Vy ilis :)

She/Her, Requests Open For All Fandoms

[thefanficmonster]

Welcome!

Hi there, lovelies! My name is Vy and this blog is a glimpse into my mind as well as an outlet for my hyperfixations (*cough* crushes *cough*).

Here you can find the MENU - who I write for as well as some guidlines for requests

On that note - Requests are OPEN!!!

Here's the MASTERLIST - all works for all fandoms can be found here

Hope you enjoy your stay, my dear guests 💌

[thefanficmonster]

Azure

'My devotion to you colors me azure...'

warnings: desperate!Logan, fem reader, sexual content

"Logan, oh fuck...Logan, we talked about this..."

Good thing talking is brought up in the past tense because there's not much room - nor air - for talking to be done here. Here being Logan's room which he dragged you to, forming a bubble between the two of you and the party raising the floorboards downstairs.

The thing you try to declare you've talked about is indeed this - his hands all over your body, his warmth engulfing you like a wildfire, messing with your head. It never takes much with him. It scares you how easily you can suspend your disbelief and let your mind wander.

You're both drunk. Well, tipsy really, but drunk on each other. And to you that's a big no-no.

See, the thing you've been trying to drill in Mr. Loverboy's head for close to two months now is that this can't keep happening.

Not when you've been noticing the looks he's giving you. Not when you've keenly picked up on the change between what it was in the beginning and what it has become now. Nothing is what the initial agreement entailed. Not the gazes, not the touches and not the pet names. Not the constant flow of texts about everything and nothing at all. Not the small acts of service like bringing you coffee or fixing stuff around your dorm when he comes to visit - that too, visits were never considered part of the contract but they came about so naturally. He fit in your space so well.

You can hardly pretend it hasn't crossed lines - state lines, in fact - into territory you strictly deem forbidden.

Relationships, those are the Badlands to you. You don't go there, you don't do those. And you've made that abundantly clear.

But poor Logan has no self preservation.

He's not ailed by delusions that he can change your mind, not at all. He's not even playing the waiting game to see if you'll eventually come around on your own.

He'd just pick to have bits of you over 100% of anyone else. Any day.

"I know baby, shh, I know..." You're sat on the edge of his bed with an expression you can only embarrassingly define as a pout, while this doe-eyed angel is kneeling between your legs, looking up at you with nothing to shield what's going on inside him. His eyes are a melting pot of all he's feeling - sadness, longing, pain, acceptance. But above all else - devotion. The bluest color. No wonder you love him best in blue, that's the color he wears because of you, on his body and soul.

His hands frame your face as he continues speaking to you like he's afraid of frightening a fawn, "You don't want this, baby? You want me to stop? Just say the word. Say the word and I will back off. For good if that's what you want." Oh how much it pains him to say that last part, you can hear his voice catch on the words as if they're spikes in his throat.

His relief is tangible when you immediately shake your head in response, "No! N-no, that's not it at all, you know that. I just...I just need you to stop looking at me like that." You hate how pathetic that plea sounds. Hate it even more for how evil it is when you take the palpable feelings he harbors into consideration. It's a selfish request you have no right to make while still craving his touch.

Almost as much as you'll crave and ache for that gaze on you if he ever pries it away. But you're not ready to admit that.

The hurt in those big eyes you love so much pulls you in deep to a point you feel it too when whispers out a reply, "Don't ask that of me, angel. I can't help it."

"Yes you can!" You're aware you sound like a petulant child but it's not really something you're focusing on right now.

He picks up on the whininess of your tone immediately, smirking now as he slowly lowers himself to where his hands have already bunched up your skirt around your waist. "I guess there's alternate remedies to your issue. You just have to agree to the terms and conditions."

You frown, narrowing your eyes, "Oh now you wanna talk terms and conditions, huh? What happened to those of our initial agreement?"

Logan give you a single shoulder shrug, "I still play by those rules you set, princess. Don't know what you're complaining about." He's sweet talking you into circles, further distracting you as he kisses up your inner thighs.

"You know exactly why I'm complaining, John! It was supposed to be just sex and now-"

"And now what, baby? What's changed? I still ask nothing of you except to not...." He catches himself before he can sound too unguarded - or pathetic, as he'd put it. But that's the truth.

He wants nothing but your presence. At his games, in his room, in his day-to-day. In his life.

He'll fuck you like you want - fast, rough, casual. But he'll love you like he wants - quiet, subtle, ever-present.

Enough for him to make you feel it like a warm mist around you but not enough to spook you.

"What is it you ask?" And here you are shooting your ideologies in the foot by asking that question. Because a part of you wants to know. Wants to know that if you were to ever let go and face what you feel for him, you'd have the net of his reciprocation to catch you as you fall for him.

"Nothing at all, angel." Ah, John Logan, master of distractions. Especially when they involve his mouth. This particular trick includes said sweet-talking skilled mouth of his pressing a kiss to the small wet spot on your panties.

And that's all it takes for your mind to go blank.

You're barely more than a puddle on his bedsheets before his rough hands even tear your panties in half. When his mouth properly lands on your now bare pussy, it's game over for any sanity you had left over.

"Feelin' good, baby? This better? Got anything to complain about now?" Oh he's gloating now. He's slipped two fingers past your wet folds, slowly thrusting them in and out at an agonizingly slow pace. It's torture. It's his form of punishment for what you do to him. But he's nothing if not a masochist when it comes to you. He can only be so 'cruel' for so long.

"Good girl. That's my good girl, squeezing my fingers already, sweetie? You're close, aren't you?" It's half patronizing and half genuine awe. There's no sight that's ever left him as amazed as you when you let go and let the pleasure he's bringing you take over and pull you under.

Your vocabulary has been watered down to incoherent whines and moans with pleas peppered throughout along with his name. And he's never heard it sound so beautiful before.

"God...yes, John...please, please don't stop. Ah!" You can hardly hear yourself over your own heartbeat and you don't even need to. He makes sure you have nothing more to say - nor the ability to speak - when he brings his mouth back down between your legs, lapping at the mess you've made of yourself.

Because of him.

His tongue gently teases your clit, winding you up further than you thought you were capable of handling. Your back is no longer touching the sheets when his lips seal around your clit just as his fingers curl just how he knows will drive you wild.

And that's your point of no return.

Though, to be fair, you've both reached that point long ago. The key difference being that Logan has made his peace with it. He wouldn't return even if he could, even if far stronger forces tried dragging him back.

"That's my girl. My beautiful girl..." You're yet to regain your bearings when he repositions you both so now you're properly sprawled out on the bed with him hovering over you, careful to keep his weight off you as he discards his pants and boxers with shaky but surprisingly efficient hands.

Your eyes are still hooded, a blur to your vision only an orgasm of that volume can bring. But your lips still find his with sniper-like precision, initiating a lazy, messy kiss that envelops both Logan's groan and your high pitch cry as he sinks into your tight pussy with a single slow thrust.

Between the sounds you're both making, the labored breaths and the thundering heartbeats, you could lie to yourself you misheard him. However, you know better than to make a fool of yourself like that. And more so - you know better than to demean the importance of that one word Logan whispers into your ear.

"Mine"

No wonder azure is his color - the color of hopeless devotion. The one you're reflecting back at him.

[thefanficmonster]

Snapshots

'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder' is a famous saying you hear tossed around a plenty. You have your qualms about it at times though.

Your credentials for it are your many SD cards filled with photos taken over the years you've been practicing - and now studying - photography.

It started off as a fun hobby and quickly took over your life not only as an interest but as a direction in life. You're still doing your studies - majoring in photography at Briar U, of course - but that's more of a formality. It's about having a degree - a piece of tangible evidence of your excellence in the end.

That hasn't stopped you from exploring the job market in your field though. Although you've been subtly sleuthing so far, you've finally found a studio you'd love to work for as a start to your career. Of course, you have greater goals in mind for further down the line but as long as you have a camera in your hands, you're happy.

An unexpected problem has arisen, however, now that you're sat down to sift through the countless photos downloaded onto your computer from several SD cards you've managed to fill over the past year. You're supposed to be composing a portfolio - which should not even be a feat considering the beautiful shots you have at your choosing. But it's proving to be rather difficult. For more reasons than one.

Sure, your indecisiveness is a hinderance of it's own but there's another qualm - your boyfriend is in 90% of the pictures.

See, you believe in absolute beauty - the kind that no one can disagree on or deny. The kind that no human eye can land on without the mind reading its receptors and acknowledging the radiance.

A primary example of this concept you feel so strongly about is Logan - hence the hundreds of pictures you have of him throughout varying phases of your relationship.

Most you didn't even take as a photographer - they're hasty, sometimes poorly lit snapshots to make a moment last forever.

The first one you ever took was the morning after the two of you finally made your relationship exclusive. It's of Logan sound asleep in your bed where your dog Ozzie had somehow wedged himself between you two in the middle of the night. Ozzie looks like he's boasting to be the one being cuddled by Logan instead of you. And yeah, that is a reasonable thing to boast about. Can't imagine being jealous of a dog but here we are.

Starting with that picture, there's an endless array of shots that follow and is still being added upon with the most recent one being the one you took at dinner last night of Logan just being his goofy self.

You're so entranced in your trip down memory lane - definitely not the plan you had when sitting down to sift through the images - that you don't even hear the door to the house open and close downstairs, then the steps coming up the steps and the quiet swing of your bedroom door as it opens.

"Hey, beautiful. How's that portfolio coming along?" Your boyfriend's voice and the kiss pressed to your hair is what finally snaps you out of it. You feel the warmth radiating off of him, the result of the sun beating down on him as he tinkered with his truck all morning.

"Not great." You sigh, turning to face him, momentarily distracted by the sight of him toweling off the sweat from his neck and chest. His existence - and by extension his hotness - is a danger to the innerworkings of your brain. Your neurons short-circuit at the mere sight of him still to this very day - otherwise known as the world's longest honeymoon stage.

Though, to be real, it's probably not a stage at this point.

"Yeah? How come? You have thousands to choose from." Logan frowns, walking over to look at your computer screen and offer his most definitely not professional - but wholehearted none the less - advice.

And that's when he's only mildly surprised to mind so many versions of him staring back at him.

"Correction - I have thousands of you to choose from. I could fill three whole galleries and still have pictures left over of you alone." You run a hand through your hair.

Logan inspects the images, looking through a few in more detail, his eyes narrowed. "Babe, I do not look like that." He says finally.

Your frown in response is so pronounced you might as well be a relative of the Grinch. At times like these I feel it'd be really helpful to have sound and visual effects in real life and real time because only then would you really manage to capture how deeply confused - and slightly offended - you are by his comment.

"What do you mean you don't look like that, John? None of these are edited. Like, at all. I just transferred them over to my computer directly from the SD card." You explain, relaxing your facial features because that amount of sheer expression cannot be good for future wrinkles.

"I just don't. I don't know how else to describe it. That doesn't look like what I see in the mirror, you know? I mean, it's me of course, but...more flattering I guess. I know a lot goes into photography like lighting and angles and stuff but some of these are blurry even and still...* He trails off as he clicks on one of said blurry pics - likely taken on a date where you were probably tipsy. "See, still! I look like a TV version of myself."

"TV version?" You quirk and eyebrow.

"You know, like how they beautify news anchors."

"Babe, you don't need beautifying. You are beautiful." You say in such a factual deadpan he actually blushes.

"I mean, yeah, obviously." Logan whips his imaginary long luscious hair. "But I still think it has more to do with you?"

Genuine confusion paints your features, "With me?"

"Yeah. You know that saying: 'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder'? I think it's in the eye of the picture taker. Sorry, photographer. I think the sun fried my brain." He runs a hand through his sweat-damp locks, pushing them back away from his forehead. "And not like lighting or whatever. But like...seeing beauty in something automatically reflects more beauty back at it, making it even more beautiful. Am I making sense or just repeating a word until it no longer sounds like a word?"

Now that...makes an odd amount of sense. Especially when taking into consideration your strong belief in the concept of absolute beauty. John Logan is absolute beauty to you. No one, at least in your opinion, can disagree that this man is an extraordinary specimen. But that's just your very biased opinion.

But it doesn't matter because that which you see in him and can't put into words is captured wordlessly and very visually in your photos.

"You're not only making sense, Log, you're a fucking genius." You get up to press a theatric kiss to his cheek and - holy shit he's burning up. "But, no, seriously, maybe go take a cold shower. You may be having a heatstroke."

"And I look good doing it." He says with a dopey smile, playing into it. Or at least you hope he is.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't let it get to your head, the sun already did."

You can hear his laugh all the way to the bathroom - a sound you can only capture in a recording, but that's not your expertise. Instead, much like everything he's ever said to you, it's safely stored in your mind.

[thefanficmonster]

Formal inquiry if anyone has read and is willing to write for Carrie Soto from 'Carrie Soto is Back' by Taylor Jenkins Reid

~ XOXO, Vy 💌

[thefanficmonster]

Fixer Upper

'Wish I wasn't such a sucker for a fuckin' fixer-upper' ~ Fixer Upper, Chandler Leighton

You have a knack for a lot of stuff.

You have a mean swing when wielding a tennis racket - a knack for predicting your opponent's moves before they've even thought to make them.

You're the one your friends hand the aux cord to in the car - you always have the perfect read of the mood and know just what songs would hit the best.

And you also have a knack for, astoundingly, always picking the worst guys to date.

There's always something. You know what kind of something I'm talking about. There's never a clean bill of adequacy for any of them. They all have to have a few nuts and bolts missing for you to zero in and be like 'Hmm...'

Your friends fucking HATE it! They've been trying to ween you off that nasty habit of finding these specific men cute and charming with the exception of that one - or sometimes several - trait that just grinds your gears. But you're a creature of blind faith - you tend to anticipate the best of just about everyone and they NEVER deliver.

"You'd think with our curriculum you'd be sick of projects by now but noooo! Here we are with experiment #248!" Your best friend has the tendency to say this exact line each time - albeit with a different subject number for your new and certainly not improved fixer upper.

"He's just a little too close with his mom. Probably that homesickness from being away at college and all. Nothing he can't work on." You always have a justification - or maybe a shovel because you always manage to dig the hole a little deeper under your feet when trying to make sense of your nonsensical taste in men.

"What are you, a manchanic? Pull it together!"

Well, you might not be a manchanic but right now you're in desperate need of a mechanic because your car won't start. Every time you turn the key in the ignition, your engine makes this noise you can only describe as sounds of sorrow - sounds you're about to start echoing back at it because the storm the forecast predicted is closing in.

You're fresh out of tennis practice, still in your gear that is not Armageddon weather friendly with a phone that just fucking died. Not that it would've been of any use - not many people you can call. Most of your friends are in their morning lectures right now. You yourself have one you need to get to in about twenty minutes but your tin-can on four wheels clearly thinks otherwise. The only person you could call - and I mean in theory - is subject #249. And I say in theory because that motherfucker is definitely not gonna pick up. Hell, he might even hang up on you if he even hears the phone. It's 10AM but he's a night owl - sleeping till dusk, gaming till dawn kinda fella - not a chance in hell he's coming through for you. Oh and it's not like yall are serious or anything - as per his own proclamation - so why would he do such a thing as come through for you, right? RIGHT??

A spear of white slashes the dark grey sky. Followed by a clap of lightning that opens the floodgates to a downpour that your polo shirt and shorts don't stand a chance against.

In a moment of helpless frustration you kick the tire a couple times - causing more damage to your foot than the rubber - and decide that you're definitely not making it to that lecture or out of this parking lot anytime soon.

But then....divine intervention!

The clouds have parted and heaven's light shines down upon thee - oh no, nevermind, it's just a pair of headlights.

You wipe raindrops from your lashes to be able to make out the vehicle approaching you - an oldish looking but well maintained truck comes to a stop next to you and for a moment you do consider the possibility of it being a kidnapper or something.

But both your shoes are flooded and your socks are soaked so, really, you ARE the threat with the amount of irritation condensed into you right now.

A guy you vaguely recognize gets out - similarly not dressed for the weather in his t-shirt and jeans. But hey, at least he has a working vehicle!!!

"Showering on a budget?!" He literally has to shout so you can make out what he's saying over the hellish downpour.

"Wish I had that level of preparedness - would've brought shampoo. Or...charged my phone at least." Had anyone else tried to make light of the situation you're in right now, you would've probably laid them out with a racket to the dome. But this guy says it with such ease, no notes of anything that irks or bugs you. No condescension or mockery. And to add the fact that he's choosing to stand out here in this weather to talk to you.

"Something wrong with your car, I'm assuming." He says, looking past you at the traitorous shitcan that looks perfectly normal on the outside - oh how looks can be deceiving.

You sure as hell hope his looks aren't deceiving cause HAWT DAMN. You have thoughts. No notes. No prayers. Just thoughts. Some potentially impolite observations you've made about him in the passed minute. Like how freakishly good he looked when he stepped out and how much good-er he looks now with his hair soaked. Some would say it's a shame to see hair so luscious be tamped down like this and you'd half agree but...you see a different kind of appeal.

And, for some weird reason, you seem to recognize him more with wet hair.

"That's how it started, yeah, and then the apocalypse happened." You reply, motioning to the now steady rain that thankfully no longer hurts on impact like hale.

He hums, nodding thoughtfully. "Right. Am I also right to assume that you'd rather not stay in this parking lot?"

You raise your eyebrows, eyes widening slightly for the theatrics of it all, "Are you clairvoyant?"

"Just one of my many talents. Another one of which is owning a functioning vehicle that can take you anywhere you desire." He turns to gesture to his truck with a flourish.

And you're in no position to say no. Not that you want to. Not that you could. The smile does indeed possess extraordinary abilities that make this guy trouble. Trouble in a way that you go thoughtless when looking at it.

Within fifteen minutes, he's pulling into the nearest parking spot to the entrance of your lecture hall so you don't get quadruple soaked on your way in.

"You're a lifesaver, I can't thank you enough. I wish the best car luck upon you. May your truck never leave you in a ditch the way mine did." You sing him his praise as you unbuckle, unwillingly so, in preparation to get out and make it to the lecture you're only a little late for. What a shame it is to be leaving his truck indeed - the drive over might have been the most fun fifteen minutes you've had this past month.

He's just so...fun, lively. He met you halfway on everything: sarcasm, dark humor, irony. Line for line - he didn't miss a beat.

And you're already missing the interactions you had and the ones you could have if you were to ever see him again.

"I am eternally grateful for the wishes you've cast upon me but this truck doesn't have much of a choice but to work. I'm a mechanic - it doesn't get a rest day just cause it's smoking under the hood. I up and fix it." He says with a humble smile and a humorous straightening of his back to accentuate his remarkability - and you're fucking swooning.

An oddity because you're yet to pinpoint a single thing wrong with this man.

"Impressive. You didn't exaggerate those many talents you mentioned. Jack of all trades, huh." You smirk - kinda hard to play coy when there's a dark spot in the shape of you on the seat and backrest. There's a similar one on his too. It looks like you leave your shadow behind when you step out. "My gratitude knows no bounds. Have a good one!"

Those parting words feel empty for some reason you can't place until twenty minutes later when you're sitting in class in all your drowned-rat glory and realize you had no name to tack onto the end there.

You never asked him his fucking name. Way to fucking go about potentially seeing him again, babe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time your professor's voice says the most important phrase of the lecture: 'That will be all for today' - there's ironically not a cloud in sight on the picture-perfect blue above you.

After an hour and a half of a lecture you didn't hear a single syllable from, you return to the scene of the crime your car committed against you to clean it of your belongings with the intention of calling a tow. Your brain is already doing math gymnastics trying to calculate the cost of the repairs - not that you even know what needs to be repaired - and figure out how much it'll set you back financially.

In the whirlwind of mental equations, the he last thing you expected to find was two legs sticking out from under your car.

"Um, hi? Who are you and why are you violating my car?" You ask as you make a hesitant approach, nudging the person's right foot with your own.

And then the hottest jumpscare of your life happens when out rolls HE.

He can't even respond because he's cracking up over your very interesting phrasing of the question and man does he look cute.

"Oh hey guy-from-earlier!" You blurt out on autopilot, all too aware of the fact that you don't know his name.

"John Logan - since you clearly don't plan on asking." He smirks, nodding to you in greeting in tandem with tipping an imaginary hat. His hands are stained as a result of the car surgery he's performing so he doesn't offer a handshake. "But everyone calls me Logan."

The name rings a bell - no, it actually makes a different sound. It sounds like skate scraping ice.

Oh shit that's where I know him from!

"Wait, you're a Hawk, ain't ya?!" You grin triumphantly as if you finally found a puzzle piece that fits. In this case the last piece but hey, E for Effort. Your brain was firing on all cylinders right there (unlike your car *ahem*)

"Sure am. You into hockey?" Logan asks as he stands up, wiping his hands on a hand towel dangling from one of his belt loops.

We're all familiar with that saying 'don't hate the player, hate the game', right? Well you're in a 'forget the game, fuck the player' kinda situation right now. You've got as much interest in hockey as a fish would have in cycling but that's neither here nor there because right now it's a strong contender for you favorite sport of all time.

But still, you're no liar.

"Not really, sorry. My friend is, though. I go to watch games with her all the time." You hurry to add that last part which is in fact true. Thea always manages to convince you to tag along.

Logan doesn't wanna run the risk of sounding creepy by saying it but he has indeed noticed you. He's vague acquaintances with Thea and he's duly noted the friend she attends Hawks games with.

Spotting you earlier was the luckiest fucking coincidence to him.

"Well, we're grateful for any support. Even by proxy." He winks. He fucking winks. It has the same danger level as pulling the trigger on a gun. Does this man know how fine he is? There's no way he doesn't, right? He turns to point to your car, giving the hood a light pat. "Anyway, that should tie you over but maybe consider getting yourself a more reliable vehicle, yeah? This fixer upper will leave you stranded again sooner or later and trust me, you do not want to take that risk."

His words stun you.

They hit a mark he wasn't even aiming for when he said them. Hell, he doesn't know the mark even exists.

They're a softer, more gently phrased variation of lectures you've endured before. Time and time again, your friends have tried to bring a rude awakening upon you to snap you out of your Bob The Builder roleplay. Time and time again their words went in one ear and out the other.

But there's something so viscerally real about the situation you found yourself in because of your fixer upper car and how closely it compares to where you end up because of your fixer upper guys.

Left high and dry. Or rather stranded and rain soaked, but you get the idea.

Maybe such a real and tangible depiction of what these relationships - if you can even call em that - are doing to you is exactly what you needed to get your shit together.

"Yeah...um...yeah, I'll definitely look into upgrading." You say after a pause you didn't even realize you created.

Logan doesn't seem to mind. "As payment I only accept first and last names."

Oh, he's smooth

"Is that negotiable? Like maybe I can pay first name now and last name later on with a cup of coffee to tie me over in between?"

But so are you *wink*

And Logan knows when he's out-smoothed. He finds no shame in admitting it. In fact, he finds it quite attractive. "Consider it done."

"Where do I sign?" You tease only to have this goofball pull out an actual notepad and pen from his back pocket like he's Mary fucking Poppins with magic jeans instead of a bag.

"Signatures only in digit form, please." He adds as he hands you the pad and pen - the brief brush of your hands bringing a heatwave upon you both.

You write down your phone number, your first name right below it.

For once, a guy has caught your eye by being the fixer and not the fixer upper. And for once, you're actually excited to tell your friends about a guy and also bring forth proof as to how great he is - your car revving to life on the first try.

[thefanficmonster]

Ethan and Mia dealing with a teenage Rose would include...

No slamming doors in the house - and not for the reasons most teenagers have this rule

Rose slamming a door would mean they'd have to get a new door

They do indeed know that from experience, it's not a theory

She has a loose curfew put in place by Mia

I say loose because Rose never makes it home by the given time

But chances are Mia fell asleep in her wait for her to return so she can get away with it

Ethan is the more laidback parent, that goes without saying

Not that Mia is strict per se - she's just in a constant state of worry and concern

Which Rose sometimes empathizes with

And sometimes throws a fit over

One thing she can only turn to Mia for is her love life

Not that Ethan is a 'no-dating-till-you're-thirty' kind of father

He's just...particular about who he'd let his daughter date

And Rose simply got tired of questions like 'Is he/she familiar with bioweapons?' or 'Could he/she be working for...let's say...Umbrella?'

He always asks said questions so casually, thinking he's being subtle

Yeah, real subtle

Mia is more chill in that aspect

She asks for pictures for mom-approval reasons

And then proceeds to use her agent ways to do some digging - Rose is not familiar with that part though

Call it a job side-effect, but her heart is in the right place

Rose: Dad, can I *insert activity Ethan is iffy about*

Ethan: Ask your mom - (sure, he's iffy about it but he can never bring himself to say no to her - hence his 'good cop' role)

Rose: Mom, can I *insert activity Ethan is iffy about*

Mia: Sure honey. Be home by ten. Ten-thirty at the latest.

*cut to a flabbergasted Ethan*

*cut to hours later, probably around midnight or slightly later*

Mia is asleep on the couch as Rose comes back, tip-toeing over every creaky floorboard

[thefanficmonster]

would you mind if i stay in anon for now? you can just call me "A" for now 🫶 i promise i'll reveal myself soon once i get over the feeling of awkwardnees djxjejsksk

That's ok dear, no need to reveal yourself. I just want you to feel comfortable and I'm glad to be chatting with you again🥰

[thefanficmonster]

Such a shame...

What is it about him? I don't understand.

I turned every stone, looked beyond every aspect of his unimportant existence and I still can't figure it out.

What makes him so special?

What makes him worthy?

Of your laughter - I know that finance knucklehead ain't got shit going on in his head let alone a knack for humor. Bottom line, sweetheart, nothing that comes out of that hole in his face is worthy of your laughter. I know I sure will be laughing at what will come out of the other hole I'll open up, right between his eyes. Would it even count though? Can't exactly blow his brains when he's got none.

What makes him worthy of the space he takes up in your life? The time he wastes of your day?

How dare he contaminate your apartment with his presence? His like mould, can't get rid of him. He's been here for four hours and twenty-six minutes already. I'm fed up and I don't even have to listen to him talk. How do you put up with him?

Ok, I know how, you have the patience of an angel. Lucky for you, your guardian demon is here to rescue you.

"Good afternoon, sir. Sorry to inform you your car has been towed for insufficient parking. You can pick it up at the impound downtown."

Ah it's pathetically hilarious to watch him huff and puff. But hey, it worked out. The fucker needs the car to get to work in the morning. I got him out of your hair, that's good enough. I'll be seeing you later for my repayment, sweetheart.

Right now, I have to entertain your date a little. Show him what happens when someone tries staking claim on what's mine. Has been mine since the day we met, baby, and you should know better than to deny it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sorry I'm late, sweetheart. Had to stop by my place for a change of clothes.

I imagined things would go more smoothly and cleanly but your guy got a little...dramatic. Got blood all over me and I'd never show up here not looking my best for you.

But alas, I'm here now. And you're sound asleep already. As you should be, you have an early start tomorrow.

Whoa, don't scare me like that. Thought you were waking up for a second. I mean, you've never woken up on me before but there's a first time for everything.

You have this huge bed and still choose to curl up on one side. It's like you know to expect company. I appreciate that, it means a lot to me.

Sleep tight, angel. It's my favorite sight to see...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dex! Shut up, don't say anything. You're grabbing drinks with me tonight!"

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Took ya all of a day and a half to forget all about him huh? You barely had any time for me when he was in the picture. It's like you were waiting for him to take his leave so you could come back to me.

"Remember Chase? The guy I was seeing? The fucker ghosted me."

You have no idea how literally he ghosted you indeed, sweetheart

"Oh? I'm...I'm sorry?"

"Not a big loss."

Trust me, darling, I knew that way before you. You just needed me to clear it up for you.

"So...you're not upset?"

"Not particularly, no. I just wanna go out. Have a fun night with my best friend. Do some hunting for new prospects, you know?"

Ah angel, when will you learn...

"I'll pick you up around nine then."

Mostly because I have a body to get rid of at seven. And that shit takes a while. Such a shame I'm about to waste two hours dealing with an insignificant bag of organs.

But it's worth it for you, love. Everything's worth it if it's for you.

[thefanficmonster]

Jaws & Fangs

tw: medical emergencies

You've heard of ortho jocks. Brendon Park is the embodiment of the stereotype.

He knows he's all that. Or at least thinks so. He doesn't let his work speak for itself, he has to be an asshole to top it all off. He has to strike fear in all his coworkers. He has to put others down to build himself up - not that his ego needs any inflation. It's half the reason he's broad as a boulder - it's his body's way of adjusting to all that cockiness that exudes itself in utter shitheadery.

He knows he's the best the hospital has in the ortho department. He wears it in that stone-cold unmoving face of his. The ortho floor have developed a myth about it - those who see Dr. Park crack a smile, no matter how briefly, will be turned to stone on the spot.

It might as well be his second job, reminding people how below him they are in his world. Every sentence, every word, every syllable, they all stem from such condescension and mightiness.

He revels in watching the rest of the staff take it with a lowered head, mostly so they can avoid getting chewed up and spat out by The Shark.

Until a new ortho surgeon transfers to the hospital.

They couldn't afford to lose a professional like Brendon, but the mountain of complaints from patients and staff alike was starting to tip over. So, the best admin could do was tip the scales, even the playing field by introducing a new player.

Dr. Y/N L/N

And man does the change give Park whiplash.

The nurses and doctors weren't enthusiastic to hear about a new addition. Mainly out of fear and hesitation that they'd be getting a Shark 2.0 to worsen the work environment further.

They were pleasantly surprised, however, to find out the new surgeon is technically one of them. Y/N is an ex-nurse who specialized in orthopedic surgery only a couple years ago and has already climbed to the top of the list of surgeons country-wide.

Oh-ho-ho did Park not like that.

Y/N is all the skill Brandon possesses and none of the sticks up the ass.

Ok, maybe one singular stick. The one she holds onto specifically for Park. It took her all of thirty seconds to get a read on what kind of doctor he is - unbeatable at what he does - and what kind of person he is - absolute dickhead. It took her another thirty seconds to bear witness to the course of his interactions with the rest of the staff, especially the nurses. Not to even touch upon the bedside manner he exhibits to his patients.

That's the moment she proclaimed war on his patience.

It's proven to be way easier than she had originally though.

Given that she's only been here two months, she's yet to be given her own office. They just added a second desk to Park's office and called it a day for the time being. Y/N took the news with a conspiratorial grin she barely managed to conceal.

The fangs sunk in like a knife through hot butter, getting right under his skin where it would irritate him most.

"Hey, roomie." She says to him every morning without fail. She watches his eye twitch every time, it's great. "You sleep here or something?"

"I like to have a head-start. Stay above the workload. If that means coming to work an hour or so earlier, so be it." Brendon rarely looks up from the paperwork he's sifting through when he responds to her.

Y/N doesn't mind. "If that's what you think will help you maintain rank..."

That comment gets her a step above an eye twitch - she can actually see that vein in the middle of his forehead pulse.

"Maintain rank? What is it you're referring to, Dr. L/N?" He asks, voice dangerously even and low.

"Oh, you know. I'm sure it's not easy getting used to sharing your role. Your floor, your office, everything. It's normal to feel threatened." She hums casually, now flipping through her own paperwork, mostly to have something else to look at except him. One glance at his slightly reddened face and she'll crack up.

"Threatened? By you?" He scoffs with such disgust, you'd think the words are poison on his tongue. Y/N can practically hear his jaw clench. "You can't possibly be se-"

Dr. Park doesn't get to finish his thought when a knock sounds at the door to the office.

Since he's still seething, Dr. L/N takes it upon herself to straighten in her chair, plaster that smile of hers and call out for the person to come in, chipper as ever.

A frightened looking nurse pokes her head inside, "Hi, um, I-I came up from ED. We need a consult on a car crash victim. I-It's pretty bad..."

Y/N is nodding slowly, processing what the nurse said. Whereas Brendon is already getting out of his chair with a huff. He loves getting called for a consult as much as he loves acting like it's such a bother and annoyance. He loves being needed, Y/N has come to learn. He loves seeing himself and being seen by others as the only solution. The sole savior or whatever warped idea he has of himself in that dome of his.

"Um...I'm sorry, Dr. Park. I should've been more specific. Dr. Robby specifically requested Dr. L/N." The nurse clarifies, vaguely motioning to the other surgeon.

That's all prompting she needs before standing up and following the nurse, a hand on the small of the girl's back. Reassuring, comforting, promising she's nothing like her colleague back there.

Despite how much she wants to glance over her shoulder to subtly flaunt that small victory and take in the irritation on his face, she doesn't. She has enough grace to remain humble unlike him.

Shame, really. Because Dr. Park is a seething sight to see. It's a cartoonish scene as he sits there, fuming, face and neck reddened, eyes glaring daggers into Y/N's back.

This is the fourth time this has happened this week, and it's only Wednesday. All consults have come with the specific request that said consult come from Dr. L/N. Her entrance on the playing field has allowed the hospital staff to avoid any and all interactions with him. Some unlucky patients still get stuck with him as their attending. God knows that, if given the choice, in an ideal world where she could take on all the patients, she'd be chosen by all.

"You know they only like you because I'm the alternative, right?" He asked her once, eyes ice cold as they bore into hers.

"That's not the insult you think it is, Dr. Park." She'd replied simply, without even batting an eye. "I'd like to think of it as them seeing me as a breath of fresh air coasting through ortho for the first time since you took up that chair. That's praise enough in my book."

"If that's what makes you feel better. Don't let your likability make you think you're more skilled than you are." He snarled back which only made her find the situation even more humorous.

"You'll understand the depth of the shit you're spewing when you need me one day."

Her calm and reasonable response does nothing to change his mind, though. He carries on believing that until one day her prophecy is fulfilled. And that puts it mildly.

A young girl is rushed over from the ED to his OR and he can't even fathom her state initially. All he could see in the whirlwind of her being wheeled in was blood. So much blood. And a leg that definitely shouldn't be bent that way.

The briefing was indeed that - brief. Time is of the essence. Every wasted second brings that girl closer to losing that leg. And Dr. Park would be damned if he lets that happen.

He's rattled, more than he typically is with patients, even emergency cases. It probably has to do with the girl's age. She's a child, early teens probably. She'd taken a horrific plummet while exploring an abandoned building on the outskirts of town. It's a miracle she's alive. And right now another miracle is needed to maintain that leg attached to her body.

"Fucking pull yourself, together." Brendon curses himself out, watching the tremble of his hands as he starts scrubbing. "Don't be a fucking coward. If you can't do this no one can."

Remember how I said he loves being needed? Being the only solution? Playing savior? At times, it's his worst nightmare. Even an ego of that size has some holes in it, and in cases such as this one, they tear open a little bigger. They leave him feeling the emptiness of what would happen if he doesn't succeed. He's never let himself find out the aftermath before, but he's also reasonable enough to know that there's a first time for everything. The savior's responsibility is, at times, too heavy for him to breathe through. Cursing himself out into getting back in line has proven futile.

"Dr. Park? Is everything ok?" That familiar voice only unnerves him more. It doesn't hold the usual snarky undertone. If anything it sounds genuinely concerned despite the audible exhaustion in it.

"No, Y/N! It's not ok! That girl might lose her leg! What if I can't..." He roars, his fears manifesting as unbridled rage as he whirls around to meet her eyes - the only feature of hers visible above the mask and below the cap.

It's not lost on her, the use of her first name. She's never heard him say it once. But that's not something to dwell on now. Brendon clearly shares that sentiment because, without giving her the time to reply, he's speaking again, "Scrub in."

For a moment, she doesn't believe she heard him right, "Um..?"

"Scrub in, Y/N. That girl needs all hands on deck. Fangs aside, you're the best pair of hands I got. So scrub in. I need you in there."

Some would call it magic. Others would call it a miracle. It could be dubbed as divine intervention by the believers; a wonder of orthopedic medicine by the rest.

In reality, it's all the work of two doctors. Two pairs of hands that are still shaking with adrenaline an hour after the surgery has successfully ended.

An hour Brendon and Y/N have spent in deafening silence. Literal crickets could be heard through the open window in their shared office as they sit and stew. It's past the end of their shift but neither has moved, still mentally reliving the surgery like playing a mental chess match with the Grim Reaper.

Y/N is the first to break the silence, "We...we did good back there."

Brendon nods, eyes refocusing after a long time of staring off into space. "We did. I take back....most of what I've been saying about you these past two months. Some of it you deserve?"

Y/N observes him with eyes of wonder, as if she's witnessing the second coming of Brendon Park - the new and improved version. Now with less sticks up the ass!

"Oh do I? Is this about the fangs? I remember you saying that earlier." She subconsciously smooths her tongue over her canines to check if they've by some off-chance sharpened in the last two months. "What's that about?"

"All you've done since transferring here is bleeding my patience dry. You don't know when to stop." He says with an accusing tone but none of the usual heat his words pack. "A vampire of sorts."

"Why would I stop when it's my personal brand of comedy, Park. You ought to learn not to take yourself so seriously. I know you think you're God's gift to orthopedics but come on." Y/N rolls her eyes, spinning slowly on her chair.

"Stop that, you're making me motion-sick. Also, I don't think that, just so you know. I'm just good at what I do. And I'll be damned if I let anyone question or doubt that ever again." Brendon says after some contemplation, his tone one of earnest and truth she didn't know he was capable of.

"Ooh, sounds like a story. A long one. Do tell." Y/N says, halting her chair twirling to exhibit the seriousness the situation calls for. She schools her cadence and expression accordingly. "Sorry, no. I didn't mean that in a prying way. Just...consider it an olive branch. We already spend the better part of the day together, what's to bad about being civil or maybe even friends? If you know what those are, that is." When he doesn't reply and just soft-glares at her for a stretch of time, she continues, "Webster's dictionary defines the word 'friend' as..."

"Enough. Funny. But not another word. Alright?" Brendon huffs, shaking his head.

Y/N momentarily ponders the possibility of turning to stone because, she'll be damned, but he's smiling. And she's perfectly content getting turned into a statue if that's the last thing she sees. Rarer than a blood moon or a solar eclipse. An extinct type of facial expression in Brendon's genes. And yet there it is.

She resists the urge to take out a magnetifying glass and inspect it closer. Maybe measure the exact angle of the quirk at the corner of his lips to determine if it can be classified as a smile. She's a researcher by trade, after all.

Brendon must notice it too - probably because she looks equal parts astonished as she does victorious. "Yes, I can do that."

"Have you been practicing?" She fires back without missing a beat.

"I could start tonight. Come on. Remember that story you wanted me to tell? Maybe you can hear it over drinks if you'd like." He doesn't wait for her to confirm or deny as he gets up from his chair, crossing the office to take his coat from the hanger.

Y/N is still actively weighing her options, differentiating pros and cons even as she too reaches for her own jacket. In the end, she decides not to look a gifted Shark in the jaws.

So, she follows him.

[thefanficmonster]

sorry if i made your return to tumblr so macabre with this, i just, would you believe me if i say we used to be friends? like dm talking friends and i even watched your streams back then

idk i just feel like, awkward??? to just suddenly pop in and act like we're still close when we haven't talked since literally the amigops popularity era 😭

i just needed to know your opinion and views of this bc i couldn't talk to anyone else

on a brighter note— may i req a little ethan x mia one shot since i saw you're still up for writing re8? just kinda wanna see ethan and mia dealing with teenage rose loll

No, sweetie. Not at all. Please, don't apologize. I want to thank you for educating and enlightening me on the matter. I'd never choose to stay ignorant in such a situation and I thank you greatly for bringing it to my attention.

And please don't feel awkward at all. I know it's been a while since we last talked but to me, my connection with my Tumblr fam never dwindles down. To me, it's like no time has passed every time I log back on and get to reconnect and catch up with all the lovely people I have the honor of calling my friends.

Thank you for sticking by me all this time. I would love to reconnect and get to chatting like we used to again. To me, you're still a friend, darling. Never doubt that 💕

As for your request, be on the lookout. I'll have it posted within a day or two and I promise it won't disappoint even if it might seem like I'm a little rusty with the RE fandom 😅

Sending you all my love, Vy 💌

[thefanficmonster]

i get your disappointed VERY MUCH, i LOVE the amigops, i was a VERY big fan of them, esp syk and corpse's dynamic

it literally HURTS to realize all of that shit happening and seeing syk's true colors because ofc ik personas exist and ik to an extent that sykunno's image was mostly his persona but i never expected THIS

their among us vids and just amigops vids in general has always been my ULTIMATE comfort videos and i would watch them when i needed a sense of nostalgia and familiarity het now i cant bc i cant see them the same anymore 😭

I truly understand you, dear. I look back on that time with such fondness. The Amigops were my second fandom I ever wrote for here on Tumblr. Corpse was my first inspiration and via him I was enamored by the whole group. And I LOVED writing for them. I found such comfort and fulfillment capturing their personalities in my fics.

Turns out you never really know.

It's one thing to establish a persona to differentiate yourself from the version of you you choose to present to millions of people online. THIS is something else entirely.

[thefanficmonster]

Lucky Strike

tw: dark romance (kinda?), female reader

The only two people who could kill Benjamin Poindexter never would.

Matt has his principles. His moral code acting as binds tight around his wrists. He's an unloaded gun when it comes to Dex. He's still willing to stop him at every turn, puncture a hole in every plan of his - if Dex were to operate according to a plan and not pure spontaneity.

She, however, isn't bound by any moral compass.

In fact, many would argues the scales between her and Dex are pretty even. Equally despicable and just as comfortable justifying their actions without a second thought. They see the world so differently - most likely though the scope of a sniper.

Especially her.

That's only a shard of glass in the visage of his love for her.

Ah, love. A claw that's dug so deeply into his chest, his heart isn't even his anymore. He'd let her rip it out of him and not bat an eye. In a way, from where he's standing, his heart is already walking around outside his body - beating in the chest of the woman he'd die and kill for.

Dex has gotten used to and comfortable with their routine since they've started living together. He'd initially been irked by how little he sees of her but he respects her work, her craft, and her enough to put his own clinginess on the backburner.

She's a woman of the night.

By the time he gets home she's already long gone, meshing with the shadows. The city is her cloak, concealing her, keeping her safe when he can't do it himself. Not that she needs protection. It'd be laughable to think so little of a trained assassin.

Tonight, there's a shift to the rhythm of his night.

Dex would usually come home to an empty apartment, every breath echoed back at him, emphasizing her absence.

Not tonight.

She's home, sat at the table in the small space between the living room and kitchen they deemed the dining room. The only light that's on in the entire apartment flickers above her head.

Oh no...

Flickering lights, not good. Her mutant power allows her to bend the laws of electricity to her will. They are also bent by her emotions. A flickering light isn't a good sign. It's usually the precursor to a storm.

"Oh, you're home early. Done hunting for the night, sweetheart?" Dex smiles at her, nothing short of genuine adoration in his eyes.

She tilts her head, smirking at him. The sharp quirk of her lips could slit his throat. And what a way to die that would be. "Haven't decided yet."

He's accustomed to her ominous one-liners. He's gotten pretty good at deciphering them but right now he's lost on what she could be referring to.

"Um...ok? How so?" Dex asks as he takes a seat on the chair beside her, basking in her closeness. "Is that why you're sitting here in the dark like a textbook villain? Want me to find you a stray cat for added effect?" He actually would if she were to ask.

But she just laughs in return. A dark chuckle that would unnerve a lesser individual. Dex isn't as easily disturbed. Never by her. Hell, she could pull a knife on him and he wouldn't flinch. She reaches one hand up to cradle his cheek, running her thumb along the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

"Oh, Dex..." She sighs, shaking her head with a smile, a certain twinkle in her eyes.

In her free hand she holds a card, bringing it eye-level so he can see it.

He's seen plenty of such cards since he's known her. She keeps them in a shoebox, mementos of all her hunts. An elaborate kill count, if you will.

It's a card she gets at St. Margaret's every night. Same design, different name each night. Weasel would slide it subtly under the palm of her hand where she'd rest it on the bar, nursing whatever drink she ordered.

No simpler procedure.

Pick up a card. Kill in accordance. Refrain from getting too close. Stay in the shadows. Don't stick around. Keep it clean. Keep it unseen. Keep yourself unseen.

But just like Dex, her night didn't run along the usual routine.

Because the name on the card is his.

"You've made someone real mad, haven't you, Dex?" She coos, caressing his face. The warmth of her touch silencing his thoughts, momentarily rendering him helpless, putty in her hands. As if he isn't prey. A moving target.

And she's the hunter.

"It's a long list, sweetheart. Many of them are cowardly enough to pay a hit instead of doing it themselves." Dex mutters, barely coherent as he leans into her hand, tilting his head so he can press a kiss to her palm.

"I wouldn't call it cowardly. More so self-aware. They know they can't touch you..." Her hand slithers down, wrapping lightly around the column of his throat. Not squeezing...yet, "But they know I can."

Dex huffs out a laugh, clasping his fingers around her wrist, holding it there. Vague encouragement. "You're considering it, baby?" He smirks up at her as she rises from her chair to stand over him. With a tug on her free hand, he settles her onto his lap, wrapping a secure arm around her waist.

"It'd be good money. I'd be set for life..." She replies thoughtfully, tightening her hold on his throat ever so slightly for emphasis. "You're an expensive kill. Elite prey. You should be flattered."

"Dying at your hands is flattery enough." Dex proclaims without batting an eye.

"Oh how lucky you are that I love you." She drops her villainous act for the sake of kissing him.

The play they made of this back-and-forth was just that - a play. She'd never consider it, not that he would hold it against her if she did. He'd be grateful to have lived as a man loved by her. His only grievance would've been not getting to be with her longer.

Death doesn't scare him. Being without her is what chills his blood.

Dex is not a man that believes in luck. All his life has been based on cutting-edge precision with no room for mistakes. Luck has never had anything to do with it.

Until her.

She's his luckiest strike.

[thefanficmonster]

it's not like, anything HEINOUS yk, buuut syk did got exposed to be a cheater that hid his girlfriend for 5(?) years, even from his own friends (though, i'm questioning this bc that feels so impossible?), then proceeded to advertise himself as single to his fanbase—his whole single, never had experience with a woman, oblivious bit—AND to the small female content creators (mostly vtubers) in order to spoil them and get the endgoal of sleeping with them

there's a google doc from one of the vtubers about this and a youtube video of him admitting this on call

toast and rae have made comments about this (ofc none publicly from corpse) and it's just, it gives pr lines yk? idk if that's just me but i haven't watched any of them since

Oh that's fucked up. I'd never expect such shit from him. It really goes to show how you can never know what's going on behind the scenes. His act had the whole internet fooled and he was doing it for YEARS. That sort of dedication put into hiding a long-term with THAT goal in mind is so unnerving and gross to me. How could someone ever do that to a person they're with - long-term or not. Fuck's sake, it's so fucking disappointing. It marrs the picture I had of the Amigops as a whole and that era in general.

You were right, Anon. I'm properly disappointed through and through. Thank you for familiarizing me with the situation.

~XOXO, Vy 💌

[thefanficmonster]

That wicked game you play

The human body and psyche are fascinating.

How we as humans can feel when we're being watched.

That pinprick sensation at the back of your neck, hairs standing on end. Shivers trailing up and down your spine, goosebumps on your skin. A subtle buzz in the air your ears can pick up on.

It's a prelude to danger.

But to you, it's exhilirating.

It's a game of hide and seek with an element of arousing danger.

You know he's there. Far enough away to make himself and you believe it's not stalking. Close enough that you always feel him. Like an apparition that evaporates the second you spot him.

He never truly goes away though. And that's what you're counting on.

That's why you don't turn your head. You don't lift your eyes from your phone even as you feel the warmth of his gaze all over your body, pooling all that heat straight into your core.

To a passerby, you look to be alone as you wait for your train. When someone asks, you say you live alone.

But alone is not something you've been in a while.

Ever since Dex set his sights on you, you've never truly been alone.

He watches you rock on the balls of your feet. Impatient. Not because of the long wait for your train - you already missed the first two, purposely opting not to get on them.

He knows the cards you play by now - the come hither signs you exhibit with the sole agenda to lure him out of the shadows.

But he's not ready to put an end to this game yet.

Dex watches as your train comes to a stop for the third time over and much to his dismay you choose to get on this time.

To his dismay, you reel in your fishing line, retracting your bait. And step inside.

He watches as you do so, noting the exact moment your lip balm slips out of your pocket, rolling onto the dirty station floor.

Your last trick of the night.

Or so he thinks...

He waits till the doors close to come out into the light. Slow measured steps echoing off the walls as he goes to pick up the offering you left behind.

He twirls it around between his fingers as if inspecting an ancient relic. As if he's never before been made familiar with the invention of lip balm.

It must be what you're thinking too because your giggle is what takes him out of his moment of awe.

Startles him, more so.

Dex snaps his head up so fast he almost gives himself whiplash.

He watches the train trudge along down the tracks. And there you are, standing opposite him on the other platform.

"Got something of mine there, Dex?" You smirk, tilting your head to the side. "You were gonna give it back, right?"

You both know that's such bullshit. But it's all part of the game.

"Of course. It's your favorite." Which is all the more reason he'd like to keep it. You use that lip balm a hundred times a day. To Dex, that's pretty intimate.

"You can keep it if you take me home. You see, I just missed my train..."

Sex at a subway station is frowned upon both socially and hygienically but god, he's no saint. The rubber band that is his restraint can only stretch so far before snapping.

"Sure." He says, feigning nonchalance he doesn't possess even a grain of. "Where do you live?"

You damn near cackle. What a question to ask knowing he's been in and out of your apartment more than you.

"I'll give you directions as we go."

Dex is quick to forget his ploy - letting muscle memory take over when you offer no directions.

You pretend not to notice.

At the end of the day, it's all part of the game...

[thefanficmonster]

Tinkerbell

"Good job, Tinkerbell. You almost fucked up in there."

She's always quiet, as he's come to notice. Around him specifically. She's the newest - and youngest - nurse in the department. They call her Tinkerbell. He caught wind of it passing by the nurses' station and he hasn't stopped about how fitting it is ever since.

Sure, she probably told him her name on her first day and he could always check in the system or on the nurses schedule - but the fact remains that he doesn't know her first name.

And it irks him a little. But his pride to not care overrides it.

God forbid the thought of asking her crossing his mind. His ego wouldn't take it. For no fucking reason at all.

The other nurses might as well have it ingrained in her already - Beware the Shark - he can smell blood. He catches onto the fact you're weak, or uncertain or timid - he goes in for the kill.

Brendon Park's achievements in the medical field have led him to believe that he's absolved of being a decent human being. Not even peasant, decent.

He had no business making that aforementioned comment to the quiet nurse that truly did nothing wrong throughout the surgery. Her gravest error being a suggestion she had made for a different approach that would save time on both the surgery itself and the patient's recovery.

But Park wouldn't hear it in the moment. Looking back on it now he realizes it wasn't a bad idea at all. She was right. And that pisses him off to no end.

"Me?" She looks up at him, making eye contact for the first time since they stepped into the OR. Or since she started working here, really. She's been pointedly avoiding looking him in the eyes since she met him - something the other nurses may or may not have warned her against.

It's only now that he realizes that her current quiet is not the same as her usual avoidant timid quiet. It's the product of seething rage.

The girl that doesn't speak more than three words per interaction to him is now not giving him room to speak before she continues, "Your ego isn't more important than a patient, you know that right? Just because it was your idea and maneuver doesn't mean it was the right call! One wrong move and you could've..."

"What's your name, again, Tinkerbell?" Park cuts her off with his usual icy cadance. He didn't even mean for it to sound like it did. He's genuinely fucking asking for her name but that stick up his ass has left his tone of voice at a permanent asshole setting that gives a negative undertone to everything he says.

To her it sounded like complete and utter condescension. He realizes this as his voice echoes back at him off the hospital walls. To her, it was his way of saying 'I don't even know your name. You and your opinions are irrelevant'.

Park opens his mouth to offer an apology - probably not, he doesn't have such programming installed in his brain; maybe an explanation instead - but doesn't get the chance to (good, because hell might've frozen over) because what he thought would hurt her feelings into shutting him out completely has instead poured gasoline on the fire in her eyes glaring daggers into him right now.

"You're such an egomaniac, aren't ya? Your head's shoved so far up your own ass you might as well be licking your intestines!!"

It appears that she too processes the words as does he - they went through no filtering system in her brain before coming out like gunfire. That fire that ignited her eyes diminishes as they widen in horror at the realization of what she just said.

Brendon is stunned too, no doubt about it. But pleasantly so. His face doesn't deliver that message though - he looks as murderous as ever, if not more so.

"I..." She never finishes that thought because another pages her from the station. Nothing short of divine intervention.

For the best too, had she seen the smile on his face that took precedence only a mere second after she turned her back her soul would've left her body out of sheer terror.

Sure, he's the bite-your-head-off kinda guy. Chew you up and spit you out. That's where his 'callsign' came from. That's why they dubbed him the Shark.

What the staff don't know is that he also smiles like one. They've never seen it though, no one can prove it. And yet she almost had him. Well, not almost. She was the whole reason he smiled, after all.

But she didn't bear witness to it - which an urban hospital legend would suggest is probably for the best.

If Dr. Park was being asked, however, he'd say it's a damn shame she didn't.

Yet....

[thefanficmonster]

pls tell me ur still up to write re8 i miss them sm 😭😭

Oh hell yeah I'm still up for it, darling! Request away

XOXO, Vy 💌

[thefanficmonster]

I just read your Jules Cunningham x reader fic and need a part 2! You’re writing was awesome 🫶

Hi sweetie! Thank you so much for your kind words! It means the world to me that you enjoyed it.

I'd love to write a sequel (I'm very much in love with Jules 🤭)

XOXO, Vy 💌