still don’t believe him.

No, there’s nothing there. Just like how Yeosang is not jealous, he doesn’t have any other feelings towards you other than friendly. You don’t even know each other all that well, especially not like that.

Yet.

Yeosang blinks, surprising himself with that small voice that sounds at the back of his head. He should be used to it by now, but he finds that everything about you throws him off. In a good way, of course. You’re just never what he expects, and for some reason, the thought of growing closer to you, even just as friends, warms his heart more than anything. He wants to support you, just as you’ve incurred that you’ve been supporting him all of this time.

Why then, does the thought of you with anyone else, or even the sight of you getting along so well with another male, bother him so? Why is it when even his closest friends make you smile, his heart hurts?

Yeosang gets so lost in his thoughts, that he barely registers the time passing by. The only two things that manage to snap him out of his daze of staring longingly in your direction half of the time is when Ateez wins an award and has to go up on stage to accept it, and when they are finally taken backstage to get ready for their performance.

In the back of his mind, Yeosang hopes that you’ll be focussed on him.

Standing in the wings, he cannot help but smile to himself. From his vantage point backstage, he can just make out your figure sitting on the couches, dancing along to Stray Kids’ performance right now. The way you excitedly mouth along to the words, potentially even singing along to them has the infectious joy on your features flooding his veins. He cannot help but get lost in the way you move, captivating him with something as simple as nodding your head and shifting your shoulders along to the beat.

Will you do the same for Ateez? Will you be just as content to sing along to the lyrics and music that he is about to perform? Will you, and he silently hopes this beyond everything, be as captivated by him as he is by you?

“Ateez, standby.” A crew member says, headset blinking periodically as they finish guiding the members to their entrance spots.

A large roar is heard from the crowd in response to Stray Kids wrapping up their set, the members rushing passed Ateez as they exit the stage.

Brief congratulations and praises are shared, Wooyoung and Changbin playfully teasing each other about who is going to win their bet of having your gaze on them more when performing. Though Bang Chan and Hongjoong chuckle fondly, Yeosang cannot help the irritated twitch of his jaw.

A minute later, Ateez is entering the stage.

The crowd once more erupts in cheers as their intro begins playing, their names being introduced onscreen as their opening VCR plays in the background. Yeosang can feel that typical rush of adrenaline flooding his veins, taking a deep breath in and getting into his starting position.

The music begins.

Each move is precise, the dance flowing between all of them just as every time they both practice and perform. Not a single error is seen from any of them, and the energy from the audience feeds into each of their movements, giving them motivation to continue and perform even better than before. Of course, it helps when certain close ups of the members cause cheers to erupt, or certain parts of the song.

The moment Yeosang steps to the front to do his part, the movements second nature to him by now, he spares a glance in your direction.

There you sit, completely mesmerized by him. Your eyes are wide, hand resting over your heart as you lean back into the couch as if you’re swooning.

Yeosang smirks, putting even more effort into his every movement. He needs to continue to feel your eyes on him every second of this performance, because it motivates him to do even better than before. 

If your touch is fire, then your gaze is electricity, setting his whole body alight in the best ways possible.

The minute the stage ends, Yeosang darts his gaze over to you once more. The fact that he can see you cheering loudly causes his already racing heart to stutter, a smile pulling at his features all the while. There’s a sense of pride building in his chest, more so than usual, and he absolutely revels in it.

It takes them about ten minutes to cool down backstage. Each male takes the time to change out of their performance outfits, allowing the staff to wipe the sweat from their faces before heading back to their seats.

The minute they return to the couches, they see you smiling widely at them. The added fact that you send them two enthusiastic thumbs up, mouthing ‘great job’ towards them, has them all smiling and bowing at you in thanks.

Yeosang’s heart absolutely soars, but he can tell that he’s not the only one. Even both San and Seonghwa look absolutely thrilled to be receiving your praise, giddy grins tugging onto their features as they walk passed. It’s only when Jongho sits on the couch directly beside yours that Yeosang realizes that the Twice members have all been brought backstage for their own performance.

Wooyoung is the next to sit on that same couch, and soon, all of Ateez takes over the spot where Twice had once been. You talk lowly with them, congratulating them again on an excellent performance while talking excitedly about your favourite parts. A fact of which makes all of them nod along eagerly, for you have something to praise about all of them.

The moment Yeosang’s name slips passed your lips, his eyes are on you.

“I know for a fact I wasn’t the only one captivated by your part tonight.” You say, eyes shining as you meet his gaze. “You should have heard the way Itzy squealed beside me. It was so validating to know I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.”

Sure enough, when his gaze darts passed your head, he can see Itzy smiling and waving at him from the couch to the left of your own. 

He turns back to you.

Lowly, he thanks you, and again, he can feel a vibrant warmth spreading onto his cheeks. Yet, all too soon, you’re moving on.

“And that high note!” You turn to Jongho, fingers squeezing the arm of the couch beside you. “God, I always love watching your live stages cause you guys don’t just perform, you perform.”

The way you emphasize that word has smiles rising to all of their faces, especially when they watch you lean forward slightly as you say such a thing. This is the first time they’ve ever truly experienced you talking like this about them, and each male wants to enjoy it. Though, some are definitely enjoying it more than others. Including Yeosang.

“I could literally go on forever about this, but I’ll spare you guys from my rant beforehand.” You chuckle, shifting back into your original position.

“Really, I don’t think any of us would mind.” Hongjoong grins at you, but the way his eyes flash suggests he knows something that the others don’t.

“Yeah, okay, captain of the stage demons,” you snort. “You’re really not slick in still trying to figure out my bias to your group. You ask me more times than the Iron Lung over here.”

At the way you motion to Jongho with your thumb, the guys and you all share a laugh.

“Didn’t realize Captain was that interested in learning your bias,” Wooyoung’s eyebrow quirks mischievously. “And after that huge ass lecture on the way home from rehearsals yesterday about giving you space about it.”

Hongjoong looks about ready to leap across the couch and start smacking Wooyoung upside the head.

“I honestly don’t mind not knowing.” Hongjoong says, though the fact that he forces a tight smile suggests otherwise.

“Really?” You grin, tilting your head forward knowingly. “Mister ‘don’t look at other idols’ doesn’t care whether or not my bias to his group is actually him or not?”

“I don’t say that!” His mouth falls open in shock.

All heads in Ateez turn to look at Hongjoong, blinking in disbelief.

“Okay, maybe like, once,” he grumbles.

Yunho snorts out a laugh, “yeah, maybe once today.”

A playful smack is given to the younger male, who pretends to rub his side in pain.

“Whatever,” Hongjoong mumbles. “You help a friend out with their presentation, and they won’t even tell you their Ateez bias afterwards.”

You laugh.

“As long as I’m your wrecker, that’s all that matters.” Wooyoung chimes in, a firm nod to his head.

“Given up on the notion that you’re her bias already?” San asks, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Where’d that confidence from the plane ride go?”

“Didn’t you know, a person’s bias is most like them, and their wrecker is their ideal type?” Wooyoung proudly repeats the words you told him yesterday.

All eyes are instantly on you.

“Okay, so, who’s your Ateez bias wrecker?” Mingi asks eagerly, leaning forward slightly in his seat.

Again, you laugh. “If I’m not telling you my bias, I’m most certainly not telling you my wreckers.”

Yeosang’s brow quirks, but his face remains neutral for the most part.

“It has to be one of us,” Seonghwa frowns, attempting to figure it all out from everything that you’ve told them so far.

“Oh, I never said there was only one.” You hum, a teasing quirk to your lips. “Oh no, one of you was very adamant about wrecking me in the end.”

“You like multiple of us?” Yeosang’s lips part, ignoring the way his heart leaps hopefully in his chest.

“Of course I like more than one of you,” you giggle. “There are eight of you, after all. It’s quite hard for someone to choose only one. You’re all very beautiful men.”

Quirked eyebrows greet you all around, and your eyes seem to widen in embarrassment. The fact that they all smile at you giddily only makes it worse.

“Wait, please don’t think I’m super shallow and am only talking about your looks when I say that.” You’re quick to add. “Yes, I think you’re all handsome, but I mainly base my decisions on what is known about your personalities and what you show your fans.”

“You think I’m handsome?” Jongho’s eyes absolutely shine beneath the dim lighting of the venue, nothing but awe in his gaze as he looks at you.

“Of course I do.” You smile, and red begins to slowly creep up Jongho’s neck. “Beauty is also very subjective, so who I might find the most visually appealing might not be another person’s answer.”

“As long as you think I’m the most handsome, we shouldn’t have a problem.” A voice from the left side catches your attention, and you turn to see Johnny, Mark, and Yuta moving to sit beside you on the couch. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, John.” You grin, bowing your head politely in greeting to Yuta who smiles back.

“Every day I know you, you break my heart even more.” Johnny sighs dramatically, placing a hand over his chest as he falls backwards on the couch.

“I’ve known you for a day and a half, John.” You blink blankly, somewhat teasingly, causing laughter to erupt around you.

“You’ve only known Mark for that time, too!” He counters.

“Technically speaking, I’ve been talking with Mark for over eight months now.” You reply, fixing the skirt of your dress as you cross your one leg over the other beneath the material.

Yeosang’s eyebrow twitches, leaning forward slightly in his seat to see you better.

“Yeah, she’s my best friend!” Mark grins widely, puffing out his chest slightly as he looks at Johnny. Were it not for the cameras, Yeosang bets anything that the male would have slung an arm around your shoulders by now.

“Yeah, cause you won’t share her contact details with anyone else.” Johnny mutters, rolling his eyes.

“Mark! Right in front of your number one stan?” You gasp dramatically, extending your hand outwards and motioning towards Yuta.

“Normally, I would have to agree with you.” Yuta smirks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he looks at you. “However, I think I can make an exception for our favourite author.”

Your whole body freezes, eyes sparkling as you look towards Yuta. “Favourite author?”

“Yes.” Yuta nods once in confirmation. “And might I just say, you look divine.”

The way your breath hitches in your throat does not go unnoticed by any of them. The fact that you avert your gaze so bashfully while muttering out a small ‘thank you’ has Yeosang’s heart squeezing painfully in his chest. He can hardly prevent the way his lips purse the slightest bit, fingers digging into the skin of his thighs as he grounds himself to his spot for the moment.

Yeosang may not have fully understood what Yuta has just told you, but from the bits he picked up, he’s understood enough. Besides, the bashful way you respond says it all.

A second later, and you’re clearing your throat. “Wait, Mark won’t share my contact details with you? I told him it was fine when he first asked. I just didn’t bring it up again because I thought none of you were interested in talking with me. I didn’t want to push or come across as some weird, obsessed fan who was using connections to get what she wants.”

A pointed look is sent towards Mark by both Johnny and Yuta as the former male begins to shrink in his spot.

“Ah, so Markie Boy has been gatekeeping his pretty author friend this whole time.” Johnny hums, a tight smile pulling across his features.

“I think I need to reassess how much I stan Mark now,” Yuta adds, a teasing grin pulling on his features.

“I’m telling Ten!” Johnny jumps up from the couch, moving back off to where all of NCT is sitting. “And Taeyong! And Kun, and Chenle, and Renjun, and Jeno, and-“

His voice begins to fade as he walks away, but he continues to list off names, nonetheless.

“Get back here!” Mark immediately chases after him, though with the cameras around, it’s more of a speed walking competition as they head back to their own seats for the moment.

Your eyes widen, a snort of amusement escaping you as you watch Johnny slowly going around to each couch to inform the Neos about this recent discovery. Mark attempts in vain to stutter out excuses, but the moment Doyoung pulls him back down onto the couch beside him, it’s clear his efforts are futile.

“Didn’t realize how many Neos wanted to talk to me.” You mumble, turning back around to face the front with a soft smile on your face.

“I know for a fact that it’s more than just the Neos.” Yunho chuckles, motioning back towards both Stray Kids and Seventeen with his head. Two groups of which that sit off to the right of them all right now.

“I still can’t believe it,” you comment, somewhat breathlessly as your eyes are drawn back to the stage in front of you.

Yeosang wants to wipe that flirty smile right off of Yuta’s face as the elder male shifts closer to you on the couch. The second Yeosang sees Yuta take your hands in his own, Yeosang can feel his nails biting into the skin of his legs even harsher than before. Why does he so badly wish that were him?

More than all of that, why do you look so awestruck?

The words Yuta speaks to you are nothing but a loud ringing in Yeosang’s ears, only getting worse when he watches you smile and nod back enthusiastically. You reply something, but that damn white noise drowns everything out. He only wishes he could actually hear what’s being said, but before he knows it, the next performance is starting.

It’s just not fair.

Yeosang is forced to watch as you settle onto the couch with Yuta beside you, a large smile painting your features as you relax into your spot. He really wishes he could enjoy the music, just as you seem to be. Only, he finds that the dull ache of his heart demands to be felt.

Why, suddenly, is it so difficult for him to breathe?

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