#if i established too much just hmu
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AHTLAS' ¹ st STARTER CALL . ( still accepting. ) please expect me to be slow to post !
ft. @wildlike
THEY, THE ODD PAIR THAT THEY ARE— have truths that neither one asks the other. 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 that there are some scars that just aren't meant to be questioned, while others are free reign, so long as that reign only reaches over the mundane . . . covering childhood blunders; stories easily swapped versus 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 close to their chests.
it is at relative peace that jack finds himself beside the other man once again, glancing over to him only once- before handing him blindly a cup of coffee in the next; steam wafting off the top of a fresh brew. " if you're going to stand in my kitchen, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 have some. "
#wildlike#closed starter#leaving this kinda vague but pre-established !!!#they buddies :) i give u no choice#if i established too much just hmu
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wuxia, xianxia, and cultivation differences meta
translations: wuxia 武俠, xianxia 仙俠, and cultivation 修真/修仙 (xīuzhēn/xīuxiān)
think i've seen posts on this eons ago, and i'm pretty sure there are tons of these online, but since this has been written up already let's just have another one.
wuxia 武俠
wuxia and xianxia sound similar, but basically for wuxia it is about the pugilistic world (江湖 jiānghú). It is relatively more down-to-earth, and people practice martial arts ("kungfu") in their current life -- they do not do it to become xians (仙) and gods (神) however.
Like Thousand Autumns and Faraway Wanderers/Word of Honor, it has more historical background and ties to the current court and kingdoms, because people are living in the moment and concern themselves with worldly issues.
Martial arts may seem unrealistic, but in view of chinese fantasy it would be considered "real". It consists of fighting moves and internal energy, which they call qi or nèigōng (內功), and at times you see people flying around, climbing hills and jumping across rooftops which is qīnggōng (輕功).
xianxia 仙俠
A level up would be xianxia, where characters in the story cultivate to become xians (and gods, like in the heaven official's blessing). They don't really care about earthly issues here now, because their ambitions lie beyond the current world, and cultivation, getting stronger, and an immortal life are majorly all their goals.
You may not always see them working towards that purpose, such as in mdzs they are considered a lower-xianxia society (低魔), meaning people don't go through all the steps of cultivation and only stay at the stage before the "golden core" stage.
In xianxia, characters still learn basic fighting moves aka. martial arts, but to direct the internal energy they use línglì (灵力), zhēnqì (真气), and fǎlì (法力), all xianxia terms you commonly see. "neigong" is practically nonexistent in this genre. That's why people building up their "neigong" instead of "lingli" are likely never going to be able to cultivate.
cultivation 修真/修仙
A subgenre in the xianxia category would be cultivation. Characters actively go through the stages of cultivation, and likely for the MC, because they are the main character, they successfully become a xian and exit the world at the end of the novel.
There are many stages of cultivation, usually defined at the beginning of the novel in the synopsis, and a typical example of the different levels would be this:
练气，筑基，金丹，元婴，化神，炼虚，合体，大乘，渡劫
And with a cursory search, an English translation would be something like this, albeit not with all the cultivation ranks identified.
Qi condensation (练气), Foundation establishment (筑基), Core Formation (金丹), Nascent Soul (元婴), and the names after that vary too greatly with translation and fandom so I'll jump straight to Immortal Ascension
extra info: getting into the philosophy of it all
It'd be interesting to note that the word "xiá" (俠) permeates all these genres. This is something akin to the concept of "hero", but not at all also, and I'd love to speak more on this but this post has already gone way longer than I hoped it would be, so perhaps another day.
Regardless, it is interesting to note that wuxia has a greater emphasis on "xia" than xianxia. (some joke that cultivation doesn't have the word "xia" in it, and much of that is because characters have foregone heroism and focused on gaining powers and working towards ascension instead). As a result, wuxia is more confucianism-oriented, though not without its taoism and buddhism influences.
xianxia, on the other hand, is mainly derived from "dào" (道), from taoism, which is another lengthy concept if I ever get to it.
And some may have heard of the "farming" genre, 种田 (zhòngtián). This has to do with golden fingers (mary sues) in imperialistic china, earning a wealth of money, and all that. It has nothing to do with cultivation, alike they sound in english.
that's it for now, hmu if you wish to ask/discuss!
(and apologies for the pinyin translations, hope it's understandable still! formally writing pinyin they are supposed to be two separate words not one.)
#danmei#mdzs#word of honor#cdrama#thousand autumns#cnovel#wuxia#xianxia#cultivation novel#chinese language#chinese#fate's meta
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Cân i Gymru 2024
It has just occurred to me that I can actually recreate Cân i Gymru for you all through the power of the Internet and Tumblr and such like. Given that Eurovision is out this year, please enjoy the Eurovision of my people.
The artists are much less important to us than the songwriters. Sometimes those are the same people, but sometimes not. The winners of this contest are the songwriters, though, the artists are just a necessary evil.
So! The entries!
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First up! Heno, meaning 'tonight'. The songwriters wanted to write something that would make everyone want to dance :). The artists are therefore a sexy Eurovision-style singer who hits notes I previously have only heard autotuned in Crypt of the Necrodancer, and a funky DJ man. This is the most Eurovision-y song, probably.
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Yr Un Fath (The Same Thing), by Jacob Howells! He wrote this one himself. Lovely lad, from Llanelli. A gentle ballad.
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Again, singing their own song! These are the songwriters! Exciting. This is Cymru yn y Cymylau (Wales in the Clouds), which is a very nice song about how no matter where they go in the world, they see Wales - and by extension their Welshness - in the clouds, staying with them. A route back home.
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Mêl (Honey). Same again, they wrote their own song. This is a song about late stage capitalism and the environment and having hope for the future told through the metaphor of bees. Slight funk/soul vibe. The stage backdrop was increasingly filled with clipart bees.
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Cysgod Coed (The trees' shadow). A ballad about lost love and broken promises. The songwriter is teenage girl Efa Rowlands, the singer is classmate Gwion Phillips.
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This one felt the most like a Swedish Eurovision entry. The singer is half of Welsh band Lofi Jones, but no one even mentioned that, because he didn't write the song, so it's not about him. The song Pethau Yn Newid (Things Are Changing) instead is about how life is moving too fast and we should appreciate the time we have more, because he's aging and everything is changing and he can't keep up. They probably should have gotten someone older to sing it.
youtube
Absolute vocal powerhouse ballad, Ti (You) is part-written and all-performed by music teacher Sara Davies. The lyrics were a love letter her grandfather wrote to her grandmother before he died; Sara then wrote the music for it. The background photos are her grandparents. Her grandmother was actually in the live audience on the night.
youtube
And the last one! Goleuni (Lights) is by a pair of songwriters (one music teacher and one West End star) who wanted to write a song of hope for the dark times, because the world is shit but Still We Persist. They're both talented and established songwriters. The performer is a seventeen year old schoolgirl in the class of one of the songwriters.
~~~~
So!
Anyway I disagreed with the first second and third placings of the Welsh public so hmu Tumblrs who are we choosing
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#his secret lover
— just a series where you are their secret lover… but you didn’t know because you weren’t from teyvat after all! (until you have memories of him and you every time you two touch)
CHARACTERS. self aware! Isekai! gn! Reader; Al-Haitham, Heizou, Tighnari, Scaramouche / Wanderer
THEMES. light sagau (self aware genshin au), isekai, fluff/crack, questionable but real established relationship, suggestive (light and in a few of them…), domestic (kind of inspired by several manhwas lmao), light angst on Tighnari’s??
NOTES. I planned for this to be a series so yep if there is anyone else you want me to cover, just hmu.
SCARAMOUCHE / WANDERER
You have to give him all the props, he had hidden you quite well.
Even as he was a Fatui Harbinger of a high enough ranking–for others, he was able to keep your identity a secret. Thus, the moment you opened your eyes and found yourself in the land of Teyvat without even knowing, you didn’t know about this.
Being transported to Inazuma was one thing that did take you a whileto notice until you came face to face with the tracks to Mt. Yougou and officially got to know a Yae Miko–an individual everyone seemed to have great respect for and the fox ears and tail were ones you have never seen in a person ever–at least not one that looked so real and looked exactly like a character in a game you’ve played in!
What Yae Miko and you talked about came in a blur because you were too much in your head, thinking about how everything suddenly made sense but didn’t at the same time. Yet you did uncover something in your identity in such a small conversation–it was that she knew you. Very well, that is. You felt that it was weird for her to suddenly come up and talk to you all of a sudden, all the more when she asked how you and your lover were–you almost let out a “Who in the world is my lover-Wait, I have one?!” but you managed to shut yourself up and said that you two were doing alright. Biggest mistake of your life.
The moment you saw Scaramouche, you didn’t even recognize him. He wore such different clothes that you barely had the time to stare and get a grip, not until he was right in front of you–actually, he marched right in front of you.
“Wash that stupid look on your face, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
For a moment, you were dumbfounded over the fact that he looked exactly like Scaramouche but not at all–was it the clothes? Or was it the soft look on his face that he kept on for a few seconds until he wipes it off—and you didn’t even have much time to respond before he adds on.
“And that fox is acting weirdly, did you say anything to her? Don’t tell me you slipped up and told her that you’re seeing me,” he sends you a look and your mind goes in spirals all the more.
You’re seeing who now?!
Seeing as you haven’t answered him yet and you were merely staring at him, this time, a different expression comes across his face, disappearing as fast as it had appeared.
“What in the world has gotten into you?” his voice turns softer this time, “is something wrong?”
He will actually end up pulling you aside and interrogating you for what had happened. That is! Until you remembered everything! The moment he held your hand, every single memory you have had with him came rushing in and you became dizzy that he will suddenly decide to just take you home.
You now came to recall everything that had occurred and everything fell into place, only now, you had memories of your memories in your real life–or was it really real??—back on Earth whilst having memories of your life in Teyvat. You remember receiving secret letters from Scaramouche and hearing all about his plans, and it momentarily stopped only to receive one yesterday, stating that he would come back home finally.
You still weren’t sure if you would tell him this is a game… but what is the use though? You haven’t gone through this timeline as well…
“Kuni… I lived two lives.” For some reason, it didn’t sit well for you to keep anything from him–it seems so wrong, so…weird. A month ago, he was just a character in a game you were playing for quite some time and now, he was here, right in front of you.
His lips were on your cheek as he takes a breath and the air hits your skin, tickling you ever so slightly.
“Is that so?” you couldn’t tell if he was taking you seriously or not, even more so when you felt him encircle his hands on your waist and pull you closer to his face, where you could meet his eyes that narrowed and the corners of his lips quirk up, “then have you kissed someone else in your other life? Other than me?”
You heard the slight pause in between his questions and felt him lean closer to you. “Do they kiss you as good as I do?”
Actually, he meant to ask if you loved someone else other than him or not, but no, he can’t let you think of someone else when you have him right beside you. And besides… if you had another life, then that means he has nothing to worry about in this life… right?
That thought haunts him every night.
AL-HAITHAM
Being in a relationship with The Scribe is a big thing already. And all the more so with a person like him.
After all, it is not so much of a secret that he does bear a good appearance, albeit his personality, he was someone who was particularly popular to ladies and men alike. Maybe for different reasons but most were the same.
For you, one look at him and you could tell that everyone was right–he really was attractive, but no one would have the guts to come near him with his presence alone. You were only getting used to being transported into this world when you came across the Akademiya and he so suddenly passed by you. You couldn’t stop yourself from admitting that eye contact with him sent shivers down your spine and made you momentarily freeze in place. Even more so when he oh-so conveniently greeted you with a small smirk.
“Good morning, Y/n,” it was a ghost of a smile–it almost seemed like it was just a sight only for you.
Only, it was the truth, and you found out about it when you opened the door to your “home” and saw the face of the person that almost made you have a heart attack just moments ago.
“Oh-I mean, hi! Uhm-” you struggled to formulate anything else from your mouth that you wanted the ground to swallow you whole. You wanted to ask him why he was at your door when he chuckled right at you. When you openly stared at him, however, you could see his brow suddenly raise in confusion.
“Y/n… as far as I like the attention and seeing your flustered face, I am not that much interested in holding a staring contest against you at the door to our home,” he clearly was caught off guard as he clears his throat and looks away, “your home… pardon me for forgetting.”
He will definitely feel like something had happened to make you act quite weirdly, but he would not come up with a conclusion so suddenly, however, as he is beginning to gather up his observations, you eventually return back to “normal”, where you don’t freeze up whenever he shows up in front of you, or whenever he tries to lean in for a kiss, or any other physical intimacy that you seem to stutter about.
Actually, for him, it did feel like you were back in your past self–easily getting flustered or embarrassed. For you, though, the memories that the “Teyvat You” had accumulated slowly but surely came to you each day you spent with Al-Haitham, almost too calculative that you felt like everything that had happened seemed to be much more real than the “Earth You”.
And because of this, you begin to open up to your lover about your experience and decided to ask for his opinion. With all the time you had spent with him, you became much more comfortable with having to talk to him without stuttering and enough for you to tell the truth of your identity–but not enough to tell him that this world is merely inside a game. Fortunately, he would not be able to figure this out as this is something very unpresidential.
“Are you saying that another soul… but it’s still you… entered this body, and now you have memories of you here, as well as you back in your world,” he did not seem to end it in a question, more like a demand for you to tell him more or for you to explain it to him clearly without having a hard time to do so yourself–he could not really blame you… it is not such a “normal” occurrence that even he wouldn’t be able to explain himself if it had happened to him, not that he would be as inaccurate as you are.
He does try to help you uncover the truth and adjust well! After all, he is quite thirsty for knowledge (as much as you were to hi-) and there would be no things left unturned, especially considering that it was about you.
He does find it odd whenever you do a couple of things that you did not use to do—such as say a couple of words that are not in Teyvat’s vocabulary, from what he knows of—but he eventually grows accustomed to them, just as quick as you become accustomed to this “new life”—or it wasn’t really.
He does ask you a couple of questions (a LOT) about how your life was in the other world. You tell him of all the technologies and inventions you came to know and well you should not be that much surprised if he ends up covering them for his research or whatever. So do make sure to keep some of that knowledge to yourself!
TIGHNARI
The moment you wake, you found yourself lying in the middle of the forest, all alone, yet surrounded by mushrooms that you knew for sure you had never seen before.
They had brighter shades, compared to the ones you normally eat, which means-
“Are they poisonous? Or worse…” you mutter to yourself, horrified as you look at each of the mushrooms. Then everything turns black.
When you wake again, you were greeted by a different view–a hut, precisely… or it seems like it. You had a familiar feeling set in once you looked around you, however, but as soon as you heard the slightest bit of movement, you instinctively closed your eyes, pretending to be asleep.
“No point trying to act like you’re still unconscious, Y/n, you may open your eyes.”
The voice—it felt too familiar that even if you wanted to pretend a little bit more, you couldn’t help but be curious–why was it even familiar when-
Your jaw fell and your mouth hang open as soon as you came face to face with him–a man with long ears (fox ears? What are they-A fennec? Why does he look like… someone…) and his sense of fashion being… quite an eh-
“Huh? What is it? Is there something on my face?”
Now that you had heard his voice again, you came to realize that he does sound like the same person he looks very much alike to–Tighnari from that game you’ve played.
What in the-
“I must be dreaming right now, aren’t I?”
He sends a look at you and with crossed arms, says, “If you were, I can say I’m quite flattered to have you dream about me, but you are not dreaming so my gratitude is rather useless.”
And as he casually tries to check your temperature and your vitals, his touch makes you jump with a sudden “memory” that you two apparently had… of the times he took care of you after you appear to have been either injured or came across some weird mushrooms–which also seems to be the case this time around.
“What is it? Did it hurt when I touched you?” He does notice this and does not hesitate to ask you, but with all that was happening, you failed to notice the concerned look in his eyes but it did not stop the pressure that was building in your chest—so you lied. “No… I’m fine, just a bit jumpy… ‘s all.”
He may raise a brow at this but he brushes it off, and in the end, you might not be able to say the truth to him because… well, you didn’t have a chance! Every time you try to do so, it’s either he holds your hand or you hold his and a memory pops up and everything in your plan gets messed up!
He’s sort of a physical lover. You wouldn’t be able to believe it either, especially since you didn’t really know much about him until you came here and realized that it actually makes a lot of sense for him to be so.
He initiates a lot of it too! So much so that whenever you feel his tail wrap around your arm or your waist or him trying to request of you to pet his ears… you feel a little guilty somehow.
In the end, you were keeping something from him… and you still haven’t told it yet.
HEIZOU
You had just woken up and minutes later, you were stuck in a rather… awkward conversation.
“Are you saying… I’m in Teyvat?! And you’re Heizou?!”
The boy in front of you has a furrowed brow as he crosses his arms over your chest, “Hm? Where else should you be except for here? Right beside me?” he grins at the momentary victory of having to come up with a way to try and fluster you, but apparently, this time, it wasn’t working.
He, above most of the others, would figure it out immediately–well, not the entire story, no. He will be able to deduce that you must hae forgotten a piece or two (or maybe even all) of your memory and in turn, makes you very confused as to where you were and who is he–I mean, how could you even forget who he is? He courted you for so long and now he will have to go through that all over again?
You don’t remember everything as fast as his interrogation skills, however, and he will begin to question you before you even get to have your “memories” back, and when you do, you were already finished telling him of your life back in Earth and it seems you might have slipped that Teyvat is inside a game called Genshin Impact, which is how Heizou came into the conclusion of the truth.
You really wouldn’t be able to hide anything from this man because he knows his way around interrogation that even if you try to lie, it will only be for your demise. Well, it does seem like he wasn’t taking you seriously, but hey, at least he wasn’t being awkward about it now… or maybe he’s just REALLY not taking you seriously.
Anyway, it was a kiss that eventually makes you remember—not everything, but at least something.
“This is not gonna do… you act, speak, and look exactly like Y/n, and yet-“
“But my name is really Y/n! And… I think I remember something.”
“So you were able to recall something after our lips touched,” he brings a hand on his chin, contemplating, as you feel your face heat up.
“If you put it that way…”
“Then should we do it more? Kissing, I mean.”
“Sure, I-wait… what?”
comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!<3
taglist on the reblogs!
#yaepublishinghouse#genshin x reader#scaramouche x reader#wanderer x reader#scara x reader#alhaitham x reader#al-haitham x reader#heizou x reader#tighnari x reader#genshin fluff#genshin sagau#sagau scaramouche#sagau heizou#sagau alhaitham#sagau tighnari
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Seventeen recs
<<original book
most of the mentioned works is 18+ NSFW, MINORS DNI
pls don´t hesitate to hmu, if any of mentioned links doesn´t work or you have suggestions for more fics... thank you so much for all the love and comments
one shots
calico by @cheollipop
Jeonghan x fem!reader (wc - 3.1k)
exes
- angst, smut
the heartache from a past game of cat and dog—leaving you with nothing but a stained bed and a broken heart—came back tenfold when freshly-chopped hair and a sly smirk greeted you through the cracked-open, tinted window.
deeper in denial by @amateurasterism
Jeonghan x gn!reader (wc - 2.8k)
university AU, friends to lovers
- fluff, suggestive
if there’s one thing you know about jeonghan, it’s that he’s a tease. what happens when the teasing makes it to soonyoung’s game of spin the bottle?
Gotcha! by @wongyuseokie
Jeonghan x fem!reader (wc - 3.2k)
established relationship
- angst, hurt/comfort, fluff
Jeonghan loves pranks, creating chaos and mischief, and you love it too, but one day he goes too far, and he’s unsure how to fix it because how do you fix a broken heart?
Enemies to Lovers by @hoshifighting
Jeonghan x fem!reader (wc - 6.6k)
enemies to lovers
- angst, fluff, smut
Once inseparable childhood friends, their bond takes an unexpected turn when you start dating in middle school. Jeonghan's behavior becomes increasingly erratic, transforming him from a supportive friend to a constant source of annoyance. Now, in college, the tables turn, but Jeonghan remains a delightful pain in the ass as old flames are rekindled in the midst of playful banter and undeniable attraction.
I Hate U, I Love U by @wonusite
Jeonghan x fem!reader (wc - 20.8k)
enemies to lovers, university AU, fake dating, rich kids AU
- angst, smut, fluff, hurt/comfort
After finally managing to escape the lifelong rivalry you once had with Yoon Jeonghan, you’re unexpectedly thrown back into the undesirable feud after receiving a scholarship to the most prestigious private school in the city. Despite your attempts to leave the past in the past, you discover too late that you’re the only one interested in letting the vendetta go. Years later, there’s a switch in dynamic when you’re the one unwilling to let it go.
lucky girl by @horangare
Jeonghan x fem!reader (wc - 14.9k)
fake dating, friends > strangers > lovers, model!Jeonghan
- fluff, smut, angst
jeonghan has no interest in a relationship, however it seems that everyone else is sticking their nose into his nonexistent love life. you’ve been in love with him for as long as you can remember, but that was ages ago. he shouldn’t remember someone like you, but he does. and he wants you to be his girlfriend (just for a little while though, right?)
series
How many times does it take to get smarter?, How many chances are too many? by @veethefreeelf
Jeonghan x fem!reader (wc - 6.3k + 14k)
best friends > fwb > strangers > lovers
- fluff, smut, angst
Jeonghan and you start a fwb relationship after years of being best friends. He only has two rules: no feelings and no kissing. Who’s going to break the rules first?
my heart is beating for two by @seuonji
Jeonghan x fem!reader (wc - 1k + 1.4k + 2.4k)
strangers to lovers, mutual pining
- fluff
you’re a worker at the daycare and of course, your main priority is the safety of the kids. how’d you deal with an unfamiliar face trying to pick up one of the kids one day?
part 1, part 2, part 3
#seventeen#seventeen x reader#seventeen smut#seventeen recs#jeonghan#svt jeonghan#yoon jeonghan#jeonghan x reader#jeonghan smut
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Steel Magnolia
Ch 1| I don't mix business and pleasure
Pairing| Soap x Honey Rating| Eventual Smut Word Count| 1.4k Content/Warnings| The author is an American attempting to write a Scottish accent (I'm still dialing it in, RIP. If any of my readers are Scottish and wanna beta hmu lmao). Honey is one of those Reader/OC hybrid characters where it is established she is a southern American, plus sized nurse who is on the shorter side but has no other physical descriptors and should read as POC friendly (if I miss something, lemme know!) I have been wanting to write this for a hot minute and always was going to have the dialogue "I'm going to marry her", so seeing @glitterypirateduck have "I'm going to marry you" as one of the prompt options for Soap It Up pretty much solidified that I needed to have my first chapter for Steel Magnolia line up for the challenge!
This chapter is SFW but I am an MDNI account
Soap has an ever mounting suspicion that these blood drives are just an excuse to give the baby nurses more practice sticking people.
Like many in the military, he doesn’t consider himself a hard stick. All the time in the gym paired with a routine schedule on base, he and many other soldiers typically get nurses drooling over his veins like the weird little vampires that they are.
Lucky him- he’s got one of the FNGs, a skittish mess who seems terrified if he looks at her too long even though she’s the one with the damn 17g needle and he’s the one that’s got to sit there and take it.
A group of soldiers on the way out had been bitching and moaning about how the charge nurse was a raging cunt, and given how those soldiers were Americans, that has a bit more teeth to it than coming from someone more local.
He’s not entirely positive which one of the nurses is the alleged fire breathing dragon, but it’s fairly obvious which are the more senior nurses. Which only further reinforces his suspicions about being used as a pin cushion.
Soap’s a model patient as she scrubs his arm with the antiseptic. Even though he’s had worse happen in the line of duty, he still isn’t a fan of having a needle shoved into his arm.
He sits like a statue as she ties the tourniquet around his arm. Takes a sharp inhale and lets it out as she goes to stick him.
There’s no flashback, and the needle bites.
Fucking great.
He and the FNG both stare at the butterfly like the flashback will magically appear, Soap flexing his fingers in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort in his arm despite the logical part of his brain knowing that’s not how it works.
What the hell.
“‘S supposed to be stinging like that, nurse?” He asks, really as a prompt to make her do something to reposition the needle. He’s mindful of his tone.
The FNG blanches, like his words have dragged her back to the world of the living. She pulls the needle back before advancing forward again.
Nothing, again, but the bite from the needle stings even worse this time and he doesn’t totally manage to stifle the pained hiss that escapes.
Her nerves seem totally shot at this point, like she’s bracing for Soap to snap at her before turning in search of one of the more experienced nurses (which, in his defense, Soap does not believe he’s done anything to warrant that response). “Honey? Can I borrow you for a second?”
The nurse in question turns her head at the sound of her name and suddenly Soap is not at all concerned about the sting in his arm.
He can’t help that he’s got a type and it’s impossible to miss how she checks all the boxes appearance wise. He’s always been a sucker for a pretty face and a wide ass; given that Honey had been facing away from them, he’s got an excellent view of both when she reacts to her name being called. What can he say? He’s always had a soft spot for big soft girls
As she strides towards Soap and the FNG, he can tell by the look on her face that she’s already trying to judge the situation.
Maybe this is the nurse that got the American soldiers riled up (perhaps they had riled her up by snapping at the skittish FNG- all conjecture, but seems plausible enough to him). She’s more than welcome to give Soap that sharp eyed, cutting expression whenever.
Christ he hasn’t even said a word to her and he’s already got it bad.
“What’s up?” Honey asks and Soap thinks he hears a southern drawl but the two words aren’t entirely enough to confirm that theory. Definitely American though.
“His vein keeps rolling and I can’t get it. I don’t want to go fishing, can you get it?”
“Well I can always try,” she answers before reaching up for the station behind them for sanitizer and gloves. Definitely southern.
“Scooch,” she kindly instructs the FNG before stepping into her place beside Soap.
He knows he’s staring (there’s also a part of him keyed in to the fact that Ghost is watching from the next chair over) and he needs to act like a normal fucking person.
“I’m Honey, I’m one of the nurses. Let’s see if we can’t get this needle where it’s supposed to be, hm?” She introduces herself before feeling on his arm, the FNG hovering over her.
“Sounds like a plan tae me, bonnie,” Soap says, deciding immediately that he could happily listen to her talk for hours.
Her attention shifts to the FNG, and given how she’s got a hold of the wings of the needle he decides to let her work in peace.
“See how I've got these fingers placed like this? You wanna make sure you’ve got it anchored good so it doesn’t roll on ya,” she instructs while positioning herself.
“Then we’ll just pull back and adjust the angle real quick and-“ To her credit, he can barely feel the needle moving as she slides the bevel right where it's supposed to be, “there. Good flashback. Check it and hook him up.”
Clearly she managed to get the needle placed as his blood damn near shoots down the tubing when they let up on the twist to check it.
“Alrighty then,” she pauses, eyes flicking to where his name is on the screen before reading it out, “Sergeant MacTavish, you are ready to roll.”
He decides immediately he likes hearing her say his name and wants to hear it again.
“My friends call me Soap,” he informs her, sensing she’s likely going to wander off and wanting to continue the conversation.
The snort that escapes her is adorable. “How on earth did you end up with that as a nickname?”
It’s a question he often gets when he introduces himself. Soap is such a funny name and it’s all fun and games until he tells people “It’s cause Ah clean house.”
Of course, he’s learned to be very deliberate in how he announces that tidbit, and he’s mindful of it now. Gotta be careful when pointing out that he’s good at eliminating an obstacle. Usually giving his best smile and a disproportionately bright tone helps deflect from the implication of his answer.
Her expression quickly morphs to one of fair enough, although he’s still not quite ready to end the conversation and prompts her to keep talking.
“Assumin’ Honey’s not yer government name, how’d ye get that for a nickname?”
One of her eyebrows quirks up, and Soap finds himself holding his breath as she’s obviously assessing him. But he knows he’s a good looking fellow so naturally assumes she’s impressed with what she sees.
“Depends who you ask,” she answers cryptically. “Some will tell you it’s because I'm so sweet when the mood strikes,” Steaming Jesus he really could listen to her drawl for hours “and others will tell you it’s short for honeybadger. Depends on how I’m feeling, really.”
Welp, that’s it. He’s officially in love.
The FNG has him hooked and going as his blood drains, although Soap’s attention remains solely on Honey.
“What time does yer shift end?” He’s always dived head first for what he wants- and he is completely unashamed of how much he wants her despite not knowing she existed 15 minutes ago.
In an instant the pleasant not-quite-flirty tone disappears as her face slips into a more neutral expression, and Soap can feel the rejection coming before she opens her mouth and he just wants to know why when she was fine bantering with him a moment ago.
“Sorry soldier boy, I don’t mix business and pleasure.” She states simply before standing to leave.
Well isn’t this a shit situation for him. Given he’s tethered by the needle in his arm, it’s not like he has much choice but to watch her leave (although- if he’s being completely honest it’s not like he’s really complaining about getting to watch those hips move as she walks).
It’s not even like he’s an admit, for fuck’s sake, but Soap also isn’t a feral animal who’s going to yell across the room to get a pretty girl’s attention. He’ll get an opportunity to make his case.
“Oof, shut down,” Gaz ribs from one side, with Ghost incredulously chiming in with a “Whomp whomp,” at how Honey had so firmly brushed him off.
“Oh please. A’m going tae marry her.” Soap asserts wistfully.
“I’m no expert in women, Johnny,” Ghost starts and Soap just knows he’s not going to like what comes next, “but I’m pretty sure you need to get her to agree to drinks first.”
“Fair enough, LT.”
Age in bio/pinned or I will block you ♡
#Soapitup#john soap mactavish#John soap mactavish x reader#soap x reader#x chubby reader#x fat reader#cod x reader#soap x honey#honey(badger)#my writing
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＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — LET ME PAINT YOUR SKIES (MOIRA X READER).
#. synopsis! — moira, a frustrated geneticist in the throes of an impossible war against her superiors, meets a despondent young artist drowning sorrows at the bar. as it turns out, the latter is a particularly good listener, and the former is the type of woman you’ve only met in your wildest dreams .
#. characters! — moira .
#. warnings! — light angst, mentions of alcohol consumption, extreme slow-burn .
#. word count! — 11.7k .
#. others! — navigation & masterlist .
#. a/n! — sorry i've been gone so long, got busy w/ school and irl stuff :// feel free to hmu to play overwatch lol (i swear i'm not ass all the time!!) anways, moira kissers, this one's for you!!
This place is as rundown and decrepit as they come these days, —a hole-in-the-wall type of establishment with old, creaky stools and paint that chips off into the drinks from time to time. Fruit flies are more regular than most customers, and they provide little bits of extra protein to those either too wasted to fish them out of their shots or unfortunate enough to not notice them. It's incredible that this place hasn't been permanently shut down, actually, with health and safety hazards galore. . . And yet, despite all its undeniable (and very obvious) flaws, you quite like it here. It's where you come when you're stuck in a rut and need to drink away some sadness.
Sure, it's not the healthiest of habits, but everyone has their vices. This is yours, —but it's an occasional thing, for the most part. You go months at a time without so much as glancing in the direction of any alcohol whatsoever, and most times when you indulge, it's more of a social thing than that of a desire to get plastered. Unfortunately, old habits die hard, as they say, and being an artist has its ups and downs. The highs are more intoxicating than any alcoholic beverage could ever be, but the lows hit you like a semi truck. They claw at your ankles and pull you down into the depths so mercilessly, as if feeding on your sorrow is the feast of a lifetime.
Thus, here you are again for the first time since mid-November of the prior year. It's been roughly five months since you've sat on this stool, ordering shots from the grumpy bartender who never remembers your name and doesn't care much about conversing with his customers. This time, however, a fresh face stands out to you. She'd come in when you were still nursing a whiskey on the rocks, insisting that tonight would be different, that you wouldn't leave with your head all foggy or your balance thrown completely off. You've since changed your stance on that, of course, —as one simply does when they're wrung dry of artistic inspiration and turn to seeking some sort of haven in an unhealthy vice.
Still, the woman at the other end of the bar has your full attention, even if she hasn't realized it yet. Even from her slouched position you can see that she's quite tall, —and equally as thin. She's dressed in more formal attire than yourself, a starkly white button-up and a pair of black dress pants as opposed to your own ill-fitting jeans and a greyish-blue sweater you'd picked up simply because it was seventy-five percent off. It's certainly comfortable, but stylish is most definitely up for debate.
Her foot taps against the bar counter, the toe of her black flats ringing out in little thumps that nobody seems to notice but you. She swirls a shot glass in her elegant hand, —her long, lithe fingers adorned with lengthy nails all painted a uniform shade of violet. Strands of short, ginger hair fall over her forehead, clearly unstyled after a long day. Whatever she's going through, you're sure it isn't pleasant for her to have ended up here alone on a Thursday night. Even so, you silently wonder if she's aware of just how attractive she is. In a sense, she's almost ethereal to you, with her extended limbs and sharp lines. . .
You reach for a napkin and are pleasantly surprised when the rusted dispenser sitting loose just a seat away isn't completely empty as it usually is by this time of night. Digging in your bag for a moment, you find an old ballpoint pen buried at the bottom. You try to take something to write or sketch with wherever you go, —but sometimes you still find yourself wholly unprepared for when inspiration strikes.
It takes a bit of scribbling before the ink begins to flow. Even then, it's rather choppy and doesn't come out in a smooth line. But, it's the best you have on hand, and so you're sure to use it to your advantage in whatever way possible (which isn't many.) Your gaze flickers between the woman at the end of the bar and the napkin you're sketching her likeness on in inconsistent ink. It's certainly rough, but it's the first thing you've drawn all week that you haven't felt the urge to light on fire, so you're considering this a win.
You get a little carried away with the shading and the general environment, adding flowers that aren't there and little markings all around for some additional texture and pizzaz.
"Interesting," a low-toned, curious voice says from just over your shoulder.
You startle at the sudden interruption, nearly scribbling a horrendous line across the center of your sketch. The woman had been so silent in her move, (or perhaps you'd just been too engrossed to hear her make her way over) that you were left flinching under her looming shadow.
She seems fittingly confident for the aura she gives off, —like some kind of CEO.
"Uh. . . Sorry," you apologize, hoping the mood won't become too awkward. "This must seem pretty weird."
This is pretty weird, actually, and you can acknowledge that much. After all, when someone trudges to the bar late at night, it's not as if they go there expecting that some equally as frustrated stranger will see them and be unable to resist the urge to sketch their likeness on a painfully thin napkin.
"I've seen weirder," she replies, —and though you don't ask for examples of that, you're rather curious about what she'd give as some.
She sits next to you now, on the bar stool just to your left. Her knee brushes against yours as she does so.
"You're an artist then, I presume?" She asks without missing a beat.
You nod, letting your pen drop to the bartop, giving her your full attention now. Something about her demands it (not that you're complaining.)
"Yep," you answer, though you can't bring yourself to sound particularly stoked by that admission at the moment.
She takes notice of that much too quickly for having just met you.
"You don't seem very pleased about it," she notes. "Trouble in paradise, perhaps?"
An Irish accent clings to her words; not a heavy one, all things considered, but more than enough to be obvious. It's quite attractive.
"Yeah, something like that," you say with a bitter laugh, —one directed more at yourself than her statement. "Nothing I'd want to bore you with."
She hums in acknowledgement, not trying to pry anything out of you that you aren't readily willing to share. That makes you like her all the more.
"I understand that quite well," she seems to sigh. "I'm a geneticist, —seasoned and well-ingrained in my field."
That makes sense. She speaks with an air of confidence that you assume comes with not only age, but experience, and it's clear she's well-educated.
"Yet here I am, constantly being pestered and questioned by those around me," she complains. "They insist upon checking and checking and checking again for ethical violations, —as if any true scientist has ever been able to examine the fullest potential of life without bending a few rules."
You gather rather quickly that she likely just needs someone to vent to, and a stranger is as good as anyone else. Though you're sure it won't be long before she gets into specifics and you lose the plot entirely, you have no qualms about keeping her company for the time being. In fact. . . This might as well be just as much for you as it is for her.
"They say rules were made to be broken," you quip, hoping it'll be enough to keep her talking.
"I don't know that I'd go quite that far, —but what I will say is that being ethical will do no good if it leaves us plateaued and unable to advance," she says. "Humanity is shackled by so many things. I am searching for the key to those shackles, —searching for the means by which to unlock the true potential of human beings. Just imagine what could be achieved if every individual was consistently performing at their highest levels of functioning. Productivity would skyrocket, advancements that have taken decades in the past would come about in less than half the time. . . There's so much waiting to be discovered, and yet so many seem to want to stand in the way of that."
"I'm sure that's frustrating," you acknowledge. "Obviously I'm not familiar with your field, but it seems a bit counterintuitive to stunt your progress when advancement is such a crucial part of today's society."
At this point, you're just speaking and hoping something sticks. It'd be nice to have someone to share time with, even if all she does is rant about things you're nothing short of completely removed from.
"Exactly," she practically hisses. "Sometimes, I'm utterly convinced that I'm surrounded by fools. Fools who haven't a clue what it means to strive for the betterment of humankind."
Truth be told, she knows you don't get it. She knows you're telling her what you think she wants to hear from you. . . But, at this point, it's enough. She doesn't have the patience to keep it all bottled up anymore, and your vague attempts at encouragement are something she's rather pleased by (for the time being, anyway.)
As a result, she goes on, and on, and on, well into the early hours of the morning. She drinks, but seems to hold her liquor so well that it hardly affects her at all. Or, perhaps you're just a bit sensitive in that department. Either way, she finds you to be a tantalizingly good listener, even if she lost you the moment she started detailing something about stem cell research and the possibility of using the brain's localization to its 'fullest potential.'
By the end of your time with her, you're drunk less on the drinks you've admittedly been nursing, and more on her. A woman of such. . . Confidence and refinement. Perhaps in great contrast to the artist at your core, who craves some semblance of chaos and passion that burns so hot you can feel it course through your veins.
It's only after you've parted ways with her that you realize you never caught her name.
You return to the bar several times after that, though you seldom have the urge to drink any of your problems away. Your long, strange conversation with that enchanting force of a woman weighs heavily on your mind. Her very likeness on its own had helped to chip away at your stunted inspiration, giving birth to new designs and a perhaps pretentious series of paintings in which long, slender fingers with sharpened nails painted a deep violet color held different types of flowers. A part of you wonders if she’d like them. . . After all, they were born only because you’d had the chance to meet her (and spend at least a good two hours staring at her hands.)
Now, however, you’re content with staring at the art displayed at this gallery. It’s clear many of the paintings are uninspired, simply taking the form of references, —which is all well and good, of course. . . But there’s a sense of romanticism missing from most of them that isn’t quite scratching the itch inside your chest.
You stand before one such piece; a beautiful painting of a teacup filled nearly to the brim with amber liquid. It’s accompanied by a few cookies, ones that look delectable in spite of their bland appearance. The scene is nothing revolutionary, but there’s a sense of warmth it exudes that the other works here lack, so you’ve chosen to camp here for a bit, if only to bask in its delight for a while longer.
“I don’t presume this is one of yours.”
You’d know that voice anywhere.
Perhaps a bit too quickly, your head whips to the side, eyes immediately scaling upward. You meet the duel-colored stare of the woman you’d met at the bar, and the intensity of her gaze leaves butterflies tickling your stomach. She’s dressed much the same as the night you first crossed paths with her, but her hair is pushed back completely, —not a single strand out of place. She wears some subtle makeup, a bit of color on her lips and liner on her eyes. You couldn’t even begin to picture her in casual clothing.
You blink, clearing your throat as you remember that she was likely looking for a response.
“No, not quite,” you reply.
She hums in acknowledgement. Her hand almost looks empty without a glass in it, you note, but choose to say nothing of it.
“I’m y/n, by the way,” you introduce yourself, hoping that she’ll follow suit. . . Hoping that she’ll take it as a sign that you’d like to see her again at some point, even if just at random.
“Moira.”
You swallow. It’s a name that sounds so elegant, and it suits her completely. Before you can compliment it, she turns her full attention to you, no longer dividing it between the painting. She never seemed particularly interested in that one anyhow.
“Are any of your pieces displayed here?" She asks. "I'd be interested to see them."
You swear the smallest semblance of a smile quirks at the corners of her lips as she speaks now.
"No, unfortunately not," you reply. "The deadline was too tight, and. . . Nothing I'd created recently felt worthy of the spotlight."
Untrue. The few paintings you'd stayed up until ungodly hours to finish were more than suitable; but they were of her. Only her hands, thus far, but. . . You still felt the urge to keep them to yourself. That's why you'd lugged them back to your apartment instead of keeping them at your worn-down studio.
She hums in acknowledgement.
The conversation is running thin, and you feel your chest tighten. She’d gone out of her way to speak to you first, so you assume there’s some semblance of a spark here, even if only a little one. You yearn to keep it safe from anything and everything hellbent on snuffing it out before it even has the chance to burn brightly.
“How’s work been for you, then?” You ask, somewhat desperate to keep her talking.
Moira heaves a heavy sigh, —not so much at you, but at the mention of work. You take that as ‘less than stellar.’
“It could be better,” she replies bitterly.
It’s then that you let impulse take over. Working as an artist is the culmination of your life’s devotion and effort to refining your skills. . . But it can be a bit lonely. Usually, that doesn’t bother you much, —it’s a feeling that rarely bubbles up enough to even cross your mind; but since you’d met Moira, it’d been much more difficult to ignore. In the end, you took a chance, perhaps a bit rashly. And yet, it paid off.
“I’d be willing to listen, if you’d like someone to talk to,” you offer. “There’s a little cafe just down the block. I’ve heard the pecan pie is to die for.”
She stares for a few moments, as if eyeing you down like prey. At the very least, Moira seems to be giving some thought to your offer, and you consider that as good a sign as any. Eventually, she breathes out through her nose just loud enough for you to hear it (and make note of the amusement it carries.) A smirk tugs visibly at the corner of her pretty mouth, and this time, it’s not one you’d have to squint to catch sight of.
“Suppose I am feeling a bit peckish,” she notes, then tells you to lead the way.
You’re almost dumbfounded that you’ve gotten this far. It’s all too easy to abandon the gallery and travel with Moira to the newly opened cafe just a ways off. You’d stopped by a few times since its grand opening just a few months back, but had never ordered anything more than a simple drink. You’d also never taken the time to sit down and enjoy the sweet atmosphere of the establishment, always rushing about too frantically to even consider the possibility.
This time is different. You sit with Moira by a large window, tendrils of sunlight pouring in from above, creating long shadows on the table between the two of you. She orders a simple cup of dark roast, but decides for the both of you that the pecan pie does, in fact, look too heavenly to pass up; so she requests one slice with two forks.
She tells you about her day, —about her work and her ongoing struggles to convince her superiors that she knows exactly what she’s doing and should be permitted to do as such. You still don’t understand most of it, but you make sure she knows she has your full attention nonetheless.
And then she makes the decision to turn the direction of the conversation.
“How has life as an artist been treating you since we last spoke?” She inquires.
You’re almost thrown off by the sudden reciprocation of curiosity. Between the both of you, you’d simply assumed she was leading the more interesting life, and had been completely content to listen to her spew her frustrations while sipping on coffee for an hour or so.
Still. . . It felt nice to know she cared about your own ventures, if only out of politeness. (Though, really, Moira didn’t seem like the type who’d ask a question she didn’t care about receiving a genuine answer to for the sake of saving face.)
“Better,” you smile softly. “I was struggling to find inspiration, —worried that everything I was producing was just bland and uninteresting. But, after speaking with you, I started digging myself out of that rut. Since then, things have steadily been getting back on track, so I suppose I should thank you for that.”
Moira hums in acknowledgement.
“I’m happy to have helped, though I’m not certain I truly know what I did to spur any of your artistic inspiration,” she admits.
“You’re alluring,” you tell her without thinking the compliment through.
You qualify: “Unique. Very visually striking.”
She raises an eyebrow at the sentiment, then offers you a low chuckle in reply.
“Is that why you asked me here?” She questions, though she doesn’t seem perturbed by the idea. “To be your muse of sorts?”
Your heart thumps a little louder in your chest now, though you’re not sure why.
“No,” you answer honestly, shaking your head a bit, “—but I’m sure that’ll be a secondary benefit.”
Will it ever.
“I take it you simply enjoy my company then?” Moira continues.
“Precisely,” you nod. “It’s exactly that.”
She stares at you for a moment longer, her eyes all but boring holes into your own. In a good way.
Finally, she cracks an amused smile, and mumbles: “Likewise.”
At that, you’re certain you’ve won the lottery. You talk with her a bit more about a variety of things; what it’s like to be a full-time artist, about her nails (press-ons, apparently, —you could hardly believe the notion), —about how right everyone was about the pecan pie. She disappeared before you could say a proper goodbye, paying the bill and scribbling her phone number down on a napkin that she left at your seat while you were in the restroom. You grin to yourself the whole way back to your apartment, letting the day’s events wash over you like the evening tide.
Just before you turn in later in the night, you send a quick message to her phone thanking her for paying the tab and telling her that next time is your treat. She responds in almost record time, and you let yourself believe for a moment that maybe she’d been waiting around for you to reach out since she’d left the cafe.
Looking forward to it.
As late spring turned to early summer, you kept in contact with Moira, if only passively. She was a busy woman, unsurprisingly, and despite the continued conflict with her peers and superiors, she remained wholly devoted to her work and ideals. It was easy to recognize that you came second, —if you even made her list at all.
But that was okay. It didn’t weigh heavily on you as it might have if she were anyone else.
You saw her only a few times here and there over the weeks, returning to that same cafe to chat for a bit over coffees, venturing to a steakhouse on the far end of the city for a night of fine dining, and attending an opera performance with her after she’d been given tickets by a work colleague as a regifted-gift when that individual had no interest in attending themself. Each time, you saw a new side of Moira; getting to know her better, getting to experience the many shades of her.
It was mid-June when you heard your phone buzz late at night, vibrating against the oakwood of your bedstand. On the off chance it was Moira contacting you at such a strange time, you shot upright, startling yourself awake in the process. You snatched your phone off the surface, squinting at the brightness only to realize it was a completely unrelated, automatic notification from an app. But you sat there that night, your stomach tied in knots, that device clutched a bit too tightly in your hand, only to realize something all at once.
You were falling for her. For Moira. And you were so certain that that was a terrible idea.
You laid awake, thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong in the face of this newfound revelation. Really, had anyone else had a say in the matter, the more shocking part of it all would have been that it took you so long to put two and two together. —She’s addicted to her work, utterly devoted to her job. That had long been established. Any plans you sought to make with her had to first be run through her hefty work schedule; the one that was so bizarre and so obscure that you’d given up trying to make sense of it a week into your acquaintanceship.
Any relationship you could hope to forge with her would be a lowly affair. Her first love was destined to be science. Still, you rationalized that Moira wasn’t much unlike you, in that sense. You too were deeply devoted to your career, thinking of it often, keeping your art at the forefront of your mind more often than not.
Even that aside, there was so much that could go wrong here. If she were to feel the same way, which seemed so unlikely to you that even considering it felt like something akin to a cruel joke, —it was more likely to be fleeting than anything else. Yet, a part of you still wanted it. . . Wanted the push and pull, the long weeks of her undoubtedly forgetting that you even existed, just to fall back in her arms at the first sign of affection. Foolishly, a part of you still wanted the late nights and early mornings, —wanted to feel your own heart break as you watched her slip out of your bed through hazy eyes, leaving you lonely without a proper goodbye.
Obviously, you were getting miles ahead of yourself.
Still, the fact remained that you liked Moira. . . You just weren’t sure what exactly you were supposed to do about that.
The summer heat became sweltering before long. Moira traded her long-sleeved dress shirts for short-sleeved ones in the same color and style, and you began to stare not only at her hands, but at her arms now when the two of you found time to get together. You’d sit and listen to her frustrations, —always about her working life and how it was so difficult to deal with being stifled, told that she couldn’t do this or that because someone had deemed it inappropriate by their own standards.
Admittedly, you still didn’t get it. Her work was so different to your own, and in the end, she didn’t really get yours either. But, each of you managed well enough. Your relationship was symbiotic. She had someone to vent to, you had someone to lust and desire for, someone to get your inspiration pumping. . . And that was good enough.
Until it wasn’t.
You did your best to drown your feelings out. There was too much at stake, what with Moira being your closest friend in the city, you assumedly being hers (since she often made note that you were the only person she spoke so candidly with,) —and you didn’t want to disrupt the balance the both of you had created together. It worked, and they say what isn’t broken doesn’t need to be fixed.
But it was breaking you, little by little. It was something you could ignore at first, until ignoring it became much more difficult, and you defaulted to stuffing it down on purpose, forcing thoughts about the bow of her lips and the dips of her waist into the back of your mind. If she ever caught sight of your wandering gaze, she never mentioned it. Still, you were prepared to chalk it up to admiring her frame for artistic purposes, and Moira likely would have bought that without much thought otherwise.
And then came the banquet, —the gathering, the party— whatever the hell it was. You didn’t really know what it was about other than that it had to do with Moira’s work, and that in itself was enough to signal to you that you probably wouldn’t have been able to make much sense of it anyway. She’d asked you to attend alongside her, saying that it would go much smoother with someone there to talk to (presumably so she could ignore everyone else that would be lapping at her ankles, vying for her attention.)
Whether her colleagues liked or disliked her and her methods, it was surely undeniable that Moira was intelligent and could provide insight into just about anything (within reason.) Thus, she’d requested that you come along as her so-called “plus one.” It didn’t help that when you mentioned that you’d likely be out of place at such an event, she responded by assuring you that many of the scientists would surely be taking their partners and spouses along with them.
“So, this is your way of asking me on a date?”
It was a joke. You gave a sly smile to project that, and it seemed that she understood the intention. You just hoped she didn’t catch sight of the desperation that lingered in the back of your stare, —desperation born from the desire to cross every line known to man and then some.
The worst part is that she didn’t deny it. She seemed unphased by the proposition even, telling you to “call it what you’d like.” And you would, albeit not to her face again. In your mind, this was a date. Perhaps one of convenience more than anything else, —but a date nonetheless.
When the time comes, you meet Moira just out front of your apartment. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen her sleek, black car in person. She’d made mention of it before, (only when you’d asked first), but your get-togethers with her had been within comfortable walking distance of most things in the city. This time, however, the venue was a bit further out, and because the occasion called for fancier clothes, Moira decided driving there would be the best option.
You watched through the slightly tinted windows as she reached over the passenger seat, her long, slender arm easily reaching the inner handle of the car door. She pushed it open for you, and you got in, feeling like some kind of moviestar. It wasn’t often that you saw a car as expensive and luxurious as hers around your admittedly worn-down apartment complex. It was even less often that you got to ride in one.
“Wow,” you note, slipping your seatbelt on, “I figured you’d drive something nice, but this is really something else.”
She lets an amused tuft of air escape her nostrils.
You turn to look at her now, taking her in as the last rays of dying sunlight spill down from the sky. She’s in a nice suit, as expected of her, —one that compliments her lengthy stature noticeably even in a sitting position. The fabric of her blazer is a deep, crimson red, a few shades darker than the scarlet iris of her right eye, and it’s paired with a black undershirt and black dress pants to match. Her hair is slicked back, and her hands are hidden under a pair of black gloves. She’s almost too stunning to be real, you think as she seems to examine your own attire.
Though Moira pays you no compliments, the light smirk that curves her lips upward ever so slightly says enough.
“I’ll have you home before it gets too late,” she says. “This is more for appearances than anything else. Those matter much more than one might think in the scientific field.”
Unsurprisingly, she seems less than excited about all of this, and you temper your own expectations as a result. It wasn’t so much the event itself you were looking forward to, —it was just getting to spend time with her that really lit your fuse, so to speak.
“I’ve got nothing better to be doing,” you note. “I’m yours for the night.”
Maybe that was a little too forward. As soon as you’ve said it, a part of you wishes you hadn’t. . . But Moira gives you a little hum in reply, throwing you a final glance before fixing her eyes ahead, and that’s the end of it. You like to think she was pleased with that admission, though. The drive is quiet, but in a comfortable sense. She seems to be in neutral spirits in spite of her distaste for the final destination, and you’re glad for it (not that you mention it.)
The venue was about as extravagant as you would expect; chandeliers hanging from the ceiling in the party hall, well-dressed staff members carrying platters of red wine and bubbling champagne, weaving their way through the guests with surprising grace and elegance. You can’t help but think to yourself that you’d never survive a day doing their job.
Moira snags the both of you some wine.
“Can’t help but think this is a bit nostalgic,” she comments as you put the rim of the glass to your lips to take a small sip.
The dark red liquid almost matches her outfit.
“I guess so,” you smile sheepishly. “It’s been a bit since we first met, and that’s the last time we drank together.”
“Indeed.”
She takes her own sip now, her lipstick clinging to the glass. You let yourself stare for a moment, gaze caught on her mouth. . . You let yourself wonder what it’d be like to pull her in, match your hand to the curve of her neck, —kiss her, taste the wine on her lips. It’s a bad idea, of course, but. . .
You just can’t help it.
“I suppose I should give you a proper thanks,” Moira notes after a few moments of silence. “I’m sure this kind of event isn’t much like anything you’d be used to.”
“Not in the slightest,” you shake your head.
She appreciates the candid way you answer, not trying to soften the blow for the sake of saving face. Your honesty is part of your charm.
“Lucky you,” she notes. “These things are practically the bane of my existence. They’re just glorified circle-jerks, —everyone squanders their time meeting here to drink alcohol and grit their teeth while they speak with colleagues they haven’t seen since the last one, even though they promise to keep in touch every single time.”
You get the feeling she’s quite pleased they never actually go through with that. The very prospect seems more like a threat than a broken promise.
“Sounds. . . Fake,” you answer lightly.
“Utterly synthetic,” Moira says, venom lacing her words.
She really isn’t holding back tonight, and there’s a certain luster that comes with it, —the kind that makes your insides twist into pretzels. Though she’s seldom the type to be vulgar for the sake of it, her gloves seem to be off tonight. Metaphorically, anyway. The actual gloves on her pretty hands are still there, tightly fitted to her elegant fingers. You’d be a tad more bitter about the view they steal away from you if not for how nice they look on her.
“Worse off, you may think idle workplace gossip would be less common in a career such as mine, —but you’d be wrong,” she tells you. “The amount of nonsense they spew never ceases to amaze me.”
And here you thought it was an impossible task to impress her. Imagine your shock when you found that a tried and true way of doing so was just to spout off pointless grains from the rumor mill. . .
“Seems hellish,” you remark.
You shiver at the mere thought of it, your eyes surveying the loose crowd now, looking for anyone who seems to be questioning your presence at Moira’s side or making assumptions about whether you really belong here. You don’t, and that just makes the anxiety worse. Another sip of wine down the hatchet, but your worries don’t go down with it the way you’d hoped they would.
“Hellish may be a bit of an understatement,” Moira mumbles sourly.
“Really though, a proper thank you for coming along is in order,” she sighs. “If you have anything you’d like in return, do tell. Money isn’t much of an obstacle, —within reason, of course.”
Unsure of how to say that all you really want is for her to pull you in and let her body meld into your own, you give her a little nod and a polite smile instead.
“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind.”
She seems pleased enough by your confirmation, swallowing down the rest of her wine in a few ungraceful gulps. The way her throat contracts as she tips the glass back sends a shiver down your spine. Everything she does is so mesmerizing, and at this point, it’s just unfair. No one person should be able to captivate you; mind, body, and soul the way she always has, even from the very start. Sitting at a rundown bar, standing tall before a painting of tea and cookies, —drinking down blood red alcohol under dazzling chandeliers and crystalline lights that dance off her eyes like fireflies in mid-July.
You stand by as the night drags on, going much too slow for Moira, and far too quickly for you. It’s clear she’s not content to just be by your side here, and that hurts a little more than it should. She has another two glasses of wine and leaves a lipstick stain on each of them. . . And she doesn’t know just how much you’d risk for her to leave that same mark anywhere on you.
For the briefest of seconds, you consider asking that of her in return, but you banish that thought to the shadow realm just as quickly.
A few fresh faces greet Moira with varying levels of that synthetic politeness she’d mentioned not long ago. Seeing it in real time is like looking through a kaleidoscope of disgust, and you have to force a scowl off your face. You try your best to zone out when they come around, figuring that you’re not supposed to be privy to whatever information they’re sharing, —and that you wouldn’t understand much of it anyway. Unless they were suddenly struck with the urge to discuss color theory or artistic interpretation, you were pretty certain you wouldn’t be of much help. Moira’s field of expertise was worlds different than your own.
“Doctor O’Deorain,” a pretty blonde woman greets, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and a little black dress clinging to her body in all the right places.
Moira regards her with less hostility than the others, her expression softening a bit.
“I wasn’t expecting you to actually show up,” she continues with a familiar giggle, losing the formal nature of her address. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you were offered in exchange for your attendance.”
If she’s comfortable enough to joke with Moira, you assume she’s known her for long enough to have built that kind of comradery. Maybe it was just a hunch of yours, but you’d have been willing to bet that Moira didn’t ease up to people very quickly. You like to think you were a slight exception to the rule.
“More like what they threatened to take away if I didn’t,” Moira answers, that characteristic bluntness still present in her tone, —but it’s softer with this woman, for one reason or another.
The blonde laughs again, seeming content in the redhead’s presence. Jealousy prickles at your heart, making you feel utterly ridiculous. Her blue eyes finally travel to where you’re standing, as if she’s just now realizing that you’d been standing there the entire time.
“You brought a friend along?” She inquires, her kind smile never fading. “It’s nice to meet you.”
You open your mouth to speak, but Moira beats you to the punch.
“Lover, actually,” she corrects, one of her gloved hands sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer and nearly knocking you off-balance in the process.
Your throat goes dry, face falling into an expression of panic, but you gather yourself before the blonde woman can take notice. Though you have no idea why she’d lie about such a thing, you can only assume that Moira has her reasons, and the last thing you’d want to do is correct her in front of a colleague, —even about something like this. You’ll probably never see this woman again anyway, so no harm, no foul. (Well, maybe some harm to your heart, but what else is new.)
The woman seems shocked by even the idea of it.
“It’s nice to meet you as well,” you say with a forced smile.
It’s not that she isn’t kind or easy to talk to. She’s both of those things, actually, and you can admire that (and you do.) But you’re still reeling from Moira’s sudden concession, and making small talk is the last thing on your mind.
The rest of the conversation is a blur. You do your best to fall into the background, hoping that each of them might just forget you even exist. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, beating something dangerously close to out of control.
The feeling of her hand on your waist all but burns itself into your flesh.
By the time they’ve said their goodbyes, she’s taken it away. But it’s far too late to fix the damage she’s done.
Moira never does explain herself that night, and you don’t have the nerve to ask. Questions are ripe on the tip of your tongue the entire ride back to your apartment, but you sit in silence just as you did before, —albeit much less comfortably.
It’s then that you’re forced to acknowledge the crueler parts of her. . . And yet, you fear, you’re still falling for her anyway.
Communication is brief and inconsistent over the rough week and a half following the event. You send a few messages out of nicety, hoping she might choose to spark up a conversation. . . But she doesn’t, and you chalk it up to her being busy with work. At least, that’s the story your rational mind would like you to believe. The part of you that you’d like to shut out completely warns you only of the possibility that you’re being overbearing, and it’s pushing her further away.
You begin to worry that it’s now or never. If things continue as they are, Moira might as well just be another person who only contacts you when it’s convenient or they’re feeling a little nostalgic and want to hear a whisper from a ghost of their past.
As a means to counteract that possibility, you decide that it’s time to put that favor from Moira to good use. Best of all, —it’s utterly free of charge.
She agrees to meet you at your little painting studio to provide some assistance. Upon arriving, she walks around and gazes long and hard at each of your pieces, —finished and unfinished alike, sparing you the flurry of compliments she’s sure you’ve heard a million times over. If she were anyone else, her silence might have been a bad omen, but you know her well enough to understand that she means well.
“I’m not certain I can really be of any help,” she says, giving you a sidelong glance over her angular shoulder. “I enjoy art, but I haven’t the slightest clue how to create it. I leave that to the lot of you who’ve crafted your skills and put in the time.”
“For many of us, —myself included— inspiration is just as important as skill,” you reply. “These days, it’s been running a bit dry. But I was hoping you could get the wheels turning, if you know what I mean.”
Moira thinks she has a good idea of it.
“And how, pray tell, should I go about that?” She asks. “Do I just need to sit here and pose?”
“Actually,” you say, hoping to rip this off like a bandaid, —because you know it’s bizarre and that she might well say no, but you’re sick of wondering about it.
As it goes, you’ve prepared for the worst, but you’re hoping for the best.
“I’d like to paint on you.”
She looks at you evenly, as if she’s not shocked by the request at all. You’re more surprised by her lack of a visceral reaction than she is by your requisition.
“Interesting,” she notes, though it doesn’t sound like this is particularly intriguing to her, “—where, exactly?”
“Just like that?” You laugh. “No hesitation? You’re just gonna let me do it?”
“That’s dependent on the where,” she replies, an amused smile thinning her lips out. “If I’m right to assume you’re keen on keeping this within a certain boundary, I see no real reason to object. I do owe you, after all.”
Above most things, Moira is practical. She sees this as repayment, not only for your attendance at her working banquet, but also for the many afternoons, evenings, and nights she’s talked your ear off, sharing her own disgruntled feelings over coffee, steak, and whiskey neat respectively.
You offer her an appreciative smile, as if she’s done something so loving for you out of the kindness of her beating heart.
It’s more out of obligation, you fear, but you’re fine to ignore that for now.
“Will an arm suffice?” She asks.
“Maybe two,” you answer cheekily, and she doesn’t object.
You grab her a wooden stool to sit on, one much less rinky-dink than the barstool she’d sat on the night you first met as you go about procuring your materials; paints, brushes, —the necessities for this kind of ordeal.
“Can you roll your sleeves up a bit more for me?” You request.
“Would it be easier to just discard the shirt?” She asks.
Your breath catches in your throat. Yes, she’s probably right in some sense. . . That likely would make this process increasingly easier in a pragmatic sense, —but you’re certain seeing her in such a state would do numbers on your heart that you’re not sure you’re really equipped to handle.
“I. . . I suppose so,” you nod.
You try not to stare as her elegant fingers undo the buttons of her shirt with ease, like she’s a master of the craft. Her back arches ever so slightly as she slips her arms out, long and limber as they fall to her sides and she keeps the mess of white fabric balled in her hands now. Her bra is a stark black, the kind of deep shade that really contrasts with every inch of her pale, porcelain skin. You swallow nervously at the sight of her, taking the shirt from her hands to drape it over an unused easel.
She seems to have no reservations about this. Maybe it’s because she’s simply confident in every aspect of herself, —or maybe it’s because she trusts you enough to remain stoic in the face of it. You don’t ask, and Moira doesn’t tell.
“Any ideas?” She says instead, “—For the artwork.”
“I was considering something floral and nature-themed,” you answer, focusing in on that aspect of the ordeal so as to forget that she’s sitting in front of you like this, so much of her on display for your eyes only.
“Butterflies with carnations,” you add, “—or daisies, perhaps.”
“I’m impartial to hyacinth myself,” she notes.
It’s not so much a suggestion for your art piece as it is something Moira simply wants to share with you. Still, you think it best to run with it, and you give her a slightly lopsided smile.
“Hyacinth it is.”
She watches with curiosity as you go through the motions, —mixing colors, cleaning your brushes between them, dabbing them dry. It’s not often that Moira has the luxury of watching something like this in person. . . In fact, now that she’s thinking of it, she’s not sure she’s ever witnessed an artist work firsthand at all. In her lifetime, she’s seen innumerous things she would personally describe as incredible, —and unbeknownst to you, this is one of them.
“This is actually quite relaxing,” she says. “Like a massage. I don’t fancy those much, I loathe the thought of a stranger touching me so extensively, —but this is nice.”
You offer her a small smile.
“I’m glad,” you reply. “I knew it was a bit of a strange request, and I wouldn’t have blamed you for turning me away, but I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to allow it.”
“Perish the thought,” Moira shakes her head slightly. “If anyone knows about unconventional methods, it would be me. I know better than most that in order to reach one’s full potential, sometimes it’s necessary to step outside the proverbial box.”
That wasn’t quite your mindset going into it, but if she was ready and willing to place a perfectly good excuse for this in your lap, then so be it. Truth be told, you were simply a conduit of passion to your very core, and in a perhaps distorted sense of the word, this was romantic to you.
You hum in acknowledgement.
“While you’re here. . . Can I ask you something?” You inquire.
Though it feels like your heart is in your throat now, you manage to keep your hand steady enough to continue your work with little disruption.
“You can ask,” she says, “though my ability to answer might waver depending on what the question is.”
“At that event. . . You told that blonde woman we were lovers. Why?”
It’s been eating at you since it happened, in more ways than one, and now seems like as good a time as any to get it off your chest. You steal a peak at Moira’s face, noting the way she remains completely composed, even in the face of such an off-color inquiry.
“So I did,” she says plainly, certainly not the type to deny responsibility or deflect accountability for her own actions. “It’s an unfortunate fact for me that my colleagues can be quite. . . Eccentric. And by that, I mean they often poke their noses in the affairs of others with something similar to reckless abandon.”
Her brows furrow now as she thinks about it, clearly agitated.
“It’s not uncommon for them to pry into my personal matters, and I was hoping to quench their overbearing interest in my romantic life by giving them a glimpse into it, —if only a false one. Like I said before, everyone there is in it for themselves. It’s all synthetic. . . An act they put on to please one another a few times a year. That night, it was my turn to do the pleasing.”
“That makes sense,” you acknowledge.
Of course it did. You weren’t expecting anything less from her of all people.
“Did it work?”
A low rumble of brief laughter resounds from her chest, —husky and divine.
“Like a charm,” she tells you. “I’m sure they’ve found another staff member to harass with their incessant yammerings about intimacy and partnership.”
“You’re not a fan of those?” You ask, and the question is punctuated by the quiet ripples of your paintbrush through water as you clean it.
Moira is silent for a few moments, as if pondering on your inquiry.
“I don’t. . . Dislike intimacy,” she replies, —though she doesn’t sound as sure of that response as she normally would have had the two of you been discussing anything else.
“Rather, I don’t dislike the idea of it,” she corrects quickly. “In practice, I suppose that’s a different story. I don’t offer my trust like candy, and for me, intimacy only follows trust.”
“I’d argue this is quite intimate,” you note softly, blending two shades of deeper purples together on her bare skin. “Does that mean I’ve won your trust?”
You fear you’re pushing your luck here, but can’t stop yourself from asking. Eventually, Moira lowers her chin a bit, seeming amused by your line of questioning.
“I suppose so.”
Bingo.
If nothing else, that was your win for the day. If nothing else, —Moira trusted you. . . And that was more than enough for the time being.
You thrive off the high of that evening for the next several days. You don’t even worry when things go silent on Moira’s end. It’s all too easy to simmer yourself down now that you know for certain she trusts you, —and it’s almost elating to hold that information so near and dear to your heart. She invites you for a drink that Saturday night, in the cooling heat of summer, and you jump at the first opportunity to see her in person again.
This time, the bar isn’t quite so run down. It might just be the fanciest one you’ve ever set foot in, and the outfit you wore that you were worried would come off as overdressed now feels like the opposite. Things like this remind you of just how different you live in comparison to Moira. . . It’s easy to forget that she’s quite wealthy, and though you’re well past your struggling artist phase, you’re far from living the way you imagine she does day in and day out.
She’s not keen on discussing work tonight, so you sit around nursing lemon drop martinis with sugar-lined rims, hanging off her every word like the admitted lovesick fool that you are.
It’s nothing profound, nothing inherently important in the grand scheme of it all. . . But it’s nice to know that her favorite season is autumn, and it’s nice to know that she can play a bit of piano. It’s then that you really understand just how much little things really do matter, even within the finite days we’re given. Especially within them.
Just like your drink, it’s slightly bittersweet.
You talk with her well into the night, eventually forgoing the bar to simply walk around under the stars and the city lights. And maybe it’s alcohol or that aforementioned trust she’s placed in you, —but she tells you that she misses her home on nights like these, and when she sees you shiver, she drapes her jacket over your shoulders and walks a little closer to you now. So close that the back of her hand brushes against yours, —once, twice, thrice— but the fourth time never comes.
Instead, she reaches out in between the hum of passing cars and the hollow breeze that swishes by, and takes your hand in her own. You don’t bother to bite back the smile that graces your lips.
That night, you consider telling her all the things you’ve been keeping bottled up inside, —all the time you’ve spent groveling over her and her unfair ability to captivate you like no other. But, a part of you is almost certain she already knows now, as if the poetry written in your heart has all but flowed right into her own from the lines in your palm.
As summer moves both far too slow and much too fast all in a single breath, Moira becomes a semi-frequent guest in your studio. Sometimes she simply watches as you work on canvas, and at others, she becomes the canvas herself. You have a little collection of photographs of her now, —posed according to your will, displaying her painted arms in the process. It must be hours upon hours now that you've spent gracing her skin with your brushes, listening to her tell you about her day; the good and bad parts.
She leaves out the finer details, not wanting to bore you with the intricacies of a job one could only understand through years of training and experience. Still, you know more than you probably should about her research, and you're there when the scientific community at large decides that she's a perfect fit for their next public enemy.
For how harsh the punishment is, you'd think she would have been more upset, —but she remained indifferent to it all, as if taking it in stride was the only way she knew how to cope with it. Moira asked that if you stumbled across any articles of her, you pay them no mind. . . And you didn't. Maybe that was a naive choice, but her work was only your concern to a certain extent, and you were already well aware that she was prone to bending ethical guidelines. At the end of the day, you knew her as a woman rather than a scientist, and that was that.
You have to admit, it’s a little tortuous seeing her so often, being constantly reminded of just how hard you’ve fallen, and yet never having the courage to act on it. You often hype yourself up, readying yourself to shoot your shot, —but as soon as Moira is actually in front of you, all the confidence you’d spent the prior day and night building up all but crumbles to your feet in pathetic little pieces.
You sit with her at that cafe again, sipping on lattes together in the early afternoon. She seems more relaxed today than she is most of the time, —like something amazing has happened, though she hasn’t told you what. If anything even happened at all. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she’s just happy to be here with you.
The new employee of the quaint shop slips you a napkin with some scribbled numbers on it, and you feel a sense of deja vu. It wasn’t too long ago that Moira gave you her phone number in much the same way.
“His number, I presume?” Moira inquires.
You nod.
“I was wondering when he’d decide to make a move,” she laughs. “He’s had his eyes on you since you sat down.”
“O-Oh?” You utter, heat rising to your cheeks, “—Has he? I didn’t notice.”
You were a little distracted by the way she held the handle of her cup, though you’re keen on keeping that particular detail to yourself.
“Indeed,” she confirms. “So, any plans to take him up on it?”
“Ah. . . No, I don’t think so,” you shake your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered and all, I just. . .”
“He isn’t to your liking?” Moira guesses.
She’s so nonchalant about this that it’s close to driving you wild.
“I don’t know that I’d say it like that,” you mumble.
“He’s not your type, then?” She revises.
“I don’t think I have any specific type,” you answer.
“Perhaps there’s someone else?”
Your face falls and it doesn’t go unnoticed no matter how quickly you right yourself. There’s no hiding that it’s the case now, —but you have a feeling she already knows as much. She’d known it for days, weeks, —maybe months. Maybe she knew you were falling for her before you yourself had the wherewithal to pick up on it.
“Something like that,” you mutter, taking a long, drawn out sip of your drink.
Something like that.
She doesn’t press it any further, letting it drop completely for the time being. You part ways as you exit the cafe, and while she spends the rest of her day in her lab, you meddle about your studio, unable to keep your focus steady enough to get much done.
Perhaps there’s someone else. . .
You sigh deeply, frustrated and overwhelmed. If there was ever a time when you wished she’d be as blunt as she always seems to be, —it’s now. A part of you is certain even rejection would hurt less than this; less than the unknown. You’re sick of sitting in this pit of misty grey indifference, stuck in limbo, always waiting for the right time (that never actually comes.)
“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. “Fuck.”
You feel pathetically underproductive, sitting against the wall in your studio as the sun begins to set. You’ve done so little, but your mind has been racing for hours, and there’s still no sure-fire way you’ve found to reason yourself out of this mess. Telling her how you feel is always an option, but there’s a risk there that you’re just not comfortable with as things stand now. Moira pushes and pulls, and you don’t know what to make of it.
She makes that choice for you, as expected of her.
When your phone buzzes, lighting up with her name on the screen, you’re close to jumping out of your skin. It says so little, but it makes you feel so much.
Dinner?
Though you’re not particularly hungry despite having eaten very little all day, you quickly agree, if for no other reason than to bask in her presence and soak her in for everything she’s worth (which is more than any simple number could ever do justice, no matter how large.) For the sake of having an idea of how to dress, you ask where.
My place.
And so it goes. You get her address and she tells you to swing around by 7:30. You’re there by 7:28, spending the last two minutes outside her door, preparing yourself for whatever is to happen next. This building is incredible, —clearly high-class and unsuitable for the average working person based on price alone. You’d expect nothing less of Moira.
The outside pales in comparison to the inside, however. Her bookshelves are filled to the brim with titles, —some academically inclined, and others more for pleasure (though you’re not certain Moira would see much of a difference between the two.) She greets you in her typical attire, dress pants and a white button-up, although the top two buttons are undone tonight and her hair lacks any form of styling. You’re staring as she sits you down at a table overlooking the city, but you can’t help it, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. There’s something about her tonight that has your heart shivering in your chest.
“Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes,” she tells you. “Feel free to look around. I don’t mind what you touch as long as it isn’t broken.”
There’s a twinge of a smile on her lips and eyeliner slightly smudged beside her eyes. This is probably the closest you’ve come to seeing Moira in her rawest state, topping even the version of her you saw that night at the bar. It seems like that was so long ago now, but also feels like it was just yesterday somehow.
“You’re cooking?” You inquire.
“I dabble,” she replies. “It’s a necessary skill. I’m no Michelin star chef, mind you, but I can manage a proper meal.”
She hasn’t even set the food before you yet, and you already know she’s being far too humble. In the meantime, she pours you a glass of champagne, apologizing for the fact that it’s all she has on hand besides whiskey. You think nothing of it. If you didn’t know better, you’d consider this a date. . . And maybe you will, if only to yourself.
While she’s off in the kitchen, you run your fingers along the many book spines of her collection, imagining what she’d look like just sitting near a window in this place, a cup of tea resting near her, those elegant fingers flipping through pages.
Dinner is mostly quiet, but delicious. As you’d guessed, she was certainly being humble about her own culinary skills. She takes your compliments with lilted smirks. Moira seems more comfortable here, which makes sense. . . This is where she lives, after all, where she sleeps and spends a fair amount of time (you’re assuming) when she’s not in the lab or off doing something with you. She keeps her space impeccably neat.
You ask about the things strewn about her place, —about some of the awards she displays on a shelf all to themselves. It’s pressed into a corner, like she isn’t much proud they’re even there. She doesn’t seem to mind telling the tales, but doesn’t jump at the opportunity; like she’s doing it to quench your curiosity rather than stroke her own ego. She gives you a few book recommendations after gauging your tastes, —offers to let you borrow her copies, and you tell her you might just take her up on the offer, even if you won’t.
“It’s a bit late,” she says at a quarter past ten, “I hadn’t meant to keep you so long.”
But she doesn’t apologize for it, and Moira doesn’t seem sorry at all.
“I can drive you home,” she continues, “—or I could walk with you.”
She leans in a bit closer now, and you swallow nervously. You’re convinced you’re misconstruing something, but her lips are so near to your ear that you can almost feel them ghost against your skin.
“Or you’re welcome to stay,” she says softly, “if you’d like.”
You’re scared she can feel your heart hammering away in your chest. A part of you wants to just do as she’s offering, —stay the night with her, let her crawl under your skin, let her wrap you up in her arms and melt into her. But you’re not certain you’re ready for that yet. It’s a leap, and the both of you know what happens between adults when the lights dim and you stay over.
When you say nothing, she places one of those beautiful, elegant hands on the side of your face, cupping your cheek. You never really knew Moira could be that gentle. She waits, watching as your eyes flicker about for a moment, then leans closer; almost touching, but not. Like she’s waiting for permission or rejection. You meet her gaze, then let it flicker off nervously, and a smirk grows on her face.
Moira’s lips fall just to the side of your own, pressing a light kiss to the corner of your mouth. She leans back, standing to her full height, letting her hand linger on your face before pulling away. You were hesitant, and she could feel it.
“Goodnight,” she says, —as if she already knew how this night was going to end.
She’s not upset, and you let yourself smile up at her.
“Goodnight, Moira.”
This thing with her is intoxicating. It’s like a drug, and it’s getting in the way of everything. You’re finding it difficult to even be in her presence now without your eyes wandering or thoughts sneaking off somewhere they need not be. You fantasize about her more than you’d like to admit.
And now, you know that she must like you to, —at least to a certain extent. There’s plenty you aren’t certain of, plenty you’ll likely overthink in the future, but. . . You want this. You want her. You’ve known that for weeks, and now the only question left is what the hell you’re going to do about it.
You tell yourself the next time she comes onto you, you’ll accept her advances more readily. You’ll ask for the kiss she silently offers, tell her you want to stay the night. . . Maybe you’ll take the initiative, grab her by the ivory button-up and stand on the tips of your toes to press your lips against her mouth, even if it’s somewhat out of your character.
But then what?
What happens after, when the heat has cooled down, when the water’s stopped boiling, —when her dry luster has dimmed and you’re tired of being tossed to the wayside everytime she’s set her mind to something else? What happens when you’ve fallen down the list of her priorities and she has a million and one things to think about before she ever gets to you?
What happens when you run out of excuses to make for her. . . ?
And why doesn’t that seem to matter to you as much as you know it should?
You wonder if that’s what it means to love someone. . . To know that there are parts of her you’ll likely wretch at the sight of, to know that there are facets of her that you’ll find absolutely fucking repulsive, —and you’ll love her in spite of it, just as you do now.
Or maybe you’re just a lovesick fool.
She kissed you a few nights later in your shabby little studio. Your eyes had flickered from the roses you were painting on her arm to the glimmering red and blue of her irises that still shone even in the yellow lighting of the dying bulb above your heads, and then to the bow of her lips. Moira reached out, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear, as if this was how she’d chosen to test the waters. Your stare was so tender, and even she, in all of her romantic ineptness, could see that you were practically begging for her to make the first move so you wouldn’t have to be the one to break the ice.
You felt one of her fingernails trace your jawline from chin to lobe, then back down again. She cupped your cheek that time around, her surprisingly smooth palm sitting warmly against your skin.
You’ll never forget the way she paused just then, or the way she met your gaze just to lean in closer, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips before she asked simply: “May I?”
And even when you were still uncertain of what that really meant, —uncertain of what she’d do in the moments that followed your approval, if only naively, you gave her a nod, because you trusted her.
Her lips were soft and imperfect, and her lipstick wasn’t the type she could kiss with and leave nothing of the remnants behind. The reddish-orange color left an imprint on your mouth, faintly, of course, but it was there. It served as proof that what happened wasn’t just in your imagination anymore. You felt your heart stutter when she pulled away, and your head was swimming.
Since then, you’ve gotten that same feeling more times than you can count. Sometimes, it seems to live in the marrow of your bones. You had it for hours on end the first night you spent with her, all but glistening in afterglow under your worn-out covers. She never complained about the quainter life you lived, even though it often paled in comparison to her own. Moira held you just the same whether on your creaky frame and dreary mattress or on the king-sized bed in her luxury apartment that overlooked the cityscape.
You get that feeling when she takes your hand in her own, —when she traces shapes and cursive letters against your flesh under humble moonlight. You get it when she peels you apart, when she looks inside your chest with a single glance, when she soothes your deepest flaws simply because she can.
And it’s not always perfect. Sometimes she’s snippy, sometimes you’re sensitive, and sometimes you sleep in the spare room of her apartment just to make room for your thoughts. Sometimes she doesn’t call when she knows she’ll be working late, and sometimes you don’t see her for a few days when her workload piles up too high and she shacks up in her laboratory. Sometimes she forgets to make the most of every moment, and sometimes you shut her out when you know deep down that you shouldn’t.
But there’s always love to be found, —no matter where you are. She attends company banquets with you on her arm, just to show you off like a prize. You sit and watch her with stars in your eyes when she cooks, when she reads, when she paints the press-on nails she wears like claws for protection. She makes your coffee for you in the mornings, memorizes the way you like it, and keeps the additives on hand (even when she drinks hers straight from the pot.) You make her your greatest source of inspiration, filling in page after page of her likeness, never tiring of a single thing.
It’s not always easy. Love never really is, —not even in most of the movies these days. But as Moira crawls into her bed, —your bed—, the bed you share now more nights than not, her hair ever so slightly longer now than on the night you first met, she drapes a thin arm over your waist and welcomes your warmth, pulling you closer, smelling faintly of the perfume you gave her for her birthday, —you’re certain some things are not just meant to be, but are meant to be maintained: and this love is one of them.
#moira#overwatch#moira x reader#moira o'deorain x reader#moira odeorain x reader#moira o'deorain#moira odeorain#moira overwatch#overwatch x reader#moira reader insert#moira x you#moira o'deorain reader insert#moira odeorain reader insert#moira x y/n#overwatch imagines#moira imagine#overwatch x you
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Be there for you.
pairing: bf!hyuck x reader
genre: fluff, slight angst, slight crack, established relationship!AU
warnings: a break down
word count: 1.8k words
a/n: HI FINALLY A NEW WORK THAT THE WORL HAS NEVER SEEN HOPE YOU ENJOY
also!!!! if any of you are interested in a hyuck collab (for my 1k event !) pls hmu!!!! not only do i think i need a co-host, but i need ideas too... im not big brain on things like these HAHA
networks/taglist: @neoturtles @knet-bakery @ficscafe @kflixnet @k-radio @nct-writers + @soobin-chois @markhyuckselca @addictedtothesummernights <3
It's almost midnight, and Lee Donghyuck is craving big waffles from his favorite diner. He is also craving your company with him when he goes to get the big waffles from his favorite diner. He misses you a lot.
Ever since the midterm grades have come out, you've been ever so distant from him, focusing so hard on your studies. He's proud of you, he really is, and he's glad you're so motivated to do better, but again, he misses you a lot.
It's been about 2 weeks since you've actually gone out together on a date, but that was a lunch date where you still had piling textbooks in between you two. The books felt like brick walls to your boyfriend, he never liked books anyway.
And so here he finds himself, outside your dorm, with a handful of pebbles he snatched from the fishpond near the gate.
"Psst!" He whisper-shouts, knowing that it would only fall on deaf ears. All the windows are closed, not a single sound could slip through. Which is exactly why Donghyuck has a handful of pebbles.
He takes one between his fingers, biting his lip to contain his quiet giggles of amusement, before chucking the pebble at your window.
A barely audible thump is made from the impact, clearly not enough to get the person's attention. Another one is launched into the air, before it lands on the window with a thump much louder than the other.
At this point, Donghyuck would expect for you to open the window, and curse at him for almost crashing your window, but that's not what happens. What happens is some other random student opens the window, a confused expression creased on their face.
Instantly, a feeling of dread rushes through Donghyuck, before his mouth gapes with shock and confusion, and the pebbles fall the the ground.
"Who the fuck are you?!" The student shouts at him. This, is what gets your attention. Though, not for long. You go back to the powerpoint your professor sent you, coming to the conclusion that it's not that uncommon for some of your dorm-mates to be loud.
"Shit—sorry! Wrong window!" This however, has you instantly standing from your seat and rushing to the window, where you find your boyfriend, with an apologetic smile. One moment later, his face ripples with shock when he sees you sticking your head out.
"Hyuck?"
"Y/n!" He exclaims with excitement. His arm raises to point at the student he three rocks at, "I thought that—"
"Hyuck, I moved last month, remember?"
Holy shit, he does remember. He remembers helping you get most of your books up there and setting up all the lamps before completely passing out on your bed for hours. "Oh, right."
"Sorry for throwing pebbles at your window," Donghyuck says as he turns back to the stranger he disturbed, "I meant to do it to Y/n."
The student rolls their eyes, before they disappear from the window and shut it completely.
He then turns to you, before reaching his arms out with a smile. "Come down please?"
At this, his smile, his tone, you can't help but completely melt. It won't hurt to take just a little break, right?
And that is how you find yourself back in Donghyuck's car, in the parking lot of his favorite diner, a fresh plate of waffles in front of you. It's both your favorites, in fact this is where you came for your first date. The waffle is huge, and has ice cream and strawberry sauce drizzled right on top of it, and in your opinion, it's unlike anything in the world.
A tip you two like to keep in mind when ordering these is that you always want to go there either when it just opens, or anytime after 9 in the evening. In the morning, you can still get the ones fresh out of the waffle maker, when it's still warm and crispy but soft on the inside. In the evening, it's better to go after rush hour, when nobody's there. That way they can still make it fresh. This is all theory you and Donghyuck have made with every time you come here.
It's been a long time since you've come here, you realize, as Donghyuck offers you a piece of his waffle.
You chuckle, and it has your boyfriend grinning just at the sound of it. "Hyuck, we're having the same waffle."
"And?" He counters back, "mine could be much tastier, you never know." Once again, the fork pokes at your lips with the waffle on it, but this time you open your mouth to eat it. Somehow, it is tastier, but maybe that's just because Donghyuck fed you.
He himself agrees, when you feed him a piece of your own waffle. He chews it with a bright smile, wiping the strawberry sauce from the corner of his lips.
Some time passes, and the waffles are finished, paper plates thrown somewhere in Donghyuck's back seat. He has your hands tangled with his, leaning over to lay your head on his shoulder. It feels nice to have this after weeks, to be with you after weeks.
And somehow, you can feel his relief at this fact. You can feel it when his fingers squeeze tighter around yours, when you turn to see he's looking at you with such a longing gaze. And instantly, you feel guilty.
"Look, Hyuck,"
Your boyfriend is listening intently at this, leaning in closer to hear your words.
Your fingers trace at his, drawing patterns at the back of his palm. You don't look at him, you simply stare at his hands, your hands. The way he squeezes tighter has your heart clenching.
"I know I'm not around a lot."
Your words surprise Donghyuck, more than you'd like them to.
"I'm sorry," You mumble, tearing your eyes away from your tangled mess, finding comfort in Donghyuck's warm gaze he sets on you. In them, you see nothing but pools absolute love and adoration, just for you.
You're honestly so confused as to how he could love you so much, when you barely have time for him recently.
"I didn't mean to neglect you this past month. It went by so fast without me realizing and now I feel like a complete ass because of it."
All you can think about now is how lonely Donghyuck must have felt while you've been busying yourself with studies and projects, all you sense is guilt, sorrow, and the sensation of your heart sinking to your stomach.
Unbeknownst to you, Donghyuck really feels almost the exact opposite. He finds comfort that you're working so hard, he feels so proud that you're trying your best to achieve the highest you can, and he's completely willing to wait as long as it takes just to be there for you when you need a break, to see you cross the finish line with no regrets.
His hand traces along your thumb gently, and he tugs your arm closer to him. You don't take note of this, however, dismissing it as a muscle spasm.
"I just... I've never had anything like you."
It's true, most of your life was just surrounded by books and all the information you could cram in your head, and suddenly there's a clumsy guy stumbling into your life, telling you how cute you look when you focus, asking you out on a date during one of your study sessions.
At first, you didn't think it would last that long. You didn't think it'd get that serious.
But suddenly, he was all you've got. Your whole world, the love of your life, something you'd be devastated to lose. You don't know what to do.
"I really, really like you, Donghyuck."
Donghyuck's heart starts beating faster, his chest swelling with so much warmth that stretches his lips into a smile, that has him clenching onto your hand tighter.
"I don't know what I'd be without you,"
He knows you've been immensely busy, he knows that he didn't cross your mind that much, he knows you haven't been worrying about him the way he's been worried about you. But he knows that you love him. He knows that you still adore him as much as you always do, proven from the longing looks you give him every time you glance up into his eyes, he knows from the way you gladly accept his waffle piece when he attempts to feed you, he knows from your apology and the guilt in your voice.
And god, does it drive him crazy.
Donghyuck once again tugs at your hand, taking hold of your other wrist. "Hey, don't worry." His voice is laced with so much comfort, so much love that you're so sure that he's the human form of love itself.
"I know you've been busy, and I know that you're guilty about it. But you don't have to be, okay? You might think that I feel upset that you aren't calling me, or texting me that much, but believe me that I feel as proud as how I miss you."
You never thought you'd ever be relieved form yoru guilt, you never thought you'd forgive yourself if Donghyuck ever said he did feel neglected, and he here you are, feeling nothing but relief rushing through you at his words.
You ought to do nothing but tumble into the warm comfort of your lover and to just sob, to just surround yourself around him, to just have one relaxing break from all the intense studying you've been doing.
And now that you realize it, behind all the guilt, all the sorrow, you miss him like absolute hell. You're not sure why you're just feeling this now, but you think it's because you didn't think you deserved to miss him, not when it was you who was constantly ignoring him.
But now, even with Donghyuck right in front of you, you have never ever longed for him so, curling your fingers around the sleeve of his hoodie to tug him closer.
A small murmur of 'I missed you,' slips from your lips, and in an instant, you feel yourself reaching out to wrap your arms around Donghyuck's torso, finding your face buried deep into his shoulder.
Donghyuck's chuckle bounces around the car, vibrating right into your ear, and it sounds almost heavenly to you. What does feel heavenly, however, is his hands that glide across your back, rubbing up and down as you start to slowly break down in his embrace.
"Don't worry, I'll always be here for you."
And no matter how guilty you feel, no matter how scared or sorry or anything, you know it's true, and you know that you wouldn't even think twice to do the same for him.
#lee donghyuck#lee donghyuck imagines#nct imagines#nct dream imagines#neoturtles#knet bakery#kflixnet#ficscafe#k-radio!#nct-writers#lee donghyuck scenarios#lee donghyuck fluff#lee donghyuck angst#lee donghyuck x reader#lee donghyuck drabbles#lee donghyuck blurbs#haechan#haechan imagines#nct#nct scenarios#nct fluff#nct angst#nct x reader#nct drabbles#nct blurbs#nct dream#nct dream fluff#nct dream x reader#nct 127 imagines
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I've been trying to study your art style, your backgrounds I mean. Can you tell me or explain in someway how you like draw your backgrounds? Like sometimes you'll have characters interacting with an object or part of the world so you only draw that object in white space. But sometimes you go the whole nine yards and draw everything.
In white space you leave it up to us the reader to understand that the character is in that area without drawing it and that's so cool to me.
How do you know when to not redraw a background? Like in the scene when Chaarose was talking to the old lady. There was hallways drawn and you drew most of the room but for the most part the only thing that we saw was the couch/chairs so we know they were in a room but the background was white and not very much detail but we understand this was her room how did you do that? You do this with a variety of other panels like when they are in Hana's house (when baby first turns humanoid) you sometimes draw the couch or the table and there are things that indicate walls but I think it's my favorite thing in the world when you do this.
Basically my question is how do you know when to do this and how do you go about doing this? Do you just decide I dont wanna draw that background again so the reader knows where the characters are? Or do you do something else?
thank you! I'm glad you enjoy it ☺️☺️💕
i guess it's a consideration of what's important to communicate in that panel. is this an establishing shot/do i need to set a new scene? do i want to focus on the character and what they're saying? do i need to convey space in order to achieve a certain mood? (like the more recent pages of chaar where she's sitting in front of the sea looking very small)
the other thing is like. how have i arranged the people in the panel. if they're sitting down and i want to show more than their torso, it's going to look weird if i just draw them sitting on nothing. generally the more i show of a character, the more background i put behind them.
the OTHER other thing is.. man i got all these pages to draw 🤣🤣 i CANNOT be drawing backgrounds in every panel (nor should i, it gets too cluttered)
there's a sort of rule of thumb I've heard of having at least 1 panel of background per page, to ensure the reader remembers where they are, which i think is a decent starting point if it's something you're unsure about.
so yeah, idk how helpful this is, i may have rambled a bit but like. consider what the point is in having a background in a panel. whether that be you need to establish a location, your characters would be floating around otherwise, or it's important to evoke a certain mood. I'm sure there are other things, but that's GENERALLY what i consider.
imo the less backgrounds you draw per page.. the better lol. save yourself the time and wrist stress 🤣 but im also someone who enjoys focusing on characters more, so i am biased!!
amyways. hope that helps. or is interesting. i appreciate the question tho!! i am flattered u enjoy my work ☺️ feel free to hmu with more questions!
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Mutuals only / Slow replies & low activity blog. Multiship / Multiverse / OC & Crossover friendly! Mun is 21+ so mature themes may be present, everything will be tagged accordingly though. Est. Nov. 2023.
Discord available upon request for plotting & rping purposes.
( Header credit: RIDLEEY / Icons credit: THE-CURSED-ICONS & MENDINGGASHES / icon border credit: TOSKASRPH & as of Jan. 2024 I started using a border made by POOHSOURCES )
Update March, 2024: Icon border / post divider / banners credit - CROWDITS
GUIDELINES / ABOUT
HEADCANONS !!
MAINS: @auburniivenus (ship exclusive) / @adversitybloomed (ship exclusive) / @mendinggashes / @glacialdeath / @apocalypta-secundus / @loyalhearts / @toomanydamnmuses / @geraniumplant / @manaborn / @xxj0kerxx / @ninguisinferna / @attroxx
Mobile friendly guidelines under the cut.
Hi there! First of all, thank you so much for taking the time to read these!!
You can call me Bibis, I’m 25 years old and roleplaying has been one of my hobbies for over ten years, I’ve been a part of the Bleach fandom for about that same amount of time too. However, I still haven’t finished reading the manga (I’m always working and when I finally have some free time I have no energy to do anything guys, help). But I’ll eventually finish it, I swear… Or I’ll at least watch the anime bc I’m super hyped about this revival. ANYWAYS, yes, this is just a heads up that I do know some things about the last arc of the manga but not everything. But don’t worry, depending on what we choose to write, I’ll do my reasearch!! <3
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Ichigo or Bleach obviously, also no icons / headers and stuff used here were made by me unless otherwise stated.
I work 44 hours a week (sometimes more) and I’m still finishing my university course, so my activity will be low, especially from monday to friday. Please understand that I might take a long time to reply – this doesn’t mean I’m not interested in writing with you / don’t like your character or anything, I’m really just super busy most of the time.
No godmodding please. You control your character and I control mine, thank you very much.
Plotting!! I love plotting SO MUCH and can get super excited over it and come up with 5415114 AU’s, hahaha. Seriously, if you have an idea about how our characters could interact or want to build a whole new AU for them, PLEASE do not hesitate to hmu!!
Feel free to turn memes / asks into threads, just make sure to make a new post for it rather than just reblogging the answered ask.
My discord is available to mutuals upon request, we can plot or even rp through there too!! Given my busy schedule, it’s easier for me to be active and reply to stuff there.
Shipping can be super fun, but only if there is chemistry. So there has to be a lot of plotting and our characters need to interact a few times for me to consider shipping them!! Instant shipping / pre-established romantic relationships are not really my cup of tea. I won’t write romantic ships with minors, btw, please don’t insist.
My main verse is set when Ichigo is around 18 years old and finishing up high school!! But if you wanna interact with older Ichigo, or have a plotting idea that would work best with the older version of him, do let me know!! Like I said before, I truly love plotting, so don’t be afraid to throw your ideas at me, I’ll most likely be just as excited as you are to discuss them.
Since I’m well over the age of 18, you might see NSFW themes (such as violence, drugs, sex) on this blog from time to time. I have no triggers and I may be a little forgetful when tagging that sort of thing. Please if you see anything that’s triggering to you that you believe I didn’t properly tag, send me a message and I’ll fix it right away. I want this to be a safe and fun enviroment not only for me but for my writing partners as well!!
That’s about it!! I’m super friendly ooc, I promise. So send me memes and questions whenever!! I’ll be happy to answer all of them. :]
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hewwo bbies and babes, thank you all so much for the overwhelming feedback on my first san request and the most recent part of the “be my people-pleaser” series (that's what i'll call it now before i have to write out the title in its entirety lmao) !!! <333 i still kick my feet thinking about the sweet words you wrote, i can't express my gratitude enough hehehehe uwu
anyhow
what you should know abt me is that . i have no organisation OR a filter and what that means is i write a lot at the same time lol
so here's a quick introduction of the things that are upcoming because 1) i just wanted to share and 2) maybe the pressure of having published them is going to get my ass up and make me keep some type of ORDER
i got 4+ works that i can present to you hehe i hope you enjoy <33
[these are in the order that i'll hopefully release them in lmao]
title: "king-sized", an ao3-requested prince!yeosang one-shot
request: secret relationship, yeosang is possessive
genre: smut, angst
one-shot synopsis: Yeosang wants to be king really bad to have anything in the world. Mostly you.
[no title yet], an ao3-requested husband!mingi one-shot
request: established relationship, praise kink, size kink, hand kink, fluffy, "just long fucking" (this is a quote lmao), service topping
genre: fluffy smut
title: "you’re not strong [until i tell you to be]", the 4th part of hywwwbmpp, sannie-centered
authors note: there are so many tears i might as well develop something for dacryphilia while i'm at it.
title: "they’ll think we’re in love [and maybe we’ll believe it too]" a failed fling!wooyoung one-shot (kind of a spin-off?)
genre: angst, smut, a tiny bit of fluff
authors note: proving that i am a whore for friends with benefits angst once and once again LMAO !!!!
and as for number 5.... it's my ateez!mafia series "let's drive [a little dangerously] that is ROTTING in both my notes and ao3 right now and it being one of my first works i wrote i just hbwhdghsa don't enjoy what i wrote but i would LOVE to continue the idea of it all???? i know there is so much i'm writing BUUUUUUUUT who is going to stop me huh???? nobody.
i think as it goes for the mafiateez series i will do a whole ass revision maybe? lmao let's see. i'll def write the other ones first though <33
btw never hesitate to hmu in my inbox or messages !!! always happy to make more moots ^_^ i only bite sometimes hehe
#even the list isnt organised#im a mess#lmao#but i hope you enjoy still <33#i just wanna see if yall would even be excited for this stuff ig#i need the feedback#i crave it#like ive developed an addiction to it#tbh#tbfh#LMAO#im a simple girl.#촉촉
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Stray Kids recs
<<original book
most of the mentioned works is 18+ NSFW, MINORS DNI
pls don´t hesitate to hmu, if any of mentioned links doesn´t work or you have suggestions for more fics... thank you so much for all the love and comments
one shots
the neighbour by @slightlymore
Chan x fem!reader (wc - 14k)
neighbour AU, slow burn, strangers to lovers
- smut, romance
outta my head by @straylightdream
Chan x fem!reader (wc - 17k)
neighbour AU
- angst, slow burn, smut
He’s a lives next door and is someone who sleeps around often. You’re a nurse who is struggling to get enough sleep because of his night time activities
Midnight kisses by @lovergirl072013
Chan x gn!reader (wc - 1.3k)
friends to lovers
- fluff, suggestive
You pay Chan a midnight visit in his studio, one thing leads to another and confessions get made.
Pleasure Principle by @matryosika
Chan x fem!reader (wc - 8.2k)
dilf!Chan, perv!reader + Chan
- smut
Wolfsbane by @healinghyunjin
Chan x fem!reader (wc - 16.7k)
historical!AU, arranged marriage, strangers to lovers
- angst, romance, smut, fluff, hurt/comfort
You took a deep breath before lifting your head, staring right at Chan. “I can be your collateral – as your wife.”
Lost and Found by @bbujiikseu-archived
Chan x fem!reader (wc - 8.3k)
soulmate AU
- angst, fluff, smut
whatever you lose somehow ends up in your soulmate’s possession and you’ve lost plenty of random odds and ends while rarely obtaining anything that belongs to your soulmate. you wake up one morning with a notebook on your bedside table—one that certainly doesn’t belong to you. after further inspection, you realize it belongs to your soulmate, who you’ve just discovered is named ‘bang chan.’ and you seem to have his music notebook. you make it your personal quest to find chan and return his notebook to you, as it’s clearly important and personal to him. and maybe, just maybe you could fall in love with him too.
amethyst by @pucchinpurinracha
Chan x fem!reader (wc - 15.4k)
friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, camgirl!reader
- fluff, crack, smut
you reigned queen in your carefully constructed world - a double life hidden from your friend and roommate, chan. but the universe had its way of throwing surprising curveballs at you and in a series of hilarious events, the secrets behind amethyst and arpeggio were laid bare.
a love song and a confession by @lotus-dly
Chan x gn!reader (wc - 3.3k)
friends to lovers, mutual pining, change of PoV
- fluff, angst(ish)
Runaway Princess by @therhythmafterthesummer
Chan x fem!reader (wc - 16k)
strangers to lovers, knight!Chan
- angst, fluff, smut, mature themes
Your best friend has sent her most trusted knight to help you escape your abusive home, an intriguing man with many facets you can’t wait to uncover.
Into It by @lixiesfreckless
Chan x fem!reader (wc - 3k)
best friends to lovers, mutual pining
- fluff, smut
the california sunset looks pretty damn good when you're on the hood of Chan's car.
fic by @moonjxsung
Chan x fem!reader (wc - 3.9k)
established relationship
- angst, smut
series
Daechwita by @cb97percent
Chan x fem!reader, Hyunjin x fem!reader
royalty, soulmates, love triangle
- angst, fluff, smut
「𝚞𝚗𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕」 by @exxxtraoddinary
Chan x fem!reader (wc - 58k)
pornstar!Chan, coworkers to lovers, slowburn, mutual pining
- angst, smut
Being a professional-grade porn producer is not your typical nine-to-five, but you like it — the pay is great, the hours are flexible, and it's an intriguing conversation starter. However, things get more than complicated when your infatuation with one of your performers turns into something it shouldn't be.
Five-Point Star, The Aftermath by @therhythmafterthesummer
Chan x fem!reader (wc - 6k + 17k)
strangers > lovers > enemies > lovers, bodyguard!Chan, assassin!reader
- angst, fluff, smut
With a career like yours, you knew you shouldn’t let yourself fall in love. But honestly, in retrospect, there was no way you wouldn’t have fallen in love with Chris. After meeting him, you couldn’t help but hope that he’d be the last person you fell this deeply for–maybe foolishly so…
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hey there party people! some of you might know me, it’s ya girl (gender neutral) jamie (she/they, 24, gmt+1) w/ a sparkly new gender And a whole new muse because i can only do the same thing so many times. for everyone who doesn’t know me from past ventures, hi there, nice to meet ya. i’m not here to blabber on ab myself for too long, i am however here to introduce my little princess eunchae. you can find her profile, biography, career page & wanted connections (haha just kidding... one day... maybe???) all linked accordingly for further reading. in case that’s all a bit much, i’ll leave a quick lil rundown about her below the cut. if you want to plot, simply like this post or hmu on dscrd ( watercrystals_ ) and we can work something out together!
so, here we go, seung eunchae, variety starlet and laureled actress
also the result of [huh yunjin vc] nepotism
her parents are famous ballad singers seung kyungtae and kim jangmi, big stars from the ‘90s/’00s, a this point they’re retired and mostly keep out of the public eye but they make the occassion appearance, never Really shaking their celebrity status
as the youngest daughter, eunchae is in fact their darling baby princess who has never done and could never do anything wrong in her life
needless to say she grew up filthy spoiled, her parents werent around that much and
they made up for it by giving her Absolutely Everything they could think of
sadly enough the only thing eunchae Really wanted was attention and because that was the one thing she couldn’t get... well let’s say it had lasting results on her still developing psyche
in school eunchae was very popular, not that hard when you’re pretty and rich, but most of her friendships were very shallow and superficial and it involved a whole lot more backstabbing and gossiping than genuine friendships should which Also didn’t really teach her much more about how to maintain healthy interpersonal connections
the cummulative experiences through her formative years left her her with some crippling people pleasing issues, eunchae has a pathological need to be liked, by everyone, and she’s willing to bend herself into whatever shape it takes to achieve that
that’s also how she ended up wanting to enter the entertainment industry, a family friend told her that she was pretty enough to be a celebrity and her teenage brain quickly reasoned that celebrities were Very Widely Beloved, her parents being a shining example even post their career
so it was decided, all she had to do was become famous and then people would like her
(of course, this is in fact Not how it works, but that’s a problem for Later)
anyway, eunchae wanted to be famous and she had set her mind to it so the only logical course of action was to throw a fit until her parents used their industry connections and gave her her way
and that’s how she ended up signed with everlast entertainment more or less
eunchae started out as a welcome face on variety shows, at first mainly on the merit of being ‘the daughter of’
a year and a half into her career she made her acting debut and from that point onward she slowly established a bit more of an image of her own, who her parents are still gets mentioned here and there during promotional work and such of course, it remains a topic people love to hear about, but the Nepotism is a little less blatant and on the nose at this point, proving that she has Some talent of her own as a break-out actress
as of recent also slowly starting to dip her toes in some brand deal modelling stuff, just because Pretty Face Sells Things
her image very much rides on the whole sweetheart with a personality as pretty and angelic as her face thing, sweet, a little ditzy, innocent and all that
for those that alrdy don’t like eunchae to begin with it can feel a little over the top and annoying
eunchae’s actual personality is... hard to pin down
sure she’s a spoiled brat to the core and it shows, she can be super bratty, knows how to get her way by using those pretty doe eyes and a little pout, can be incredibly out of touch because of her upbringing and generally is just, very uncritical towards the privilege she grew up in which might just make her come across as very tone-deaf when it comes to these topics
but she is very genuinely really sweet, a little too sweet maybe, she’s very anxious and almost obsessive about attention and being liked, she will do almost anything to impress the people she really wants to be liked by, even if the results ends up being harmful to her. she’s just very desperate for approval and a little gullible on top of that, making her a very easy target for anyone looking to toy with her. also just, very conflict avoidant, will not speak up about things that are bothering her, god forbid people will grow tired of her if she does
gets very hero worship-y with the people she befriends/likes/looks up to in general
tldr i’m sorry if she’s an insufferable brat at times but pls be nice to her, she really just wants people to like her, she might simply d-word otherwise (very tinkerbell core of her)
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get to know a blogger // tagged by the lovely @aeide!
Share your wallpaper:
i have a dual-monitor setup where on the left is a vertical non-4k monitor (i really thought i was gonna use it more for coding but now it's just where discord / game wikis / spotify live lol) and on the right is my main monitor which is curved 4k, so i had a hell of a time finding something that works for both — but this shot of leyndell actually works beautifully because the erdtree sanctuary area fits perfectly on the left, and the rest of the city sits nicely on the right. the resolution discrepancy isn't too jarring either, which can be tricky when you're trying to make a single image flow relatively seamlessly between non-4k and 4k. i mean it's definitely not perfect, but i think it looks really really good
Last song you listened to:
"carnival of rust" by poets of the fall
Currently reading:
a memory called empire by arkady martine
the hands of the emperor by victoria goddard
Last movie:
oooooo. uhhhhhhh. i think i rewatched the princess bride relatively recently?
Last show:
yellowjackets season 2 episode 2 "edible complex" babEYYYYY
Craving:
scrambled eggs
What are you wearing right now:
pajamas
How tall are you:
5'3"
Piercings:
just the earlobes! i don't wear earrings often though
Tattoos:
a small joshua tree design thing between my shoulderblades
chrysanthemums on my left bicep
a twin peaks owl + roses on my right thigh
the girl + triceratops skull from this promo pic from jurassic world fallen kingdom on my right calf. absolute dogshit movie but i really really liked the still lol
i do want more in theory but haven't decided what of / where on my body.... maybe a shark on my ribcage idk
Glasses? Contacts?
usually contacts. glasses if i'm having a really slow/lazy morning, but i don't wear them out
Last thing you ate:
blackcurrant candy drops
Favorite color:
dark purple / red / burgundy! anything from the range of eggplant to red wine.
Current obsession:
YELLOWJACKETS!!!!!! 🐝
elder scrolls online... i want to spend my real actual hard-earned american dollars on an in-game furnished house SOOOOOO BAD... i might do the math to see how long it would hypothetically take me to earn enough monthly crowns via the eso+ subscription vs a one-time crown purchase ughhh i hate this for me but also the game is quite fun! do i know what's going on? not really! but i am vibing
these stupid blackcurrant candies that i paid jeff bezos way too much money for to ship from the uk but goddamn they're good. simpkins established 1921 finest all-natural and original travel sweets blackcurrant drops hmu babe i would shill for you on instagram in a SECOND.
Any pets:
none, but i really want a dog!
Favorite fictional character:
kassandra from ass creed odyssey :)
The last place you traveled:
catalina island! but i'm also going to chicago soon!
i am tagging: @winedark @doomcountry @ellrond @dinluke @reiverreturns @thychesters and anyone else who wants to do this!
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Time to spread some polish sinbed propaganda!!!
Disclaimer admin 💀 has nothing to do with this. I’m not sure if I’ve told them I’m posting this. This is all me. The other admin. Be warned. I am going to ramble about these two under the cut :)
Now that we’ve got that out of the way let’s get into it.
-The only reason this is possible is because back in the day, when this all started, me and the other admin established that Grześ is bi comphet. In normal words, he is bi but he has not quite realized that he likes men yet. Bartek is gay and unaware because I said so (fucking LOOK at him)
-They are both mildly homophobic. Grześ was raised by his conservative father, which of course can’t end in anything other than lots of internalized biphobia. He also acts like a ladies man he loves flirting with women. Bartek is a reddit user which I feel explains a lot. Technically he’s not super actively bigoted but he says some questionable stuff sometimes. Enlightened ‘centrists’ actually lean in to the right and he is no exception.
-They meet because Grześ is failing BRAND SCHOOL* and needs a tutor. Desperately. Kamil was recommended to talk to Bartek, and since the price wasn’t high, he hired him.
-Bartek does not like Grześ at the beginning. Actually that’s an understatement he is genuinely appalled at how dumb that boy is. The first hour of their first lesson is a disaster, as Bartek keeps using language and terms Grześ does Not Understand. Bartek has to try and explain very basic 5th grade math to him.
-Eventually, they get somewhere when Bartek realizes the best way to get Grześ to understand something is through examples and de-structuring methods step by step, and slowly progressing forward to the actual material. He ends up enjoying the challenge of explaining things to a total idiot.
-Meanwhile Grześ is just really happy to finally understand something. He’s doing his best!
-Eventually, outside of learning, they start chatting as well. Mainly initiated by Grześ, because of course. He’s very friendly all around and loves talking. Bartek tries not to care, but the urge is too strong and he ends up showing Grześ terrible reddit memes. He does Not quite get them, but laughs anyway.
-Hey, Grześ is really good at one thing, and that’s sports. Since Bartek doesn’t care much about his attendance anyways, he eventually gets roped into going to the other’s school to watch a football tournament, even though he literally hates P.E. and anything related more than life itself. Grześ is so touched he almost cries.
-One time, during a voleyball game, Bartek goes to spectate. When Grześ notices him, he tries to wave and hit the ball at the same time and ends up accidentally hitting Bartek in the face with it. They don’t speak for a week but Grześ does LITERALLY everything to make it up so Bartek can’t stay mad.
-One Grześ learns that Bartek doesn’t really have any friends, he makes active effort to hang out with him way more, like after school and online. Bartek is, once again, unenthusiastic at first, but he now has a person other than Dalia to send reddit memes to, so he can’t really complain. They eventually become something like friends.
-They both like videogames which ends up being one of their main ways to hang out. It’s something they’re both quite good at, and they end up playing lots of competitive games.
-They mostly hang out at Bartek’s house because aside from Dalia, it’s empty and way bigger than the Kiszka family house. Grześ also hates his dad so he takes any opportunity to be away from home. It used to be hanging out at his neighbor’s place, but now he has an actual friend he can come over to play games with :)
ok ive been writing this for like 3 fucking hours and i still have more to write but i keep getting distracted to have part 1 i guess. see you when i go even more insane
- 🛏️
*i meant Szkoła zawodowa idk how to translate this. the other admin helped me but if u know a more accurate word hmu hihi
#guilty gear#winna zebatka#bartek senny#grzes kiszka#bedman#sin kiske#polish lore#bartek senny lore#grzes kiszka lore#sinbed#zebatka art#🛏️ admin
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Hello there. Hope you're in good spirits. I was hoping to send in a request if you're accepting them at the moment. It's more of a request/ask, but what would be your personal headcanons about the Wild Biker Boys? Just any headcanons in general that you've thought of about the boys at their worst.
yoo it’s been a hot minute since of got a request. glad to feed yall some wbb content though fr. I will note though, since this is a very obscure media without TOO MUCH to dive into, so if any of these seem ooc, are already established in canon, or I end up my repeating myself for a few headcanons I sincerely apologize. I try to read pela’s lore on there blog as much as I can I swear.
tw - drugs, alcoholism, bugs, body horror, toxic coping mechanisms, and coii being a simp for wbb dice
Dice/Pink…
• I feel like with these new drugs he’s taken, he’s a hell of a lot more jittery. Maybe even more so then Varai sometimes. Sure you could say it’s the type of drugs he taken but honestly? I feel like even if he did try to lay off a little he’d become more and more shaky and restless (like a caffeine rush.).
• Deep down, I don’t think Dice truly likes what happened to himself. Nor does he see himself in any good light, unlike he plays off.
• As for pink dice, that fucker is a nuisance.
• I like to think of him as an eager puppy, always urging Dice into random shit he honestly doesn’t want to do. (Liking buying more drugs, for example.)
• I like to think pink dice is really into the guro art form, and likes to preform the scenarios on anyone who grows close to Dice (which he kinda does, in his Yandere ending.)
• Dice and Pink go back and forth a lot. So much so I believe Dice becomes an insomniac. He definitely doesn’t sleep much with Pink being active. Hell, sometimes when Pink is deactivated he still can’t sleep..it’s just became a long lasting battle at this point.
• not a headcanon but I am so thirsty for wbb dice..he’s so yummy like drive over me with your bike a million times omg. (If you got any pink dice art or headcanons hmu 🤭🖤)
Jeff…
• My guy needs a hug so fucking bad man.. the first time I got his ending with the melted face I genuinely felt unnerved too like holy shit.
• In LBB I feel like Jeff is way more up beat. He’d probably listen to more light, poppy music. However with his shift he’s listening to things more depressing. He guesses it’s because hearing relatable lyrics help him calm down just a little bit.
• He’s way more temperamental then he ever was before. Almost no patience at all. Even if he doesn’t blow up, you can tell he’s still very petty and sarcastically mean.
• Goes on speed rides on his bike to calm him down. Most of the time blasting music. He never goes too far though, since he knows he still has to take care of Jatay.
• He drinks more often then he used to. He shows up at the bar almost every night and ends up coming home slammed to which Jatay consequently leaves him alone.
• Shits been hard..and Jeff simply can’t wait until he care tear Y/N apart in the most brutal way’s possible.
Varai…
• He’s gained new bug friends! All of them are named (for the most part). Sometimes he forgets someone’s name simply due to the fact that there’s so many of them that look so alike. If this happens, he starts going in a panic and feeling bad.
• His ainxety though, has slightly calmed down. He’s more of a walking corpse then he was before, so at this point there’s barely anything he needs to worry about aside from natural everyday worries.
• He’s definitely more clumsy then he ever was before. I guess it’s just because of the whole zombie thing..literally how is this guy alive?
• He hates seeing his boyfriend the way he is. It’s the biggest worry he has right now, and it worries him that they might eventually grow completely distant.
• Varai has the same relationship with Dice, although I think he’s really scared of Pink Dice so he stays away from talking about him as opposed to Jeff or even Jatay.
Jatay…
• Bro is in his own personal retirement home.
• Jeff is his caretaker, ofc
• Jatay often feels bad for Jeff, in a lowkey way. Obviously Jatay is an asshole, so he’d never really say anything outright, but those feelings are still there deep down.
• He feeds his stomach pet thing himself, making up meals for him since he can’t really eat that good. It gives him the joy knowing he can still cook for someone other then himself or Y/N.
• Jatay could give less of a fuck about the state of the world. At this point he’s going with the flow, with which ever way that might lead him.
• Talking to Jeff more has actually..calmed him down a little more. Obviously Jataybis not who he used to be, and with his shape I don’t think he’d want to anyway. Long story short, he appreciates Jeff’s company a lot.
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