#<-I WILL BUILD THIS TAG FROM THE GROUND UP

[dragonner0]

I was gonna put this in tags but it got to long so get some unfiltered opinions loser.

As someone who writes and is learning to draw, and has played with generative algorithms a bit and knows how they work, Fuck 'AI'.

I see people be praised for 'AI' products, I saw someone say that it is a lot of work to find a good product, and the best metaphor I can think of that these people will understand is that I am a chef, even if armature or learning, and I am watching dishes I pour my heart and soul into get less recognition than someone presenting a re-heated pizza.

I start, often from scratch, when I create my works. I build from the ground up a dish I would be well happy to eat. Heck, even if I follow recipes(using refs or pre-existing writing prompts), I am still putting in the effort to make it good and, more importantly, I am making it with my own two fucking hands. I mix the dough, I spread the sauce, I cut the toppings.

But with 'AI'? With 'AI' you do not make anything. You walk to the store, you choose something that sounds appetizing, and then you chuck it in the oven for a few minutes till it's hot and ready to eat. And then you have the audacity to claim that you made the product? You did not knead the dough. You did not grate the cheese. You did not dice the toppings. And yet you believe that you can simply stand as an equal alongside us?

What that tells me is several things.

First, you view that pizza as a product. Not a meal, not an expression, but a product. And perhaps, in some cases, it is. You see it as not worth the effort of creating, and as such, you do not see other's creations as anything worth the work of creating.

Second, you see yourself as on equal measure of true chefs for doing a job that is not only less expressive, but also less intensive, less stressful, and less rewarding. For defrosting a pizza, you see yourself as worth the praise and respect and even the profit of a hobby or profession that real chefs might spend substantial portions of our lives working to perfect.

And third and final, you do not see any worth in learning to cook anything. You see us perusing our passions as wastes of time. You see our art style as a gimmick. You see us so proud in our progress from early projects, even if some of them may never see the light of day, and you think that there is nothing to be proud of there, only the simple fact that you get to consume our product and move on.

And it is in the last sense specifically that I think you really are undeserving of calling yourself equals to us. All but a few of us are accepting of your mistakes, offering tips or guides or even just other books to read and be inspired by. But you do not accept all of this, and instead you turn to 'AI' to create things for you. You do not pick up a pencil or use any of the countless recourses available to you, for free and with extensive guidance, you go to an algorithm to create it for you. And then you expect that you deserve the same merit for telling a machine what to create.

NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

[orphicsun]

𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 (𝐄.𝐖)

pairing: office siren ellie + mean boss reader

word count: 4k

warnings & content: androgynous office siren ellie, mean fem reader, assistant & boss (power dynamic), southern-to-city trope, degradation kink, praising and degrading names (whore, goor girl), masturbation w/ fantasies, semi-public sex, spanking, hair-pulling, bondage (handcuffs), fingering (e! receiving), overstimulation, plot twist at the end.

"From the lenses of aesthetics, we see a persona in the populus. We see what we want to see of visuals displayed before us in a self-preserving act of courtship. We want others to understand us, even if just by a hair. These labels are not us. You must peel back the layers of the office siren and unravel her, and then she will feel seen."

She wears her face with a stoicism rather than the grimace hiding underneath the vessel, but it'll never do. It's a poker face, it's just what the people want to see.

It's the appearance that so unfairly contributes to the entirety of her presence. It isn't what she feels or the sensations in her body, but the way her strands of hair cling in union. It’s about blurring out the flaws like a filter, but it extends to her dialect, mannerisms, and individuality. So, she doesn't raise complaints when her polished, black Zappos leave blisters on the back of her feet. Her heels are always veiled by the study material; nobody will perceive the struggle; still, the struggle is great.

The world Ellie was thrown into was simply harsh, to put it in professional terms. When you grow up in a small town in which your bills aren't always paid and breakfast is pop tarts (off brand, may I add) over the five-course meal your peers perceive as simple, you don't understand much. Really, Ellie was used to her childhood of popsicles out of flimsy plastic packaging because she was so rural the ice-cream truck didn't stop by, a childhood consisting of the creek with the occasional snake rather than an inground pool and mud pies with ground-up locust shells as frosting on top.

The move from Mississippi to New York was originally to study astronomy at Wagner, a university with a modernized planetarium. Ellie took out loans with stars in her eyes and a dream to study beyond planet Earth, but things don't always work out. Apartments in New York are expensive, and bills pile up. So do papers and due dates.

Indeed.com proved useless, but a flyer with "hiring!" printed across it, a couple blocks from her unfurnished apartment, landed her a desk, a name-tag with "Ellie Williams" engraved onto it, and a bitchy boss whom she was the assistant to.

(-)

It's not like the nights she spent writing and studying useless information when all she wanted to be doing was getting hands-on with her major transferred into something valuable. Instead, she is simply a part of a system, and she is a meaningless employee in a five-floor building.

It raises the question of why she stays. Joel calls her often, and she picks up every time to hear it: "why don't you come back home?"

It's because Ellie is craving to be seen.

She doesn't quite know who she is. She knows attributes of herself that piece together a person to few and another person to many. Each part of her, from her hobbies to the color socks she wears, differentiates between who she is talking to.

Joel knows about the socks with the ugly green and tan print, her favorite pair that she used to lose almost every day. It's the pair that resides in her scratchy wooden drawer back in a nameless town she still holds in her heart, though she veils her southern accent in favor of what is nearly a monotone when clocked in.

To any coworker who is brave enough to ask, though none never will, her socks are plain white and at an appropriate length. Always the same, every single day.

That bitchy boss is the reason she stays and deals with it, though.

It's not exactly the tights that cling to your thighs in a picture screaming proactive, but you get away with it because you've got privileges in that five-floor building. It isn't the curve of your ass or the thought of your cleavage spilling out of your blazer that keeps her awake at night. She really wishes it was how you like to bend over on a random Tuesday and flash your black, lacy panties. They do hug your pussy lips nicely, though.

It's how insufferable you are.

Ellie should hate it, but it turns her on. Ironically, you put her in focus. Any time you near her desk, she adjusts her horrible posture and her foggy glasses, and she gets to typing out that summary you asked for an hour ago.

She is truly terrified of you. It would be prompt to say she fantasizes about you in the comfort of her own bedroom, but she is a leaking faucet in intimate white cotton fabric throughout the day, mind steamy at the most inconvenient times. It’s tortuous, but the filthiest parts of Ellie’s soul crave it, needs it. It seeps into her dreams and runs her ragged. 

That same bitchiness that can ruin her day is what provokes the feeling within Ellie, though; you’re unlike any of those other corporate assholes. You don’t care about things that cease to exist to Ellie once she enters her apartment. You don’t care about anything that has to do with Ellie in any sense, shape, or form. Even if your eyes were physically forced in her direction, you’d still refuse to acknowledge her existence. 

It drove her crazy at first. Ellie grew up with her elbows on the table and paper plates, not without proper decorum. Even your boss would be expected to treat you like a person, but you don’t. The only time you notice your assistant is when she fucks up, like the instance in which Ellie printed out the wrong stack of 20 papers. You truly did notice her presence that day.

You go against what New York has taught her–to be perceived, even if within a persona. A polite, grayscale persona within the likes of the people who call salt a seasoning.

It’s not to say all corporate jobs are so boring, but this office with these people? It’s maddening to want to be liked and understood all the same. It’s impossible.

Ellie hated you a year ago. The first week of her new job was hell because of you, loading her up on tasks she wasn’t acclimated to. She was sore from a desk job; it was pathetic.

You grew on her, though. The type of conditioning you pressed into her was entirely unintentional, but any natural human would fall for it. You ignored her for 99% of the time. It drove her insane. So, she began fucking up entirely on purpose. 

And she had some shame to begin with, that little amount in her gut that made her want to hurl after opening the wrong excel sheet and printing it off. It went against what she had been forcefully trained for. Still, it became addicting. The days in which you had lectured Ellie for her behavior, she’d gone home and fucked herself silly to sleep. It was an adrenaline boost in her boring life. 

It’s not all shameful, though. You remind her of home, the paint chipped off of the wooden house she was practically born and raised in. Ellie would go crazy surrounded by the same grey-hued people, but she has you. A sun, scorching her skin if she gets too close. Everyone else may as well be flecks of dust floating through space. 

It’s a guilty pleasure of hers she shouldn’t indulge in, but she does it anyway.

(-) 

“Boss?” Ellie tentatively calls from the doorway. 

The sight alone is almost enough to make her drop to her knees with a foam cup still in her hands–lip liner overlines every corner she wants to kiss, and it makes her jealous to think that a simple cosmetic product gets to have you so intimately. The line of your cleavage from the way you lean forward slightly gives Ellie a small flashback to inside her apartment, her face buried in her pillows and ass up as she rubbed her clit for hours at the thought of your tits jammed in her face. 

“Leave it on my desk.” You don’t look up to even acknowledge her. You always confuse Ellie’s head, heart, and cunt. It’s not the imaginable type of affection she craves, but she wants you to look up from your desk and at her. Today, she messed with her bangs for nearly 30 minutes and wore a new suit she had forgotten about in the back of her tiny little closet. She wants you to notice her. Fantasizes about what you’d say if you did look up. 

“Get the fuck out of my office, you whore.” You’d scoff, “and don’t wear that again.” Ellie knows she’s in over her head; way too much of a masochist, but she can’t help it. You bring it out in her in the way you already talk to her. It wouldn’t be too much of an exaggeration, would it? 

Ellie carefully places the cup on your desk and awkwardly turns around, slightly stalling as she walks out. Her cunt catches a heart beat when she hears your voice. Just the tone, too. 

“I asked for a caramel latte, Ellie. Hot. This is freezing cold..is this a tea?” You sigh, extremely exasperated. 

“Sorry, ma’am. I must’ve forgotten.” 

“Of course. You did this last week, too. I’m telling you, I really am about to write you up.” You still don’t glance up from your laptop. It’s impressive, really. 

“No!–I mean, that won’t be necessary, ma’am. I apologize for the mix-up.” 

When you finally look up, your eyes meet hers. Your eyes are sharp enough to slice into the part of Ellie that is already soft and weak for you. Her hands shake no matter how tightly she grasps the bottom of her vest. 

“Sorry isn’t enough. Lock the door and strip.” You glance right back down at your bright screen and begin typing again. 

“Wha–Excuse me?!” Ellie sputters, jaw on the floor. That is the last thing Ellie expected to come out of your mouth.

“Now. Unless you want that write-up? I’m sure you can’t afford it.” You smile, and it’s not toothy or cute. You’re a cold, heinous bitch. Your gaze is flat and uncaring, assuring Ellie that you don’t have an ounce of shame in you.

Ellie strips before you, though. She pulls off each layer of clothing until she is exposed, the light from the windows behind you leaving a vulnerable pit in her stomach. 

You take her in from the front–chocolate-kissed hair brushing against her collarable as she frees it from its usual low bun; soft, delicate skin dotted and kissed with visible flecks of melanin; soothing, green eyes that intimidate most. You see right through them, though. There in her eyes lay pupils, enlarged and absorbent for you and only you. There she is, like your own lap dog. You’d be dumb to shoo her off. 

“Good. Now, I want you on the ground. Be a good girl and bow down, I know you want to.”

She drops to the floor, her legs folded underneath her thighs. She descends until she meets the carpet, until it’ll form a strawberry splotch on the focal point of her forehead. Her body is folded up like origami, the curve of her butt resting against the back of her feet. She feels as though she is the process of an artist’s work. This is your design–she is simply the work in progress that you’ll turn inside out, brand her neatly as your masterpiece. 

When her glasses fall from her face, she shivers. She does not move, though. Something within her needs to trust you.

(-)

Ellie doesn’t know how long it has been since you gave your first instruction. It could be minutes, could be an hour or two. All she knows is that she knows she is being watched by you, and it’s one of the most inexplicable feelings Ellie has stumbled upon. 

The persona of a girl with auburn hair neatly slicked back save for the swoop of her bangs, freckles dotted across her cheeks but unmentioned in their character, a girl who carries herself high rather than as slumped as she feels and opts for sleek eye-wear instead of the bulky square lense, is slowly being unraveled. 

The sudden heel in her back is a stab she recognizes, as she stares at the shiny red louboutins throughout the day when possible. Still, it’s an entirely different sensation to experience the very imprint upon her skin. 

“You’re too stiff.” You press further despite your comment. 

She doesn’t mean to be stiff; in fact, Ellie has dreamt of this moment, fantasized it in her mind for years. She should embrace it, but your words ring true. Her hands are balled up into tense fists, and she trembles. 

The pressure on her spine leaves, but she still remains tense. Then, a soft palm climbs up her back from behind. Her heart-beat races close to her chest, wanting to keep to itself. 

“Why?” The softness in the word is so intimate, Ellie would guess that such an utterance would be whispered into her ear. It was still loud and public, though. 

“I..” She swallows, shivering slightly from both the temperature of your office; it’s as cold as you. “I’m not used to being naked in front of anyone like this.” 

You spread your fingers upon her upper back until the webbed feature of your hand threatens to strain. “Are you a virgin?” 

That raises a small scoff from Ellie, but you don’t use the response against her. It’s a moment of vulnerability and trust as opposed to pure sexual lust and the promise of consequence that awaits. “No.” She adds in the form of a mumble, “it just feels weird. I’m used to being.. err, professional.” 

“You don’t need to be, not in here.” Your hand leaves her back, but she is pried from her lowered position when you cup her face, pulling it up until her eyes meet yours. “I want to see you for what you really are.” You patiently swipe your thumb across her bottom lip. “Take you apart and see what you are beyond this little act I know rely on.” 

Ellie easily relaxes with you now. Her eyes don’t simply look into yours, rather absorbing the stare you offer to her from above. 

“I know you think about me. Tell me what you fantasize about.” 

She holds a moan in her throat, just barely keeping it beyond her tongue. When she hesitates with her answer, you squeeze her cheeks together. “I’m not touching you properly until you do.”

When you step back, Ellie scrambles with her feelings. All of those fantasies she so passionately lived in now feel pathetic, yet it’s a guilty thrill.

“I have dreams about you. Well, about you and I.” She admits, eyes moving from a diversity of objects and decoration in your office before meeting yours. “I have dreams about you–”

“Bending you over my desk?” You interrupt, a casual lilt in your tone that makes her jaw lower. 

“How do you know about that?!” She gawks at you, cheeks as red as a field of strawberries. 

“It doesn’t matter. But it’s true, isn’t it?” She nods, and you grin. “Yeah. Say it for me, then.”

“I..I dream about you bending me over your desk and fucking me.” She mutters underneath her breath, “hard.”

“Go on, then.” You step to the side, leaving her a clear, short path to your desk. The mahogany shines nicely. She can already imagine it–your fist full with her messy hair spilling between your fingers, and the other hand occupied with the dripping mess that is Ellie’s cunt. 

She looks at you like a deer caught in headlights, clumsily trying to figure out if you mean it. You don’t falter in your gaze. 

She unskillfully rises to her feet and approaches your desk. When the wood is just below her gaze, her head turns back to look at you. “You want me to just.. bend over?” She asks, slightly uncertain. 

You only nod. 

As if being naked isn’t exposing enough, she can feel your gaze on her. It’s not hard to imagine where you’re staring, either. Her fingers find the opposite side of the desk and fold to hold onto it tightly, a small distraction.

“There’s a pair of handcuffs in the drawer just below you. Take them out for me.” 

That causes the girl to shiver slightly, but she obliges, loosening her vice-grip on your desk and retrieving a pair of fuzzy hand-cuffs from your drawer. She wants to ask why they’re in your office, but refrains. 

Ellie quickly conjoins her wrists behind her back and feels the cold metal clink against them, a clicking noise when they’re firmly binding her wrists. She is now helpless to you. 

And the sight she is–soles of her feet on the carpet, the harsh, bright light directly above casting over her ass to display every blemish and freckle. Exaggerated arousal seeps from between her folds, majora slightly hidden with dark, thick hair. The joining of her wrists causes her face to press further into the desk. She still trembles, though you can look right into her pussy and see her true feelings on the entire predicament. She craves your approval, but more, much more than that, she wants to be like the extra copy on your desk: to be shredded up and completely destroyed by you. 

“Say what you want.” You trail your hand up her ass, wine-red manicured nails sinking lightly into the skin. 

It’s all she can ask for, so she lets herself fall apart for you. Her hips shift, wiggling upwards. “Fingers.” Ellie mumbles, though a slight whine is clear in her voice. 

But instead, all she gets is a light slap on her right ass cheek. She gasps and slightly lifts her head to look back at you. “What was that for?!”

“I know you’re not that stupid, you slut. I want a full sentence from you.” 

A whimper leaves her lips when you spread the globes of her butt, leaving her feeling somehow more exposed than before. She knows you’ve completely unraveled her when she can hear every noise coming from outside the room, but doesn’t care. There should be something inside her twitching to do her job, to be a responsible assistant who doesn’t get fucked on her desk by her boss, but whatever it is left her the moment you told her to get naked. 

“Hah–” your hands find purchase on both hips, pulling her ass back against you. The silky fabric of your skirt grazes her clit, making her involuntarily shiver. “I want your fingers. I want your fingers inside me.” 

“Ask again.” 

She huffs in indignation. “I did what you said!” 

When you wrench back her head with a fistful of her auburn hair, the attitude in her disappears. “W-Wait, okay. I want your fingers inside me, please. I want to cum.”

You release her head and card your fingers through her hair. “Yeah?”

She bobs her head reverently. “Yeah. Please.”

(-) 

Ellie knows that some things are to be regretted in life. There are choices made that she just has to learn to live with. Regret can be temporary: that break-up from high school, procrastinating a research paper for the 12th time a semester, moving far from Mississippi. A better term for those temporary regrets is doubt. 

The uniform life she lives doesn’t have room for doubts, though they fill her mind. She has great doubt in whether some of her coworkers actually like her, or if it’s simply courtesy. There are plenty of doubts about her skills in her position; she never had to sit and answer emails, organize, and run errands all day in the South. Her job from the age of 16 was at a rest stop, the only rest stop in the dinky town. She was used to being on her feet and having short conversations with tired travellers in the dead of the night. The office is like a maze to navigate, and she is a mouse blindlessly chasing cheese. It raises doubts. 

Being bent over your desk and finger-fucked leaves her head empty for once. If her skull wasn’t currently emptied out onto your nice desk, she would want to feel regret upon begging so fervently for this. You’ve made her cum three times already, and she isn’t sure how much more her quaking body can handle. She can’t think about anything but the pleasure stinging deep inside of her body, though. 

Three fingers plunge in and out of her pussy, the office once as uneasily silent and cold as ever now humid and echoing with the noise of her dripping hole being stuffed full to the brim with your digits, her moans still loud even with her face pressed against the desk. 

“You’ve got one more in you, baby. I can feel it.” Only a whorishly loud whine in response. “This greedy pussy swallows my fingers up whole, doesn’t it?” You coo, but the tone is less maternal and completely condescending. 

“Fuck,” Ellie cried, more strained as she raised her hips to take you deeper. The past ten minutes of being brought to her fourth orgasm has been an alternation of squirming away from your overwhelming touch and backing herself further into it for more. 

“Is that all you have to say?” You tease, twisting your fingers up into her until you feel the ribbed section of her walls, the most sensitive spot. She just melts into the desk and takes it, moaning little incoherent phrases. Drool trickles down the corner of her lips and onto the wood, but you don’t worry much of it. It’s cute.

“More. Fuck me harder, please. Wanna cum, need to cum around your fingers–” she rants on aimlessly, wrists shifting against the cuffs. 

“Yeah? Go on, then. I’m not stopping you, baby. Cum for me one last time.” 

Just as suddenly as it happens, it ends. Ellie jolts forward, no longer in your standard office, but in her bed. Her wrists are not tied, but simply on either side of her.

“Jesus christ,” she rubs at her eyes before glancing over to her bed-side alarm clock. There, it reads 1 a.m in bright red. “When the hell did I fall asleep?” 

She rolls back into her sheets on her stomach and closes her eyes, sleep surrounding her from each side; but as the invisible clock ticks, she feels wetness pool in larger amounts in her boxers. She groans, reaching for the half-dead vibrator on her nightstand, already knowing from experience that she will be up for the next hour. 

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[shuavez]

litany 𓄧 k.mg

i. tie a cherry.

summary 𓄧 every oath has a cost. every touch has a consequence. sent deep undercover into one of the city’s most illicit vampire clubs, two detectives must navigate the delicate balance between duty and desire — and survive the consequences when pretending stops feeling like pretending.

and some hungers, once fed, are impossible to starve.

tags 𓄧 detective!au, vampire!mingyu x human!reader. slow-ish burn. fake dating. friends/coworkers to lovers. various svt members/idols.

warnings 𓄧 mentions of blood, death, feeding. 

wc. 5.3k.

You’re not entirely sure when this case became your case. One minute it was a ghost rumor, something passed down through precinct whispers—Velvet Eden, the kind of place that exists on the fringe of the city and the law. The next, a body turned up in Sector 6, hollowed out and discarded like trash. And suddenly, the case had a heartbeat.

Organized Crime called in Homicide. Your name was already circled in red ink. You barely blinked. That’s the job, after all. Blood, bodies, and bad decisions. Cases involving vampires usually landed in V-CAD, the Vampire Crimes & Affairs Division, but this one bled into too many departments.

You’ve worked vampire cases before—civil disputes, rogue feeders, one or two cold-body cleanups. But Velvet Eden isn’t that. It’s something older. More indulgent. Less law, more religion.

Still, you weren’t expecting this.

You weren’t expecting a private, invitation-only vampire sex club with a feeding floor and velvet-lined red rooms. You weren’t expecting to slip into the role of arm candy for a six-foot-two vampire with a face like sin and a bite to match. And you definitely weren’t expecting him—Kim Mingyu. Calm. Commanding. All lean lines and quiet power. The kind of man who could make a room stop breathing just by walking into it.

He doesn’t feel like a stranger. You’ve crossed paths on enough cases for that. He’s always been kind, grounded, smart. The kind of vampire who makes you forget to be afraid.

But none of that changes the fact that in ten minutes, you’ll be walking into a club full of predators, pretending to be his prey.

And he’ll have to feed from you.

Your stomach flips, but you keep your face neutral as street lights streak gold across the windshield. Mingyu’s driving—one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. He’s dressed in all black, shirt unbuttoned just enough to get one thinking. The silk catches the light. His scent—smoke, earth, and something inherently warm—bleeds into the leather interior of the car. You’re hyper aware of every inch between you. It feels deliberate. Loaded.

You glance out the window and try not to think about the heat climbing the back of your neck. The dress you’re in—deep wine, cut high on the thigh, open at the back—was chosen for how it clings, how it tempts. You’re not used to dressing for hunger.

“—you hearing me?” Jeonghan’s voice slices through the quiet, speakerphone crackling from the center console. You jump, just slightly.

“Loud and clear,” you answer smoothly, though you hadn’t caught half of what he said.

“You’re about to enter a location with zero backup,” he says. “But this isn’t a takedown. You’re gathering intel, building rapport, and staying alive. Right now, as fresh meat, you’re not to leave Mingyu’s side and he’s not to leave yours. Understood?”

“Understood,” you mutter.

“Hey.” Jeonghan’s voice softens. “If anything feels off, pull out. No hesitation. No pride. Just say the word.”

Beside you, Mingyu shifts slightly, glancing over at you. “You won’t be alone in there,” he says, voice low. Steady. Reassuring in a way you feel in your chest. You meet his eyes for a half-second longer than you mean to.

You nod. “I know.”

And the thing is—you do. You’re not afraid of him.

“We’ll mingle for a little, suss out the vibe and you can get a feel of the place. I’m warning you, it’s fucking weird, dude. You’re pretty good at commanding a room, but even I get on edge here. You’re probably gonna see a lot of things you’d rather not, but you have to keep your cool or they’ll smell it on you.” Mingyu fixes you with a quick, firm look before returning his attention to the road, jaw tense.

Then Jeonghan chimes in again through the phone, voice crackling slightly, “Head to a Red Room when you’re both ready, and do your thing.” There’s a beat of silence, and then he stutters. “Just do whatever you have to do to pass off that you’re a real couple. Don’t be shy.”

The line clicks off. Silence floods the car for a moment before Mingyu speaks again, quieter this time.

“Hey, uh…” he clears his throat, fingers tightening around the wheel, “I know this is kinda personal, and I swear I wouldn’t ask unless it was important, but…” He glances at you again, expression serious now, if not a little sheepish. “When was your last cycle?”

Your head tilts. “What?”

“Your period. I just need to know if it’s close. Not to be weird. It’s just—” he exhales sharply, embarrassed but pushing through, “Fresh blood, especially menstrual, it hits different to some of them. Like sharks in water. And your baseline scent’s already gonna be… kind of a problem.”

You frown. “Kind of a problem?”

Mingyu hesitates. You see it in the way his jaw flexes, in the pause before he answers.

“Nothing to worry about right now. You’re just… you smell different, that’s all. Good different,” he adds quickly, then curses under his breath. “Not good like that—I mean, objectively. Biologically. I’ll handle it. Just… I need to know if I should be ready to get a little more aggressive with anyone who gets too close.”

You sit back against the seat, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “I’m about a week out. Why?”

“That’s good,” he murmurs, nodding. “Less likely to trigger any, uh… complications.” Another beat. “And I won’t let anyone touch you. No matter what.”

There’s something about the way he says it that sends a little pulse through your stomach. Something protective. Something possessive. But it’s quiet between you again, save for the hum of tires on the asphalt and the low rhythm of your heart starting to thrum harder in your ears.

Velvet Eden doesn’t look like the kind of place that would house everything you’ve been warned about. On the outside, it’s sleek and minimalist — black marble facade, no signage, just a long awning and two impossibly tall bouncers standing like gargoyles at the doors. You can’t hear any music from the street, but the air smells faintly metallic and sweet, like someone poured sugar into rust.

Mingyu circles the car into a private lot tucked to the side, a space clearly reserved for regulars or VIPs. He glances at you once more before he cuts the engine, his jaw tense again, unreadable in the low amber wash of the dashboard lights.

“You good?”

You nod, but your fingers curl tighter around one another in your lap.

“You look good,” he says then, more gently. He doesn’t say it like a compliment. He says it like a reassurance. Like armor.

Your dress is a deep, wine red — sleek, skin-hugging. It dips low at the back, a single strap across your shoulders like a whisper. Mingyu had said something about blending in, about being convincing, and you figured that looking like the kind of girl a vampire would die to touch wouldn’t hurt.

Your perfume clings to your skin in layers — burning cherry and palo santo — warm, smoky, almost edible. Mingyu had commented on it in the car earlier, murmuring, “You got a thing for cherries or something? The dress, the perfume…” and you’d laughed it off, heart thrumming like a live wire.

Inside, the club is thick with it. The heat. The scent. The sound.

Everything is dim and red — not in the trashy, cheap kind of way, but in that disorienting, luxe way that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into another world entirely. Smoke coils in thin tendrils from incense trays tucked into shadowed alcoves. There’s velvet everywhere — couches, walls, the bodies of dancers. A pulse of low music hums from the speakers, winding, slow, heavy with bass. Something deep and sensual is playing. It moves like honey — like hips swaying under silk.

And the smell… Blood. Sex. Sweat. Clove smoke. Burned sugar. You can taste it on your tongue before anyone even speaks to you.

Mingyu’s hand finds the small of your back as he guides you through the crowd. His palm is warm and heavy, protective, but not possessive. You know he’s playing the part — the tall, slow-moving, effortlessly dominant boyfriend — but the way he hovers at your shoulder, the way he watches everyone who even glances at you for a second too long… that’s not acting.

You’re not the only human in here, but you might be the only one who isn’t visibly owned. Others are draped over laps, bent at the neck for easy access, some seated dazed and blissed out on silk cushions while their partners — vampires, all of them — sip at their throats or wrists like they’re nursing a fine wine. And the vampires — gods, they’re beautiful. Ethereal. Almost unreal. Pale or dark-skinned, pierced or painted, wrapped in leather or lace or nothing at all. All sleek limbs and fanged smiles, eyes glowing faintly in the shadows.

You realize, slowly, that you are being watched.

The kind of watching that makes the hairs on your arms rise. The kind that pins you open like a butterfly.

Mingyu leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Keep walking. Keep your chin up. Let them think you belong to me.”

You do. And with that thought comes a sharp, unexpected heat curling low in your belly.

The bar glows a sultry amber, lit from beneath so that every bottle looks like it’s filled with gold, or blood. You lean lightly against it, hyper-aware of the press of Mingyu’s presence just behind your right shoulder. His stance is casual — one hand resting on the edge of the bar, the other just barely brushing the side of your waist — but you can feel the unspoken claim in it. Like he’s drawing a line in the sand with his body alone.

Two menus slide across the bar top.

One is printed in gold foil — cocktails, wine, flavored syrups, things with whimsical names like Sunset on Rue and Liquid Kink. The other menu is black — matte, velvet-touch paper, with minimalist script and coded language: A-negative, fresh. AB+, altered. RH-null, euphoric. You don’t let yourself look at that one too long.

“I’ll have a zero amaretto sour,” you say when the bartender — a tall vampire with golden irises and a scar over his top lip — raises a brow in question.

Mingyu hums low behind you, a small sound, almost lost beneath the beat of the music. “Cherries again,” he murmurs, voice teasing. “You’ve got a type.”

You glance at him. “Or a brand.”

He smiles, and it’s too soft for this place. Something about the crescent curve of his eyes when he looks at you makes your pulse do something stupid. Play the part, you remind yourself. Girlfriend. Established. Not nervous.

The bartender glides your drink over, and Mingyu steps in a fraction closer — not crowding, but enough that you can feel the warmth of his chest brushing your back when you move. Enough that no one would dare slip in between you.

He leans in, not speaking, just watching the room over your shoulder. His lips are close enough to brush your temple. “You’re doing good,” he says quietly. “Natural.”

You sip the cocktail. Sweet, tart, a little sharp on the back of your tongue — a distraction, but only just.

You feel Mingyu’s presence behind you, steady and warm, his breath grazing the curve of your jaw as he surveys the crowd.

Then, on impulse — maybe it’s the drink, or the heat in your blood, or the need to take the edge off this place — you reach for the maraschino cherry skewered on your garnish pick.

“Watch this,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear.

He blinks, the corner of his mouth twitching. “What?”

You pop the cherry into your mouth, chewing slowly, then slide the stem between your lips.

Mingyu goes quiet.

You don’t say anything—just meet his eyes for a long beat as your tongue works quietly, the stem moving behind your teeth with practiced ease. He leans in slightly, brow furrowing, and it takes him a few seconds too long to realize what you’re doing.

When the stem reappears, it’s knotted. Perfectly. Sitting balanced on the tip of your tongue like a challenge.

You flash him a quick smile and set it on your napkin with delicate precision.

Mingyu huffs a breath through his nose — surprised, impressed, something darker curling behind his eyes.

“That’s a dangerous skill to have,” he murmurs.

You shrug, casual. “Crowd pleaser.”

And that’s when a new voice slips in — smooth, low, and edged in silk.

“So this is her.”

The woman standing beside you is tall, statuesque in midnight-blue velvet. Her skin is flawless, eyes the color of aged wine.

She doesn’t address Mingyu first. She addresses you.

“That was clever,” she purrs, her voice dripping with amusement. “Not many humans know how to use their tongues quite so… effectively.”

Mingyu doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. “Alba,” he says with a polite nod. “Didn’t think you worked Fridays.”

“I don’t. I heard your girl would be here.” Alba’s eyes don’t leave yours. She offers a hand — fingers tipped in glossy black. “Welcome. It’s always nice to see someone… unspoiled.” The words drip with double meaning.

You take her hand. Her grip is cool, elegant, a touch too long. You can feel her evaluating you — scenting you, even — something primal and calculated behind the pleasantries. “She’s got good taste,” Alba continues, eyes flicking down to your dress, your drink. “Sweet with a little bite. Fitting.”

Mingyu lets out a soft huff, amused, but you feel the way his stance subtly shifts, tightening around you. A human might miss it — the way his pupils dilate, the faint flex of his jaw — but you’ve been trained to read detail. He doesn’t like this.

“She’s mine,” he says lightly, but there’s steel beneath the velvet.

Alba smiles. “So you say.” Then she winks at you. “Be careful in here, sweetness. Pretty girls like you don’t always leave with the ones they came in with.”

And just like that, she’s gone — gliding back into the crowd, swallowed by smoke and velvet and music.

You exhale slowly, glass still half-raised to your lips.

“She’s a friend,” Mingyu mutters, and then, quieter: “Sort of. Also one of the club’s top-tier feeders. If she took a liking to you, it’s ‘cause she’s sizing you up.”

You nod once, but your throat is dry.

Mingyu’s fingers find your wrist briefly, grounding. “We’ll stay here a little longer. Then we go to the Red Room.”

Your tongue flicks over your bottom lip, catching the last of the amaretto, and his gaze catches there for half a beat before he looks away again. A group of vampires has entered, sharp suits and hungrier eyes, and you feel the way Mingyu subtly repositions — just enough to block you from view.

Then, casually, he slides a folded twenty across the bar.

The bartender — still all cool disinterest — takes it without a word, disappears beneath the counter, and returns with a small black key. It gleams in the low light, matte and ominous.

Mingyu palms it smoothly, slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

He leans close, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear it. “Red Room three. It’s the farthest from the stage. Less eyes.”

A ripple runs down your spine — equal parts anticipation and nerves. This is it. Showtime.

You drain the rest of your drink and set the glass down gently.

Mingyu’s hand rests at the small of your back, guiding, anchoring. “You ready?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you glance at him — at the subtle edge of restraint in his posture, the flicker of something darker in his eyes, like he’s been holding his breath since you walked in.

Then you say, evenly, “Lead the way, boyfriend.”

The walk from the bar to the Red Room feels like it stretches on forever. Music thumps low and thick, bass vibrating up through your heels and into your spine. The hallway is bathed in red light, the kind that plays tricks with your eyes—every shadow, every silhouette, a temptation or a threat. Velvet-lined walls soak up the sound like insulation, but the air still hums with sex and something darker. The scent is overwhelming: sweat, perfume, blood. Cherry and palo santo clings to your own skin, warm and sweet in your nose.

Mingyu keeps a hand at the small of your back as you walk. Not quite possessive, not quite casual. Protective. His fingertips are firm through the satin of your dress, guiding you gently but insistently. You feel the weight of his body heat even without touch. You’re not sure if the butterflies in your stomach are nerves or anticipation.

The door to the Red Room clicks open when the key slides home.

Inside, it’s plush and dim—more boudoir than interrogation chamber, but the camera in the corner ruins any illusion of privacy. A velvet bed, dark as blood, is the centerpiece. There’s a chaise in the corner, a bar cart with cut crystal glasses, and heavy curtains hanging like stage drapes over a wall-sized mirror. The air is cooler than the club floor, but heavier somehow. You can feel it sitting on your skin like humidity.

Mingyu steps in first, eyes scanning the corners instinctively. He’s done this before. You can tell by the way he moves, unhurried but deliberate. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms propping him up behind him. His dark eyes flick up to the camera, then back to you.

He mouths something. Cameras.

You nod. Barely. So small it could be a blink.

He pats his thigh, an invitation—brief and respectful. “Is this okay?” he asks aloud, like it’s just part of the role, but you hear the softness underneath.

You step toward him and straddle his lap. His hands settle lightly on your hips, anchoring you there without pressure. The warmth of his body is ridiculous, like standing too close to a fire. You’re already keyed up and you haven’t even done anything yet.

You can feel your pulse in your fingertips, even though it’s faint. His hands are splayed across your lower back now, his body taut like a bow under you. He’s still pretending to lounge, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he watches you—eyes heavy-lidded, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like it costs him effort to breathe.

He leans in, mouth brushing just under your jaw, murmuring into the soft skin there. “We’ve got audio,” he breathes. “How hard do we want to sell it?”

You know the answer.

“Hard.”

You lift a hand slowly, brushing your fingers along his cheek. It’s warm there. Solid. Strangely human. He looks up at you like he’s trying to memorize your face. Curiosity catches in your throat. “Can I see them?” you ask quietly. “Your fangs.”

Mingyu huffs a laugh under his breath, low and amused, and parts his lips. It’s not theatrical—no giant vampire daggers—but the twin points are sharper, longer than a human’s. Elegant. Clean.

You brush a thumb across one. He shivers slightly.

You don’t know why you ask. Maybe it’s the tension. Maybe it’s the camera. Maybe it’s the fact that if he’s going to drink from you, you want to offer something that’s yours to give.

“Can I kiss you?”

He nods. “Please.”

It starts gentle. Tentative. Curious. But you lean in again and it’s like a switch flips. His hands slip up your back and yours tangle in his hair. Your mouths move together like you’ve done this a hundred times. The kiss turns deeper, hungrier—less about performance, more about something that feels too real.

He kisses like he was made for it. Like he’s trying to memorize you in pieces. The way your lip catches on his. The sweet citrus of your drink. The scent of cherries lingering between your neck and shoulder.

His hands slide over your thighs, your hips, your spine—firm, reverent. You thread your fingers into his hair, tug just a little, and he gasps against your mouth like it’s the first breath he’s taken in years.

And then he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Can I feed off you?” You nod. 

“No,” he says, voice rough now, unsteady. “I need to hear it.”

Your lips part, your throat working around the heat curling low in your belly. You feel flushed, dizzy, his presence overwhelming every nerve. “Feed off me,” you say, voice barely audible but clear.

He watches you for a moment longer, then shifts his mouth to your neck. He keeps eye contact as long as he can, nose brushing your pulse point. His fangs pierce you with the precision of a surgeon—just a second of pain—and then—

Bliss.

It’s like heat unfurls in your veins. A deep, low-burning euphoria pulses through your limbs, wrapping you in cotton. You’re not sure what noise leaves your mouth but it’s a moan, helpless and heady. Mingyu groans against your throat, low and reverent, like he wasn’t expecting you to taste like this.

Your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer as he drinks. You feel his body tense under yours, like he’s trying to keep from shaking. He only feeds for a minute or two, but when he pulls away, he looks absolutely wrecked. Blood on his lips, lips parted. Eyes dark. You slump against him, dizzy and high and somehow… warm.

You slump against him. Dazed. High on him. He wraps his arm around your waist and lets his weight fall back onto the bed, taking you with him.

Neither of you speak for a while. You’re not sure either of you can.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You don’t answer right away. Just lay a hand across his chest and stare at the ceiling, your body buzzing with the aftershock.

“I think,” you finally say, voice hoarse and half-drunk on whatever the hell just happened, “I just saw God.”

Mingyu huffs a laugh, more breath than sound, the warm vibration of it rumbling against your cheek. He wraps his arm tighter around your waist, drawing you closer like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“That tends to be the case,” he murmurs. You don’t think you can move. It takes a concerning amount of brainpower just to keep breathing. To remember that you’re supposed to be undercover. That you’re not supposed to actually melt into your partner’s body like you were sculpted to fit there.

You peel your face off the crook of his neck after a minute, blinking blearily at the ceiling. Your voice is rough around the edges when you manage to push out, “You… do this a lot?” It’s not really jealousy. It’s curiosity. Maybe the tiniest sliver of something sharper under your tongue.

Mingyu stiffens almost imperceptibly under you, just for a second. Then his thumb moves in a slow, soothing arc along the small of your back.

“No,” he says simply. “Not like this.”

You shift slightly to look at him. His face is open, honest.

“I’m careful about who I feed off,” he continues, voice low and even. “Consenting donors. Only when I need it. Never like—” he cuts himself off, like the words are too heavy. “Never like this. Velvet Eden isn’t somewhere I would have chosen to set foot in, if not for….” He trails off, eyes flickering briefly to where the camera watches over the moment.

You realize, as the words sink in, that this isn’t normal for him either. That he’s feeling the same rawness buzzing under his skin.

He keeps talking, maybe to fill the charged silence.

“I don’t like the way most vampires treat feeding.” His jaw ticks, a tiny sign of frustration. “It’s supposed to be… mutual. Respected.”

Your chest tightens a little at the way he says it, like it’s something sacred to him. Not just biology. Not just hunger.

You’re silent for a moment, absorbing it, feeling his heart beat steady against your palm. “I’m glad it’s you,” you whisper before you can second-guess yourself.

Mingyu smiles then, soft and crooked, and it’s devastating. His hand finds yours where it rests over his heart, intertwining your fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Me too,” he says.

You lie there a little longer, both of you pretending you’re just resting. Both pretending you didn’t just tear a seam in something vital.

The ride back is… quiet. Not awkward. Just different. Like you’re both holding something fragile between you and neither of you wants to drop it.

You sit with your head leaned slightly against the window. The city passes by in soft golds and blues, headlights flickering across your skin. Mingyu’s hand rests on the steering wheel, the other flexing on his thigh like he’s thinking about something but won’t say it.

You speak first.

“We’re going to have to go back soon.”

“Yeah,” he replies, glancing over. “Not for a few days, though. It’ll look too eager if we come back too quick.”

You nod.

When he pulls up in front of your building, he doesn’t even hesitate. Parks the car. Gets out. Walks you to the front. You fish your keys out of your coat pocket, hesitating at the lobby door.

“I’m fine,” you tell him.

“I know,” he says, but doesn’t move.

Then, after a pause: “Can I come up? Just to make sure you’re okay. No weird shit, I swear.” He grins, trying to soften it. “Scout’s honor.” You laugh, and it sounds more real than anything has all night.

Inside, you flick on the light in your small but warm apartment. Mingyu lingers by the door. Doesn’t sit. Just looks around like he’s cataloging every detail. Like knowing this part of your world is another way to protect it.

You toe off your shoes. Toss your coat over the arm of the couch. Mingyu’s still standing, hands in his pockets, watching you gently like he’s trying not to spook a deer.

“You can sit,” you tell him. He does. Perches on the edge of the armchair like a man not sure how long he’s staying. “I meant it earlier,” you say, voice quieter now. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Mingyu meets your gaze. For once, he doesn’t deflect with a joke. Doesn’t tease. “Me too.”

The silence stretches. Comfortable. Dangerous.

When he gets up to leave, his fingers graze yours when he hands you the coat you forgot to hang. And the look in his eyes—heavy, unreadable—sticks with you even after the door clicks shut behind him.

He doesn’t start the car right away.

Just sits there, fingers curled loosely around the wheel, the engine off, the streetlamp casting gold slats across the dash. Your building looms to his right. He watches your window for a moment, but the blinds are drawn.

The taste of you still lingers in his mouth.

Not just the blood—though God, that alone was enough to scramble something vital in him—but you. The way you looked at him. Touched him. Said his name like it meant something. The way you curled into him after, without fear.

He shuts his eyes and breathes in deep through his nose, trying to clear his head. It doesn’t work.

You’re still there.

Not just on his tongue. Not just on his skin. But somewhere deeper. Under the sternum. Behind the ribs. Burrowed into a place he didn’t realize was vulnerable.

This was supposed to be routine. Strategic. Controlled. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Mingyu opens his eyes again. Stares out at the empty street. Taps his thumb against the wheel once, twice, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t even want to name.

Then he finally exhales. Just once. Quiet and shaky. And starts the car.

You wake up warm. Heavy-limbed and a little tangled in the sheets, like you’ve been caught mid-dream. The echoes of it cling to you — soft touches, parted mouths, someone whispering your name against your skin.

Mingyu.

You drag in a breath, sharp and sudden, and shove yourself upright just as your phone vibrates violently against the nightstand.

Jeonghan’s name flashes across the screen.

Then again. And again.

By the third call, you fumble to answer, croaking out something close to human.

“There’s been another body,” Jeonghan says without preamble. You can hear the scrape of tires on wet asphalt, the low mutter of radios in the background. “Get up. Get dressed. Mingyu’s on his way to pick you up.”

He hangs up before you can even curse him out.

You throw yourself into clothes on autopilot — slacks, a thick knitted sweater, the softest thing you own that still passes for professional. Your whole body feels wrung out and hazy, muscles sore in places you didn’t know you had. Not painful, exactly. Just… different.

By the time you’re pulling on your jacket, headlights cut across the front of your building.

Mingyu’s SUV idles at the curb, a faint halo of condensation blooming from the exhaust. He climbs out as you approach, tall and solid against the pale wash of streetlamps, and holds out a coffee cup.

“Dirty chai,” he says. His voice is quiet, like he’s not sure how loud the world should be around you yet. “Jeonghan said it’s your favorite.”

You take it, fingers brushing his. He’s not cold. Somehow you thought he would be — vampire and all — but the warmth of him seeps into your skin like secondhand sunlight.

“And these,” he adds, pressing a couple of small sachets into your other hand. Liquid iron. “They’ll help.”

You manage a half-smile. “You’re good at this,” you murmur.

He shrugs, almost shy. “You did the hard part.”

The drive to the scene is short, cut with the soft shuffle of the radio and the occasional tap of Mingyu’s thumb against the steering wheel. Neither of you says much. The air feels weighted, taut with things unspoken.

It’s still dark when you arrive, the city trapped in that brittle pre-dawn chill that bites through every seam of your clothes. You huddle deeper into your sweater as you approach the perimeter, where yellow crime scene tape flutters weakly in the breeze.

Jeonghan is already waiting, gloved up and scowling into his clipboard.

Mingyu falls naturally into step just behind your shoulder, close enough that you feel him there without needing to look.

“Female victim, mid-twenties, no ID yet,” Jeonghan says as you join him. He barely glances up. “ME’s still working on the preliminary cause of death but… it looks familiar.”

You duck under the tape, shoes crunching on damp leaves. The alley is narrow, hemmed in by aging brick and chain link fencing, and the body is slumped against a dumpster.

You glove up quickly and move closer.

Her skin is bloodless. Sickly pale. Clothes torn and stained. But it’s the marks at her throat that stop you cold — two perfect punctures, just above the collarbone.

Your stomach twists sharply.

You glance sideways at Mingyu — and find him already there, studying the scene with an intensity that borders on feral. His mouth is a thin line. His shoulders rigid.

He steps in carefully between the forensic photographer and the ME, crouching low. You watch as he scans, gloved fingers deftly poking through the victim’s scattered personal effects. It’s methodical, clinical — but there’s something under it too, something sharper, heavier.

The crease in Mingyu’s brown deepens as he pulls a wallet out of her left coat pocket, flipping it open.

“Name’s Min Seo-yeon,” he says, voice tight. He hesitates — just a fraction — before pulling a small slip of glossy card from the wallet’s inner pocket.

Velvet Eden.

Membership card.

The blood in your veins goes ice-cold.

next chapter ↝ ii. evidence of absence. (coming soon)

click here for tag list submission / removal.

[onlyangel4]

baby fever. dominik mysterio.

dominik mysterio x wife! reader

synopsis: after winning the tag titles alongside becky lynch you attend the press conference. joined by a very special guest, roux. and in that moment you realise that you are ready to think about having kids. and when your boyfriend finds out about this he is over the moon.

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you hadn't even taken your boots off yet. the laces were still tugged tight around your ankles, your wrists sore beneath the tape, the title belt heavy across your lap but none of it mattered. not the ache in your shoulders, not the ring burn on your knees, not even the fact that you'd be icing your back for the next three days. you and becky had done it. you were sitting behind a sleek table, bathed in fluorescent light, holding gold.

tag team champions.

the press conference room buzzed camera shutters clicking in bursts, murmurs bouncing off the wwe-branded backdrop behind you. becky sat to your right, her signature smirk intact despite the sweat clinging to her collarbone. on her lap, little roux babbled quietly, gripping the edge of her mother’s title belt like it was a toy treasure.

becky leaned into the mic with her usual fire.

"it feels damn good. it’s not just about being back on top. it’s about showing roux that her mama never stays down for long."

the crowd laughed softly, some let out warm "awws." becky kissed the top of her daughter’s head, her face softening in a way that you hadn’t seen in the ring. it made your throat catch.

you looked at them the two of them and something stirred. not envy. not quite longing, either. but something.

a flashbulb snapped you back to the table.

a reporter pointed your way.

"and for you y/n, this is your first tag title, right? what made you decide to partner up with becky, and how does this compare to your singles accomplishments?"

you sat up straighter, pushing your belt higher on your shoulder.

"i used to think going solo was the only way to make a mark in this business", you said honestly. "but teaming with becky it taught me what it means to fight with someone. to trust, to rely, to build. this win doesn’t feel like the end of a road. it feels like a new beginning."

becky gave you a sideways look, like she heard something under your words that even you hadn't quite realized until just now. you offered a small smile, but she didn’t press.

roux, however, had other plans. she reached over becky’s lap, tiny fingers grabbing at the glinting plate on your championship belt. becky chuckled and let her lean closer, and before you could stop it, the little girl was half in your lap, giggling as she pressed her hand to the metal.

you let her.

"careful, kiddo", you murmured. "this thing’s heavier than it looks."

becky laughed. "she’s gonna walk out of here with both belts at this rate."

but you weren’t listening.

roux's fingers tapped along the letters, and for a second, just a second, you weren’t in the press room anymore. you were somewhere else entirely.

you were thinking about mornings. quiet ones. with coffee brewing and toys on the floor. about the sound of baby laughter from the next room. about hands far tinier than yours holding on tight, not to a title belt, but to you.

your chest ached in that unfamiliar, quiet way. the kind of ache that made you want to reach out, not for a win, but for something soft. something permanent.

you looked at becky, her calm, grounded joy and then back at roux, who babbled something and clapped.

something cracked open.

maybe you’d been avoiding the thought. maybe you’d told yourself the timing wasn’t right. that you couldn’t slow down, not yet. but now, holding roux for all of thirty seconds, the clarity hit fast and quiet.

you were ready.

to try.

not just for gold, but for something new. something far more precious.

you shifted roux back into becky’s arms gently, careful not to make a show of it. but your heart was beating differently now. there was adrenaline from the win, yes, but underneath that, a quiet, unfamiliar thrill.

you were going to talk to him tonight. to dominik. your husband. your partner. the man who had never once made you feel like your ambition was too much, even if it meant putting his own dreams on pause. the man who had once told you, "whenever you’re ready, I’ll be right there."

well. you were ready now.

and he would be over the moon.

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the hotel room door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, the hallway noise fading instantly. you dropped your bag near the armchair by the window, both championship belts, yours and dominik’s resting together on the foot of the bed, glittering under the warm light.

he was already in the room, barefoot, damp from a quick shower, hair slicked back and curling slightly at the ends..

he looked up at you with that same boyish grin you’d fallen for in the middle of a training ring, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look like he couldn’t believe any of this was real.

"you were incredible tonight", he said, arms sliding around your waist before you even got a word out. "tag champ and hottest woman alive? god, i married up."

you laughed against his chest, letting yourself melt into the warmth of his embrace, the scent of clean skin and just a hint of his cologne clinging to the curve of his neck.

"you didn’t do too bad yourself, champ."

he leaned back, mock offended. "didn’t do too bad? babe, i’m holding gold. that crowd was chanting my name."

you giggled, but your fingers stayed curled against his ribs. you could feel his heart still thudding with post-match adrenaline, the same rhythm as yours. except yours carried something else now.

something you hadn’t said yet.

he pulled you onto the bed beside him, both of you tangled together in lazy limbs and loose smiles, the belts resting just out of reach. his thumb brushed absently over the back of your hand, grounding you in the kind of quiet intimacy that always felt like home.

you turned toward him.

"hey", you said softly.

his eyes found yours immediately, still bright, still buzzing. "yeah?"

you hesitated just long enough for his brows to furrow slightly. concern started creeping in around the edges.

"nothing’s wrong", you assured him quickly, hand smoothing across his chest. "i just… i’ve been thinking. about us. about everything."

he nodded, quiet now. attentive. he always gave you his whole focus when you needed it. even when the world around you was loud, he knew how to be still.

you reached for his hand, twining your fingers.

"dom i think i’m ready."

his brows lifted, but he didn’t speak yet. waiting.

you swallowed not from nerves, exactly, but from the weight of the words. the beauty of them.

"to start trying. for a baby."

for a second, the silence was absolute. just the sound of the hotel ac humming low and the rush of blood in your ears.

then, his smile cracked wide open, and the light in his eyes. it was different than after a win, different than anything gold ever brought him. it was pure joy.

"wait, really?" he breathed.

you nodded. "yeah. i've been thinking about it for a while. i saw roux tonight, sitting with becky, and i just… i don’t know. something clicked."

he sat up, pulling you with him, hands cradling your face like you were glass and gravity and the entire world all at once.

"i've wanted this", he said, voice a little hoarse. "i wanted it so bad. but I didn’t want to ask. i didn’t want you to feel like you had to stop chasing your dream."

"you are part of my dream", you said. "so is this. so is us. expanding."

he laughed through the beginnings of tears joy, relief, something sacred blooming right there in that quiet room above a city that didn’t even know what was happening inside.

you pressed your forehead to his, both of you still smiling like kids who’d just been told the world was theirs.

"so we’re doing this?" he whispered. "you and me?"

"you and me."

"with a little us."

"exactly."

he kissed you then, slow and deep and full of everything that didn’t need to be said. You were both champions tonight.

but soon, you’d be something even more.

parents.

[another-buddiefic-blog]

Recent Bookmarks

I haven't posted in a bit, and don't have any tag lists ready, so here's some of my recent bookmarks

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from the ground up by marviless Word Count: 51,763 or, the story of how buck discovers he has a six-year-old daughter, spirals a bit, becomes an astronaut in training, kisses the love of his life, makes lasagna, and learns that his heart might just be the perfect place to build a home, all in seven days.

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something to hold onto by foxwatson Word Count: 5,185 or the one where frank tells eddie he should work on letting himself want things, and eddie starts by cuddling with buck

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oh brother, I see (you burn like me) by canadadry Word Count: 47,911 Or: Adriana arrives in LA. Maddie has been here the whole time.

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for all the love you've left behind by Daisies_and_Briars Word Count: 32,117 When a DNA test reveals a surprising connection between Buck and Bobby, both must navigate their own trauma and insecurities to move forward.

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Bodies Break by Pansys_goth_gf Word Count: 5,514 Or, Buck gets hurt, and it changes the course of his life.

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Badly Beaten Self Esteem Has Got Me Needing You by bvddiesbro Word Count: 27,712 Buck slowly realises that maybe he's not a burden, that he doesn't need to make his problems smaller to make room for others.

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garden of dreams by simplyylupin Word Count: 2,995 When they'd first started dating, Buck had warned him he is, quote-on-quote, an octopus in bed. That he has a tendency of latching onto whoever's closest and flailing all over them. Legs tangled, arms wound, heads tucked together, noses brushing. What Buck never mentioned, however, is his affinity for talking in his sleep.

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You’ll Be Alright, Kid by icewhisper Word Count: 10,710 The first time Howard Han meets Evan Buckley, the kid is twenty and trapped in the mangled remains of his Jeep. It’s the call he can’t quite shake. (AKA the amputee!Buck AU absolutely no one asked for where Chim and Buck meet six years sooner and everything is just a little different and not any different at all.)

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[socksdoeswrites]

omg super cool idea, here me out… mha boys x reader with avatar (atla) quirk

I feel like that’s the quirk I would want, 4 in 1 is so undefeated. shoto 2.0 really loll

an: gosh, i don't remember the last time i watched that! i know i used to be a huge nerd over it though! i wanna apologize for just now seeing this! i had class supppper early, and i've barely looked at my phone today! alsooo, what i did with this is more of a story-type deal. i didn't know if you wanted an smau! so please forgive me. i hope you still enjoy this though, and thank you so much for asking!! also, for people waiting on their requests, i am working on them right now!! should be done shortly! i didn't forget i promise.

participants: izuku midoriya, katsuki bakugo, eijiro kirishima, shoto todoroki, and yooooou ofc ;)

tags/warnings: you have atla quirk (duh), quirk au, GUYS IDK WHY I FORGOT TO ADD DENKI AND SEROO BUT PLEEEEASE FORGIVE ME, lil humor, maybe a little bit of praising, gn!reader, slightly mysterious, flufffff. i think that is all!!

ENJOOOOOY

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

izuku midoriya was surprised, to say the least. he had always been so interested in others' quirks and blabbed on and on about them. but you? you were a little different. sure he still loved learning about new things, but it's more of the way the two of you met that made him so interested.

he had been on his regular patrol when he saw you, running away from something. he saw the two men following you shortly after and quickly understood what was happening. jumping down from the building he had been sitting on the entire night, he was ready to come to rescue you... only to find out you didn't really need his help.

the crash from what looked to be a boulder rang in his ears, and he couldn't help but gulp at the ground as it cracked and broke under your feet. okay... so your quirk was something involving earth... until it wasn't.

fire flew at the men who at this point wondered if it was even worth it. your body moved and contorted in ways that mesmerized izuku. he couldn't help but watch you. you seemed so focused and entranced with every movement, your eyes somewhat glowing in the moonlight.

it wasn't long after the two men gave up.

"that was absolutely incredible! how'd you do all that?"

he had spooked you, causing a gush of wind sending him back into the wall... noted. you could control the air as well. as you ran to him apologizing to no end. izuku smiled. this was definitely the most interesting thing he'd seen that night.

katsuki bakugo was never one to be impressed easily. he'd shrug off anyone and would blow up at anyone trying to outdo him. shocker. you were no different. you clutched your hood close to your body as he flung his body at you. to which you nearly dodged. you tried your hardest to de-escalate the situation, but has being rational ever worked on him?

"c'mon! pick a quirk and stick to it!"

you had ignored his screaming, as you moved to touch the ground beneath you. it shook and rumbled, as you somehow moved your body with the stones and rocks. your eyes glowing as the concrete flew at him, as you used the wind around you more in tune with yourself. it wasn't until you had finally struck a blow that he finally let up... only to wipe his mouth, a crooked smile plastered on his lips.

"that all you got?"

eijiro kirishima had known you since childhood and was always intrigued by what all you could do. as the two of you sat on the sand near the beach he picked at you for controlling the water.

"you can do just about anything can't you?"

you had just shrugged your shoulders, laying your head on your knees. water was probably your favorite. it had always calmed you down. it was also always so gentle with you.

"i think you're pretty awesome, y/n. you and all four of your elemental bullshit quirks."

you scoffed as he teased at you, pulling you into a headlock.

shoto todoroki probably felt the most comfortable with you. the both of you could sort of relate on different topics. sure, your background wasn't anything like his, but the way both of you had more than one thing to worry about seemed almost homey. the two of you would use your fire abilities together.

and although he only had one other quirk. that didn't stop him from admiring you for what you had and did.

(sorry if this seemed a little rushed!! i hope you still liked it!!)

[hinata-bestie8]

A/n - I hope you enjoy this. Also, just reminder to stay hydrated and healthy.

Shoyo still had his tan from when he went to Brazil, which you really enjoyed looking at his sun kissed skin. You watched as your boyfriend was packing some things in his backpack for your outing that you both planned for the evening. In your hands you held on to your picnic basket.

Soon your boyfriend zipped up the backpack and stood up from where he was kneeling on the ground. He held out his arm out for you so you could cling onto him, you look at his arm and happily hold on to him. You make your way out of your apartment and lock the door behind you. You breathe in the summer air and take in the sounds of the birds chirping in the background.

while planning this evening out together after he got back from Brazil, he suggested that you guys' ride bikes to the beach. You agreed. You found your bikes locked up together near the front of your building. Shoyo took the picnic basket from you so you could get on your bike easier. when you got on, he tied the basket onto the back of your bike securely. He then got onto his bike, and you were now on your way to the beach.

On the way there you took in the scenery and the sounds of people nearby. kids kicking a ball and yelling playfully to each other, an older couple holding hands and sitting on a bench together, quietly enjoying each other's company. Closer to the beach there was a girl and her friends walking her dog, chatting and laughing about something that the others were talking about. You smiled and taking a breath you relaxed more as you had a bit more to go on your bike ride. Shoyo looked back from ever so often to check up on you.

when you finally got to the beach you were both surprised and relived that the beach wasn't too crowed. You got off of your bikes and locked them up together on the bike rack. Shoyo reached out his hand to you so you could take it. You returned the affection that he craved and held onto his hand. Walking along on the sand and smelling the salty air, Shoyo found a spot near a volleyball net.

you smirked to yourself seeing the net but didn't say anything about it. You both stared setting up your spot with the blanket that you took so you both could sit on it and laying it on the sand. putting the basket on top, you open it to find some soda and a couple of sandwiches, and meat buns. The smell of the food made both of your stomachs growl in hunger. You handed Hinata a meat bun since you know he likes them a lot and that they remind him of when he would go to the convent store to get some with his teammates after practice.

For the rest of the evening, you enjoyed your little picnic together. Cuddling on the blanket together and watched the sun set. The orange and pink of the sun looked so beautiful by the ocean water. You both decided that you guys should had back home before it gets to dark. You pack up your things and put them in the basket, walking back to where you left your bikes, you unlocked them and then tied the picnic basket back on the end of your bike. Before you could even get on your bike Shoyo yelled back to you, " race you back home"!

You smirked taking on his little game, you quickly got back onto your bike and pushed on the peddles so you could pass him by. Speeding ahead of him you turned your head to face him. " First one home gets to pick out the movie for tonight"! Hinata smirked at you, " You are so on!"

Tag list:

@pineapplesneedrights @shiratorizawa-can-step-on-me @samwrights @snail-squasher @ottocre @leviackermanscleaningbuddy @darthferbert @highqew @hiraethwa

[doctortv]

for the first time since i've met you, i see you as genuinely inhuman, in every sense of the word

[id: dialtown fanart of phonegingi sitting and looking at the narrator sock on its right foot. they are drawn with bright colors and sketchy lines. the background is a red tinted image of vultures descending, the heads of two obscured by gingi's legs and the head of the other obscured by gingi's head. end id]

[subrosasteath]

Making another post actually, because all of the symbolism in Win or Lose is amazing.

Having anxiety be a creature that just grows and grows, and eats away and crushes Laurie down until she can't speak or walk like she used to? Having Laurie's dad always be under the sun, or some kind of light to signify that while Laurie is religious, and looks up to god, what she's really looking to is her father?

The way armour is necessary for some jobs - Frank need to be able to take criticism, and still stick firm to what he knows is true, - and that relief of taking it off? And when it bleeds into personal life, what can he even do? When he's been heart, because he can't open up, doesn't that just make it harder to shed that in the first place?

And then Ira, whose perspective reminds me a lot of Captain Underpants, and is so, so sweet. He's just a little kid, and a little weird, and he just wants friends who like him for that! And he wants his big sister to like him, and spend time with him! And he's so imaginative, the scribbly, cartoon style of his little world he spies through? I was just in love. The fact that he kept picturing the teenagers as super heros and rebels and good guys- and just the fact that he sounds like a kid! Are you kidding, that autraulian joke? I laughed so hard because I've heard kids talk like that, that's what shy, caring little kids sound like when they've been shot down before!

Yuwen's mini me inside his heart screaming like me!!, the version of him he doesn't let out, because it's cardboard and flimsy and so easy to crush. I'm really amazed at the way they portrayed Yuwen and Taylor, because i remember being in middleschool, and while I never dated (cough cough aroace), the depiction of them "picking out curtains and moving in" feels so real, because I do believe that's what love will always feel like, no matter the age. Being in middleschool doesn't mean the love isn't true, or isn't there just because it's not likely to last. And the way they depicted kissing, not by showing them kiss, but by showing what it felt like? I was amazed. Baffled. I can't believe I haven't seen more things like that.

(It's actually incredibly interesting to me, that 2/3 main male characters shown so far, have gimmicks of protection. Protecting themselves, their emotions, and who they are as a person, because they feel they can't be open and honest, they feel they can't trust their emotions to guide them.)

I talked about Rochelle and her mom in a seperate post, but the gasp I let out when I realized Rochelle's gravity was weird because she didn't have the stable force of a mom? Oh my god. Rochelle feels like her family is upside down, that she has to be the adult, and because of that, every force in her life is turned upside. She has no one to rely on and nothing to ground her, until her mom is finally there for her, no phone in hand at the end of episode 4. Gravity rights itself because her mom is there, fully present, to help her.

The way they contrasted Rochelle's episode's mood with her mom's was fantastic, because her mom's felt like a performance. She's performing, always, because she doesn't know how to be otherwise! She performs being a good mom and performs being happy for her audience, and even performs at the party, wether she wants to or not! That was an audience! And everything about her performance has bleeded into the way she sees the world, how everything's pink and sparkling and upbeat. It's only when she finds Rochelle do we see her not performing, we get to see, for the first time, who Vanessa is for just Rochelle. For just her family.

I'm so invested, so obsessed, SO READY FOR THE NEXT TWO EPISODES!!

(As a sidenote, if you haven't seen the storyboards of the cut trans scene, here's a link to the internet archive of them. I can't find them anywhere else. But the Picasso style falling apart, the shattering and splitting of identity, because Kai is scared, and has to act both parts and it's confusing and hurting her and oh- it really just punches me in the gut.

Here's the link directly to the archive: https://archive.org/details/23fr-4r

and the link to the reddit post i got it from: https://www.reddit.com/r/lostmedia/comments/1hhj1zh/partially_lost_deleted_storyline_from_upcoming/

please go watch it if you like the show it's absolutely beautiful <3)

[iamcassian]

caelus your bed is too big for one person so take two more

[impostorsshow]

I'm actually so obsessed with him it's not even funny if i'm not listening to a TikTok or music directly related to him I can't focus free me free me

This is @/cherubpuppet's OC for a object show [au? pitch? wip show? How do I categorize this] and I've been destroyed by the fact that ruler art is infinitely superior [and 10x longer] and i don't have a good enough grasp on lip gloss's personality to make fanfiction so I am frozen in "want make fanart but fanart takes effort :["

[foolish-took]

Hi to the dimension 20 tumblr people PLEASE is there anyone out there who has seen and thoroughly enjoy a court of fey and flowers I would like to be directed to whatever fan content exists out there. And also to talk about it if anyone would be willing

[rubythecrimsonwriter]

As someone who has lived in the south where the water trough is anywhere from mildly annoying to actively terrifying, who has lived on a fairly decently sized island where it is indeed absolutely terrifying to be cut off from the mainland suddenly with little to no help from the government for an extended period of time--

After No Man's Land and all the issues that arose then, I'd like to propose the new way of interring their dead would be mausoleums. Possibly especially with Gotham canonically existing on a system of caves. An island made of caves on the East Coast that gets battered by hurricanes almost every year is just asking to get sunk a la Atlantis but its fucking Gotham and i think the Gothamites would raise it from the sea floor again out of sheer spite.

But with mausoleums you:

Dont have your son crawling six feet through packed dirt after inexplicably coming back to life

Dont have long buried coffins and corpses getting flooded/shaken/otherwise disturbed and shunted into the water system/streets/underground reservoirs (or Lazarus Pits, since there's one of those down there too, as if Gotham didn't have enough things wrong with it)

Continues the Gotham aesthetic

Have more places for various characters to have a private mental breakdown in

Have more places for various characters to find ominous warnings etched or graffiti'd on the walls

Have more places for things much older than the mausoleums have been En Vogue™ for to inexplicably appear and send shivers down the spine

The Gothamites are very firm about not really being part of the US. The US kind of looks at the South like we're really fucking strange, and the South looks at New Orleans like they've taken the South and concentrated it, carbonated it, and shook it really hard.

I want the same vibes for Gotham. This is their home. They are weird and stubborn to a fault and everything is on fire and the government is corrupt and the people aren't always good but nobody else understands. No one else ever could. Who else has seen the lights for rescue appear on the horizon only to see the light of death on the waters, ensuring no help would ever come? They are resourceful and violent and resentful but the gods won't help you if you cross one of their own.

[dailykugisaki]

Day fourty-one | id in alt

Kugisaki looks so wack Everytime she's not paying attention, she's thinking of shopping, meaning a friend or a third more sinister and bad thing.

[odysseys-blood]

will never forgive anyone who tried to market bluesky ss being like tumblr bc it "has tags" girl you should be smited for that

[icewindandboringhorror]

misc photo diary stuff.. also this unintentionally all matches sort of lol.. warm toned photos?