#”whatever keeps you sane“ girl what???

[thegetdownrebooter]

that scene wasn't a rejection but whatever keeps you sane LMFAOO

anon… it truly isn‘t that deep like, it‘s just a tv show.

[2knightt]

Do you think u could write abt the gang being (separately) absolutely obsessed with the reader. Like they adore everything she does, they can’t get enough of her. To the point where the rest of the gang starts releasing them abt it, meanwhile reader is like completely oblivious lol

୧ ׅ𖥔 ۫ heaven and hell were words to me.⋄ 𓍯

…IN WHICH! the greasers are totally obsessed!

tags/warnings: no confessions—just the gang having a crush, gang being literally whipped, them being a little odd, kinda toxic!johnny LFMAO, nothing else to my knowledge

ೃauthor notes⁀➷ i’m just working…working hard so i can please you.(shout out to ema/corvyes/loml for that ref.) but if i get a req asking me for like the gng confessing to you—i will do it. trust.

Dallas Winston

WHEN HE’S DRUNK, YOU’RE ALLLL HE TALKS ABOUT LMFAOOOO

“i’m tellin’ you—there ain’t a girl like her.”

dallas would repeat after what felt like this 5th drink of the night. buck is sick of him, two-bit regrets dragging him along, and dallas just wants to tell them how good you looked today.

when he sees you walking home, to school, or to work he WILL tag along. HE DOESN’T GAF IF YOU TELL HIM TO TAKE A HIKE!

actually, he kinda does. you’re like the only person he listens to.

LMFAOOO THE GANG THREATENS TO CALL YOU OVER WHENEVER DALLAS IS DOING SMTH STUPID

like whenever you threaten a kid ur gna tell santa.

“dallas, i’m gonna tell y/n what you did last week.”

“??if you do, i’ll beat your head in, soda.”

“YIKES..i’m gonna have to tell her that too…”

“…don’t, she��d be so mad at me😔😒.”

THE GANG TEASES DALLAS THE WORST(besides ponyboy) ABOUT YOU LFNAOAOAOAO

like they’re shoving him toward you, nudging him at even the slightest mention of you, giggling as they tell him they seen you today.

“look, it’s your girlfriend.”

“steve, shut up! she ain’t deaf!”

—

“GO SEE HER!”

“OW—i mean—hi, y/n.”

“did you…trip? or did you mean to bump into me?”

“yeah, sorry or whatever. some IDIOT back there pushed me.”

—

“guess who i saw..🥰🥰”

“who?”

“your wife…”

“can you NOT.”

despite all that, you somehow, still don’t know how he feels about you. how? we’ll never know. it’s beyond the human mind.

his friends try and hint at you that the big, bad greaser has a school girl crush on you. do you get what they’re trying to say? no. but that’s okay, you’re just a girl.

lowkey pisses dallas off but that’s okay cuz he prefers admiring from afar. DOES HOWEVER ASK YOU TO HANG OUT AND CONSIDERS THEM A DATE IN HIS HEAD TO KEEP HIM SANE LFMAO

“you wanna go see this drag race tomorrow?”

“sure! i don’t have work then. uhm, pick me up at my place!”

“alright, cool.”

‘yeah..,it’s date🥱😍’ — dallas’ brain.

Johnny Cade

‘johnny, if you even fucking stutter when you talk to her today—you’re gonna have to drink pickle juice.’

“oh, hi. i didn’t see you there, johnny. ‘m sorry.”

“o-oh—it’s alright.”

‘well, shit.”

he thinks he looks like such a fucking loser when he talks to you omfg😭😭

the gang tries to tell him he might have a shot but he thinks they’re just telling him that because he’s their friend. :(

HEAVILY admires from afar. like seriously he’s a fucking stalker

WAIT LMFOAOO HE’D BE THE TYPE OF GUY TO ACCIDENTALLY STALK YOU LIKE HE’D FOLLOW YOU PLACES FROM AFAR LMFAOAOAOOAOA

what a little freak

anyways

he accidentally lets things slip to let you know he’s better than any other guy trying to go after you. like if you had a shitty ex—he’s preaching that he’d ‘never treat you like that, he can’t imagine that a guy with a brain ever would.’

johnny does everything to keep your attention on HIM and nobody else when your friends try and talk to you when you two are out together. like you could be having a conversation with him and he’d be just pouting in the background with his arms crossed.

“y/n, look. they got that shirt you was talkin’ ‘bout. let’s go check it out. c’mon.” “oh—alright! bye, viv!😊” “yeah, bye viv.😒”

side eyes the gang whenever they bring you up in conversation

“johnny and y/n sittin’ in a tree—“

“😒🤨”

“alright.”

he tries to subtly hint that he really likes you and that you’re his type but it’s not subtle at ALL.

“y’know, if i were to have a girlfriend, i’d wish she was like you.”

—

“my type? uhm, it’d probably be someone-“ and he goes on to describe you.

Ponyboy Curtis

‘holy fuck that’s literally y/n walking towards me??!! does she know i’m here—does she even know me-wow she looks good in red. i mean—SHE’S WAVING OH MY GOD.’

HE IS SUCH A WRECK I CANTTT

ponyboy is the type to stare off into space in your direction and dream about how well he’d treat you if he was your man!!

yk how bitches be like ‘my man, my man!’ whenever they talk about their crush?? he’s all ‘my girl, my girl!’ WUAGRMRNEE

the gang was so confused on why he was so eager to go to school all of a sudden?? and why he cares about his appearance just slightly more than usual?? …is that soda’s shirt he’s wearing?-

two-bit was the first one to realize what was happening when he seen ponyboy and you talk in the halls. that wasn’t the giveaway, though.

it was the way he stared at you like you were the only girl alive and everyone else was just gone. two-bit was almost moved to tears to see ponyboy all grown😞😞!!!

“is tha’ your girlfriend? that why you couldn’t wait ‘til monday?”

“shut up!”

“ouuu, wait until the gang hears ‘bout this!”

“YOU AIN’T TELLIN’ ‘EM NOTHIN’!”

ever since — it has been hell on earth for ponyboy. dallas brings you up every time ponyboy gets smart, johnny giggles at every kissing scene at a movie nudges him, soda and darry had to give him ‘the talk,’ (soda just made it worse by making snide remarks.) and steve never stopped poking fun at him.

two-bit tried to get you to spill the beans on how you felt about him, but all you’d do was huff and ignore him. FINE THEN😒!—is what he always thought.

soda, johnny and two-bit all let ponyboy rant about you.

“LIKE, BRO. my girl, my girl! she’s so cute and smart. LIKE SHE’S TOTALLY MY DREAM.”

—

“that’s so cute ☹️” - soda

“SHE WANTS YOU SOO BAD” - two-bit

“just go tell her, man.” - johnny

does everything to impress you stoppp 😭😭!! pony is trying harder in school, using less hair grease, wearing darry’s cheap cologne when he’s not looking, etc.

HE’S SO SILLY I LOVE HIM!!!

Sodapop Curtis

delusional king!!! yes soda, let the voices in your head tell you that she wants you so bad!!🫶🫶

swear to goddd he thinks y’all are meant to be. you tipped him when he was working at the cash register and he was sooo in love

sorry in my head he’s a hopeless romantic

cause a) you were gorgeous, b) kind enough to tip him, and c) most likely rich💯💯

when he seen you at random places with your friends—soda would get so excited LMFAOOO

STOP HE’D HOUND PONY FOR YOUR NAME

“bro they probably go to your school—just lemme look at your yearbook!”

“no??? you weirdo???”

“please??!! i’ll do the dishes or something!”

“….get me a pack of cigarettes and i’ll tell you.”

“OKAY🥰🥰”

stole them but pony never said how to get them so who gaf!!!

SODA WOULD TOTALLY WRITE YOUR FIRST INITAL + HIS LMFAOOAOAOAOAA

or he’d see who’s last name went best with curtis or your last name!!!1!1!1

he’s crazy insane over you did i say that already

whenever you come by the dx—he’d give you shit for free while you insist to pay.

“jus’ take it.”

“i can’t—i’d feel terrible.”

“it’s alright, no one has to know. right?”

he’d flash his million dollar smile, pushing your coke and chips close to you, inciting you to just take the food.

WAJENEDKD he wants u so bad it’s. so terrible.

steve hates his rambles

“YOU SHOULDA SEEN THE WAY ME AND HER WAS TALKING—SHE’S SO INTO MEEEE”

“yeah, she wants you!!! shut up now!!”

Darry Curtis

nobody knows. it’s like a top secret only darry knows. the gang has their suspicions but they can never really know why darry is suddenly so adamant on going to go get him, soda, and pony’s hair done at the salon.

they alllll can see that he only really talks to you—but at the same time he does that weird ass dad stance where they stand with their arms crossed and legs far apart LMFAOOOOO

darry thinks you’re like…model fine btw.!!!!!

BROOO WHEN YOU LIKE UNCONSCIOUSLY MASSAGE HIS HEAD WHEN YOURE CUTTING IT—HE’S SOO READY TO JUST ASK YOU OUT

darry doesn’t know what it is but goddamn!! you have him in a spell!!

“c’mon—we gotta go to the salon again.”

“….we just went?”

“TWO WEEKS AGO. it’s about time we go AGAIN.”

does in fact work a little extra just so he can see you. he’s that much of a loverboy i fear.

HE DOES ACTUALLY NOT WAIT TO ASK YOU OUT

like, among all the gang, he’s the only one mature enough to actually flirt with you properly & to ask if you’re single.

darry’s fucking down like that.

AWWHHH HE TOTALLY BUYS YOU FLOWERS AS A ‘THANK YOU’ GIFT LOL

flexs his strength around you to prove he’s worthy !!! DARRY LOVEEESSS SHOWING OFF WHEN YOU’RE LOOKING

megara + hercules methink…..

you two probably started hanging out as ‘friends.’ …yeah right!!!!

he’s driving you around as you be his pretty little passenger princess, he’s offering to buy you things when you two are out, etc, etc.

darry might not know how to show that he likes you, but trust me, the second that you look a little too far into his actions—it gets obvious.

like maybe too obvious idk.

Steve Randle

HELLLOOOO??? HE IS TOTALLY SHOWING OFF HIS GYMNASTICS MOVES AROUND YOU

“bro, bro! (yes he’d call you bro. idgaf.) watch what i can do!!😊😊” “wowwww, steve that’s so cool.”

geeks out near you. when you aren’t around the average person would see him and go ‘jesus christ, he literally might beat my ass.’ but when you’re around, they might think, ‘why is that scary looking guy talking about cars and comic books rn??’

you bring out the nerd in him in the best way possible🫶😊 BECAUSE THAT MEANS HE LIKE LIKES YOUUUUUUU

and it’s so obvious to the gang bc wdym steve told you all about DC comics while all they got was a ‘yeah, it’s alright.’ …hm…..

soda NEVER shuts the fuck up and him and his little girlfriend. NEVERRREE

“why’re you so pouty today? y/n ain’t say hi?”

“bro, shut up!”

steals for you and gives them to you all proud like he paid for it LMFAO

tries to be sooo cool around you but the second you bring up the latest batman comic he’s all “OMGOMGOMGOMG IT WAS SOO GOOD!! DID YOU SEE THE-“ he’s a loser what can i say.

dallas totally flirts with you in front of steve just to piss him off LOLLL like when he sees dallas twirling your hair around his finger steve is just all “???🤨🤨😡😡”

and then becomes your knight in shining armour and swoops you away as he glares daggers at dally!!!!<3

Two-bit Mathews

he becomes the funniest man on the planet i’m not joking

he says jokes that anybody and everybody will laugh at. just because he wants to see you laugh at what he says for his delusions

two-bit thinks like ‘she laugh=she likes me’

he’s not the brightest but it’s okay

HE MAKES IT SOOO KNOWN THAT HE LIKES YOU LFMAOOOOOO

“you’re lookin’ pretty? who’s the fella?” / “gee, i didn’t believe when they said they seen an angel walkin’ around until now.” / “well, now you owe me dinner.”

shit like that

two thinks he’s soooo smooth…smh.

DALLAS AND PONYBOY SO BADLY WANTS HIM SHUT THE HELL UP ALREADY ABOUT YOU LMFAOOO

they keep on telling him just to confess already but then two gets all giggly and shy and goes “omg guys noooo🤭🤭🤭🫣🫣”

just coincidentally runs into you everywhere you go!!! (literally has eyes everywhere. he’s weird. he’s odd.)

follows you around like a lost puppy and lowkey kinda gossips. idk.

[tame-the-lion-writes]

fae(?) bunny shifter reader x konig

I love it when konig calls reader haschen (and forgive me for not using accents on letters--I don't know how to add them on my computer). Hence why I love the idea of reader being a literal bunny (and yes--this is inspired by that one manwha I forgot the name of, but disregard that!)

There's really no sane explanation as to how Konig ended up with you in his bed. And I don't mean in a sexual way though it is hard to keep his eyes off you considering the fact that you're stark naked. As far as he knows, Konig hadn't drunk that night. Definitely didn't take any drugs. All he did was scoop up that rabbit that's been begging for food on his back porch, after he'd made friends through edible offerings. (Otherwise, the tiny rascal would be digging up his garden again.) Let it--her?--snuggle close into his side on a particularly cold night, when the first snow began to fall.

Then he blinks, and the girl is gone--replaced once again by that fluffy little thing.

Konig panics for a half second, wrenches the blankets from his bed. As if a whole human being could hide under already-flattened sheets. Once he realizes you're not there, though, he once again takes the bunny in his ginormous hands and continues to stare. Because what the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.

Over the next few days, he doesn't dare keep the rabbit in a cage, or kick it out again. He just observes it intently like one would waiting for water to boil. But nothing ever happens when he's ready for it--the girl appears only when his back is turned, when he's exhausted. When he's blinking away sleep in the morning light. There in a flash, and gone again. He genuinely thinks he's going crazy, especially when food starts piling up in random places. The closet. Between the couch cushions. Food too big and too much for a mere bunny to move. But surely that's impossible. He's never taken to folklore or spells or--

Then he installs a camera.

"She is magic!" he once yelled, shoving the bunny in a visiting soldier's face. Meanwhile the rabbit's nose just twitches, innocent and seemingly oblivious. All he gets is a weird stare.

"Sir, I think you need to see a doctor--"

"Magic!!!"

_

Bonus Thoughts:

You're not even a stray. Not even wild. You have a cottage a little further into the woods, but your human neighbor's been awfully generous despite having caught you stealing a few times. Whatever. Free food is great. Free anything is great. Not to mention the TV and microwave, and other gadgets you've never seen before. Hence not realizing what the hell a camera does, and why he's now extra manic after he installed one in his room.

Speaking of benefits, you also no longer have to get your steps in. He carries you around in his pocket wherever he goes. So now you get to see the world, too--the farmer's market, the gas station, etc. And when you seem particularly interested in something, he buys it right away. Now you've got a little corner of trinkets from your mini-travels, all for you.

Oh, and lots of chin scratches. Pat pats. Naps in his lap because you fit there so perfectly.

Will he ever see you--live--in your human form for more than .5 seconds? Maybe. Maybe it happens in the middle of the night, when he wakes up to a weight on his chest, and your hair sprawled across his shirt. Maybe it happens, and you just give him a slow, sleepy blink, and nuzzle into the crook of his neck. Maybe he's yours now, and he hasn't realized it.

His bunny. Your man.

[zweigsangel]

gif credits

are we datin'? are we fuckin'? are we best friends? are we somethin'? in between that? i wish we never fucked, and i mean that. but not really, you say the nastiest shit in bed, and it’s fuckin’ awesome. childish gambino.

what were you and rafe? good question. you hated him, or at least, you thought you did. you despised him with every fiber of your being. but all that hatred evaporated the moment his cock was inside you, pushing deep inside your tight cunt as your bodies were pressed together. in those moments, everything else vanished—your thoughts, your anger, even your sense of self. it was as if the very act of being with him consumed you, burning away everything else until there was nothing left but the two of you.

he wasn’t just your best friend. he was more, and yet, somehow, so much less. because best friends don’t do what you and rafe did. they don’t kiss each other like you did, those bruising kisses that left you breathless and aching for more. they don’t touch each other like you did, his hands leaving a trail of heat wherever they went, as if he was branding you, claiming you as his own. and they don’t look at each other the way you and rafe did, eye-fucking each other from the corners or a room.

you’d always been close, too close, maybe, but there was a line you both knew shouldn’t be crossed. yet you crossed it, again and again, until that line blurred, then disappeared entirely. “who cares, a’ight? ‘m good, you’re good, fuck the rest.” he’d say, voice low and rough, whenever you hesitated, whenever that small, sane part of your mind screamed that this was wrong. and for a second, you’d want to pull away, to stop whatever twisted thing you two had become. but then, he’d look at you with his deep blue eyes, he’d pull you closer, his breath hot against your soft skin, his long fingers between your wet folds, and all those doubts, all those second thoughts, would melt away, leaving you with nothing but the need, the raw, aching need that only he could satisfy.

“it’s jus’ a casual thing. no feelings, nothin’ official. we just fuck, tha’s it.” those were his words, laid out so simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. that’s what you two had decided, or at least, that’s what he decided, and you went along with it. deep down, you knew you couldn’t say no to him, not when he looked at you with that calm confidence, the kind that made it clear he always got what he wanted.

you told yourself it didn’t matter, that you could handle it, that keeping your feelings out of it would be easy. but every time he touched you, every time his lips met yours, that resolve wavered. it wasn’t just the physical pull; it was the way he made you feel, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered in those stolen moments.

for you, it was never just casual. not when he’d rest his hand on the small of your back as you walked around together, a gesture so intimate it made your heart stutter. not when he’d let you lean your head on his shoulder, his fingers gently stroking your hair, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. it was never just casual when, at parties, he’d get jealous the moment another guy got too close, despite the fact that there weren’t supposed to be any feelings involved. “i’m jus’ protecting you. that’s what friends do, right?” he’d say, and you’d have to bite your tongue to keep from rolling your eyes right in front of him. and you, well, you never made a scene when you’d catch him in some dark corner with a random girl, their lips locked, because after all, “remember? no feelings.” you’d remind yourself, swallowing the bitterness that crept up your throat.

but the way he talked to you when you were together, when you were wrapped up in each other, told a different story. “your pussy was made f’me,” “so tight, fuck,” “you take my cock s’well,” he’d groan in your ear, and in those moments, it didn’t feel casual at all. it was in those words, in the way he touched you, that you could hear the truth he’d never admit to. but you buried that truth deep, because acknowledging it would mean confronting what you both pretended didn’t exist.

“don’t you think we could, y’know, make this official?” you asked him one day, your body still naked under the covers as you watched him get dressed. you’ll never forget the way he turned, the look in his eyes just before his anger flared up. “what the hell is wrong with you? we already decided what this was... all’f’this!” he shouted, throwing his arms up in frustration as his voice grew louder. you sat there on the bed, one hand clutching the blanket to cover yourself. “well, i just thought that after all this time, maybe we could give it a try!” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

but he didn’t let you finish. he stormed out, slamming the door behind him, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence that followed. and in that moment, you hated rafe cameron more than you ever had before. the hatred burned through you, sharper and more intense than anything you’d felt in all those months of pretending, of pushing down your feelings just to keep him close. the sting of his rejection was like a knife twisting in your chest, cutting deeper with every passing second.

he didn’t call for a while, and you didn’t either. you thought about blocking him, your finger hovering over the screen, but something held you back. you couldn’t explain why. perhaps you should have done it, cut him off before things got messy. but you didn’t. and then the late-night messages and calls started coming in, his voice slurred, stumbling over words. he was drunk, lost, reaching out to you in his most vulnerable moments. and every time, without fail, you answered.

“need you. s’much. ‘m sorry, ‘m so sorry. please," he mumbled, his breath ragged and you could hear sloppy, muffled sounds on the other end of the call. the phone call felt like a heavy, suffocating fog, the noise on the other end a disjointed symphony of desperation and self-pity. you despised yourself more than you despised him for falling for the same broken promises again, for allowing his slurred and drunken apologies to penetrate the defenses you'd built. after a long, painful pause, you replied, "come over," your voice trembling slightly as you spoke.

and he did, slipping through the bedroom window and collapsing onto you. his damp lips found your skin, your neck, jaw, your plump lips. the mingled stench of smoke and alcohol enveloping the room like a suffocating blanket. “missed you so much. missed your little pussy,” he slurred, his breath hot and uneven as he hovered over you. you gripped his shoulders tightly, the contact eliciting soft, desperate moans from your lips. every touch, every movement sent waves of sensation through you, as if he was the only one capable of making your feel like this, as if his cock was made to push deep into your sensitive spots. the intensity of the moment consumed you, blurring the lines between need and guilt.

and the morning after, as you laid beside him, the early light creeped through the window highlighting the features on his face. you were staring at him, as if you wanted to say something that had been festering in your mind. he caught your gaze and, sensing the weight of your silence, muttered with a touch of annoyance, “don’t even start with that bullshit.” he got up, gathering his clothes in a hasty manner, while you did the same, slipping on your panties and a loose shirt. “fuck you. i’m so stupid for letting you always have the upper hand,” you said, your voice laced with frustration. “maybe it would have been better if none of this had ever happened, if we’d never started fucking.” you couldn’t hide the mix of regret and anger in your words, each statement a reflection of the turbulent emotions that had been building up.

“oh okay. yeah, maybe,” he commented, rolling his eyes and turning his back to you, only to pivot back around and come closer to you. “wait, what? no, no, no,” he began, a strange, almost amused little smile spreading across his face. he lifted his arm, his hand gently brushing against your cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “no one is like ya. no one talks to me like you do. fuck, i don’even know how to explain it,” he murmured, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down your spine.

of course, you thought, the memories flashing vividly in your mind. because no one rode him like you did, his large hands gripping your hips tightly, his fingers digging into the flesh to guide your movements. up and down, up and down. “you’re so big,” you’d stammer, your sweaty forehead pressed against his shoulder, your manicured nails clawing at his back as you moaned. no one else knew the exact spots to touch him, your delicate hand stroking him from tip to base with just the right pressure. “just like that. fuck—” and you knew you were the only one who could make him moan like that, like a total slut in a porn. his head resting against the headboard of his bed as his fingers teased your breasts, circling your hardened nipples.

"you fill me so good," you’d whimper as he slid in and out of you against the door, your legs wrapped tightly around his hips, your breath hitching as you clung to him. he was too impatient to make it to the bed, his need for you too overwhelming to wait. every movement was urgent, driven by a raw desire, the wooden door rattling slightly with each thrust.

and all those moments, all your words, your phrases, echoed in his mind as he looked at you, because he didn’t want it to end. the fear of things becoming serious was there, gnawing at him—he didn’t want that. but the fear of losing you, of losing the pleasure you brought him, was just as strong. "then i guess you'll have to find another bitch who makes you feel this way," you said, your voice sharp, cutting through the tension in the room.

"i know you don't want that. i know you too well by now," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear as his tongue teased the sensitive skin of your earlobe. and just like that, he fucked the attitude out of you, because no matter how wrong it was, you couldn’t stay away from him. it was maddening—the way he knew exactly how to unravel you, to pull you back in when you were on the verge of walking away. you hated how easily he could do it, how his touch could make you forget all the reasons you should leave, but you were addicted to the feeling, to him.

[reminiscingtonight]

pool, drunk, sunglasses Alexia

Cooling Off (Alexia Putellas x Reader)

[WOSO Masterlist]

You’ve been having a fairly great day so far. 

Woke up a little bit earlier than normal, but managed to have a cute little breakfast date with your girlfriend. Alexia catered to your every whim, being every bit the doting girlfriend you knew her to be. The two of you barely got through the door frame before your friends were dragging you back out again, so much yet to explore in the city. 

Now it’s late afternoon and the lot of you are all lying around the back of the villa. Most of the others are making great use of the pool, but you’ve found your own spot in the sun to work on your tan. Eyes closed, basking in the soothing warmth of the sun, everything would have been perfect… if it wasn’t for the shadow that falls over you in what feels like only a few minutes. 

Peeking an eye open, you’re not surprised to see your girlfriend peering over at you. 

“Pool time?” Alexia looks a bit sheepish, shuffling on her feet. It’s a question she’s asked no less than three times now, but each time you’ve come up with an excuse why you shouldn’t.

“I just ate.”

“I’ve got a cramp.”

“Oh look! I think Jenni wants your attention.”

Alexia’s an energetic person at heart. If she’s not out practicing on the pitch, she’s running or biking or doing literally anything to burn off her excess energy. Vacation Alexia is no different. She’s already managed to rope you and the other girls out on some sweat-worthy hikes. After the third time she tricked your entire group into joining her for another energy spending outing, you all banned her from planning any more activities for the group. 

She whined and pouted and argued away, but you all held firm. 

And that’s where the pool comes in. The only upside to having a pool in your rented villa, other than the occasional cooling off of course, is that Alexia has a way to work away her energy while everyone else gets to relax. It’s also a bonus that you have some nice eye-candy to look at while she’s swimming those strokes, but for the most part it helps keep the rest of you sane. 

So yeah, maybe you’ve been denying hopping into the pool whenever she asks. You know your girlfriend like the back of your hand, and you’d be a fool not to expect forced laps if you joined her in the water.

“Nope. I’m drunk. Drunk people shouldn’t go into the pool.” 

It’s a lie of course. 

You both knew how high of a tolerance you have, not to mention the clearly full drink still sitting by your side. 

Alexia doesn’t miss your full drink either, narrowing her eyes at you. “Drunk you say?”

You give her your best smile. “Yep. And you know what they say about drunk swimming.”

She raises an eyebrow. “It’s a good way to sober up?”

You roll your eyes, “No, you daft--”

Whatever you’re about to say is caught off in a scream when you’re suddenly hoisted in the air, sunglasses slipping off your head and crashing back down on your chair. 

“Alexia! What are you-- Let me go!”

Your girlfriend pretends she can’t hear you, tightening her grip on your body. It doesn’t matter how much you thrash, the muscles she spent hours cultivating in the gym were definitely not just for show. 

Everyone else at least has enough mind to swim out of the way when they see Alexia approach the edge of the pool.

“Alexia Putellas I swear to god, if you throw me in--”

“What’s that? Did you say something?” Alexia turns her head side to side, but there’s no mistaking the shit eating grin on her face. “‘Please throw you in?’ Oh well when you give me a request like that.”

“Alexia, don’t you dare!” 

---

Safe to say, Alexia spent the night sleeping in the living room.

[rookiesbookies]

“so what if I sucked his dick. his knuckles were split and bloody from defending my safety and my honor what else was I supposed to do”

With my boys (141+Konig+Keegan)

Price

Price is not a man to bring violence into his domestic life. He just refuses to. He has the gun under the couch and the hand gun in his bedside table, and that’s all the violence at home he needs.

HOWEVER.

The night you both had gone on a nice date and decided to end the night at a pub he was just having a good time. He didn’t want to be bothered. He was having a nice time.

When he watched the guy come up behind the two of you slurring, he was already set on edge. When the man grabbed your ass? There was zero hesitation.

Punch landed square between the poor guys eyes, John took a long sip of his drink and left a $100 on the table to cover any problems and the two drinks you both had, before taking you by the hand and leaving.

The man had a thick skull and Price honestly just ignored the fact that he had clearly probably broken a bone in his hand because the head you were giving him made it all so worth it.

Soap

Surprisingly, it was not a random person he punched.

He and Gaz had gotten into a petty argument. It shouldn’t have started, really.

Apparently Gaz made some snarky comment about Soap’s girl. It was before Gaz and his girlfriend had started dating so he didn’t have a woman to put him in his place over the shitty comment.

Johnny, however, was happy to oblige.

It took both Ghost and Price to pull him off Gaz, who was luck Soap only got a few good hits in. Soap was sent home like a kid from school and John stapled a note to his shirt explaining what had happened.

What Captain John Price didn’t expect, however, was for you to reward this behavior.

Little kitten licks and fluttering kisses up and down his length, tell him how proud you were he defended you before giving him the sloppiest of his life.

He brain melted, Soap had half the mind to punch Gaz for it again next time he saw him just to see if she would reward him again.

Ghost

Oh, he had considered strangling your ex more than once. But he caught him at your doorstep when he had just gotten back from a mission.

He wasn’t Simon yet. He was still Ghost.

So when the fucker was banging on your door, he was happy he had insisted on getting you a better front door lock. He could see you running to your bedroom, probably to get the handgun he kept under the dresser.

He almost wanted to call you and tell you not to bother.

He tore the man away from the door and just went ham. It wasn’t until you returned and looked out the window to see what had happened that Simon held up the man bloody and bruised and passed out.

Simon shoved the dude in whatever car he came in before driving to the middle of nowhere and leaving an only mildly threatening note, before having you pick him up.

When you went from kissing the splits and blood from his knuckles ot undoing his belt, he was so grateful his old square body had a bench seat.

The death grip on the steering wheel was the only thing keeping him sane. Almost pulling over to cum in your mouth but he had pulled into yalls shared driveway before he even realized. He had probably been doing felony speeds.

He took off his mask for the first time since he got home and planted soft kisses on your face. He mumbled something about not needing to reward Ghost for his usual behaviors between pecks.

Konig

Being the big bad colonel’s sweet little wife had its perks. Walking around the base with no problems, getting to spend all day chilling in his lap, never having to be far from him.

The worst time of year was when Konig had to deal with new recruits, who were already older gentlemen but clearly weren’t raised right and who didn’t understand how things worked in his base.

So when one of the recruits was pushing you around, getting too close and touchy, Konig didn’t hesitate.

One big swing, but that wasn’t enough. Konig was going to make an example of him.

Drug him out to the front of the base and gathered all of the recruits and made a scene. He made an example.

Dude got pummeled by Konig.

You honestly didn’t need to give him head, the satisfaction of putting that man in the med bay was enough. But when the idea left your sweet lips he would never refuse.

His bloody knuckles lovingly rubbing your face and massaging your hair as you struggle to fit it in your mouth, giving him big doe eyes? Its his favorite.

Keegan

Also punched a teammate. You had been brought on base for a celebration, everyone was in all their formal uniforms and outfits.

He had stayed sober, unlike most of his teammates.

Most of them didn’t have any women of their own.

Keegan just found out why.

It was a random Sargent from a different group, clearly hadn’t let you get a word out and just kept talking. Too drunk to realize that if you were here you were probably a spouse.

Keegan just gave him a nice smack to the gut, which ended up making the guy projectile vomit in the middle of the festivity room.

Someone definitely over-served by this dude.

But the way you kissed away the littlest bits of blood from Keegan’s had since his dry knuckle had caught on one of the guys pins and tore open. Made his heart melt.

I guess it melted into his dick because he knew EXACTLY what was happening when you pulled him away and down an empty and dark hall.

Oh he loved the way your lips kissed around him, living lipstick in their wake, before leaving a nice colored ring of it around his shaft.

Oh he’d wear it too proudly. Makes jokes about never washing his dick again.

Gaz

You and Gaz were in a booth on a double date with Soap and his girl. Simple date, just chilling. Soap was making jokes about how Kyle totally had a glow up now that he’s met his girl and about how Kyle probably understands why Johnny punched him for the comment a couple months back. (See Soap’s for an explanation)

However, that story just reminded Gaz, and gave him a good idea.

He mumbled something about still needing to get back at Soap for it. Also mumbling about how his nose still isn't right and his jaw still pops

One swift punch, Kyle was back how he was sitting before like it never even happened.

However the head he got in the family bathroom for that punch being hot while Soap and his girl thought Kyle had an emergency bathroom trip while his girl was changing her pad was crazy.

He almost broke the changing table off the wall with how he was gripping it.

Truly life changing.

Almost hit Soap again when they got back to the table.

Masterlist is pinned on my account as always and requests are open.

[eightstarr]

what's mine — ellie williams.

summary: the day you left for this assignment, ellie remembers thinking it would be okay— or maybe it was you who said it, your hands over her tense shoulders, her fingers tugging at your shirt, “you’ll be okay.” she goes home and knows it to be true, like words from a god. she’ll be okay and you’ll be back. what’s left to do but count the hours?

warnings: descriptions of violence (not very detailed), suggestive content near the end!

notes: uhhh i love being dramatic and i think it shows here. all i think about is the action of coming home to someone who loves you and how it is as meaningful now as it was a thousand years ago and as it will be in a hundred years but whatever haha sorry about that guys. if you read this i love you btw

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・。.・゜✧・. ────

Being without Ellie is disorienting. The first week feels like walking alone in a dark room, feeling the walls for a light switch, running into sharp corners that stab your sides. You miss her like it's a sickness, less a longing and more a threat to whatever you’re made of.

There's a small community way outside of Jackson offering a trade. Maria makes it sound simple, like everything else. “They know us, it’ll be quick. You pick up the supplies, drop off our part of the deal, and come back.”

It takes 26 days. The exchange is simple but the journey less so, you and three others have to carry home the much needed medical supplies through herds of infected and a heavy storm that slows you down and cuts off your communication for three terrifying nights.

Ellie wanders the house and feels like a stranger, sickly, a sleepless corpse searching for living blood. The light coming through the windows feels too bright and her skin abnormally cold. She knows, or thinks, that if she’s not careful she could get lost in it— merge every wall together until there’s nothing left to see but a stark flatness, an unfamiliar box. The space is not huge. It's not a tall castle or a manor in the countryside or anything fitting to the theatricality of loneliness, but it’s your home. So much of you is in it. Ellie finds herself focusing on a different thing each passing day, clinging to them with a nauseating desperation, a hundred random pieces of you scattered like breadcrumbs to keep her sane. A book with a folded corner somewhere along the first half of the story, your favorite mug next to the sink, an old pair of jeans ripped at the knee on your side of the drawer. Too many things for you not to come back.

“Do you think I'm losing my mind?” she asks, a soft wrinkle between her furrowed brows, her eyes focused on a random spot ahead. “I mean, it’s been two weeks,” she’s trying to sound like it's not as bad as it looks, like she finds any of it funny or interesting instead of plainly horrifying. The sole of her shoes hits the floor in an anxious rhythm, mocking her— tap, tap, tap, tap. “Isn’t that fucked up?”

Dina curses at the lighter until it flickers back to life with a weak orange flame, holding it near the end of the half finished blunt. She inhales and passes it over, breathing out, “You’re not crazy.”

A pause. Ellie lets the comment comfort her for a single second before it flies right through her head, sounding more quiet than usual when she admits, “...I have this feeling like someone took something from me.”

Dina raises her eyebrows, her chuckle cut off by a short cough, smoke itching her throat. “You mean, like… what’s her name?” she squints her eyes and tries to remember. 

The name worms around Ellie’s head like it has been for days, bold letters, clear as day. She makes no attempt to let it pass through her lips, self aware and unrelenting at the same time, maybe finding some indefensible satisfaction in the fact that it can be forgotten. Cruel, you'd tease, and Ellie would smirk a lot like she tries not to now.

Dina gives up a second later, “Whatever— the girl that volunteered to go with them before you could. You're blaming her?”

“I guess.”

“Hm. That’s a little…”

“Don’t say crazy—”

“Crazy.”

“Fuck you,” she rolls her eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“So you’re not jealous?”

Ellie scoffs, tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek. Dina argues unlike anyone else. She’s confident, her goal clear and her strategy already lined up before you get a word in, loaded like a gun. But her strongest contender, perhaps the only one, might be Ellie’s simple stubbornness. “I’m concerned. She got picked over me even though I've studied that route a hundred fucking times. I could've done a better job,” she says, steady and tireless like bulletproof glass.

“At getting the supplies or at taking care of your girlfriend?”

“You’re starting to sound like Maria.”

Dina pauses for a short moment before she shrugs. “Maria makes good points.”

Ellie takes one last hit of the blunt and flicks it across the room to die out somewhere on the permanently damp floor. She tries to believe it. No one took you, she thinks, you left dutifully like anyone else in Jackson would've, like Ellie would've. It’s a dangerous trip but a job like any other, the same risk of deadly infection that comes with any of them. She should be used to it by now. Does it not also exist every other day of the year?

Still, she can't remember the last time she didn't see your face for this long. You’ve been dating for a little over three years, living together for half of that— it's a terrifyingly meaningful chunk of your young lives, months and months of seeing you everyday, of falling asleep with her face on the crook of your neck and waking up with your fingers pressing into her waist. You've built a world where things like this don’t happen, where all Ellie can think about as she leaves home is the way you hum in the mornings, soft and sleepy and so fucking cute, when you wake up to her back against your chest and her hair on your face. She thinks about her own laugh, how shy it sounds, how your lips press to her head before she turns around to claim a proper kiss.

But now you’re not here, and she’s too terrified to even utter the words out loud, and there's a hole in her chest where you should be that makes her feel insane everywhere she goes. It's an open wound leaving a hazardous trail of shame and memories, humming in her ears like a boiling kettle, who took what's mine?

Ellie has never considered herself to be the jealous type, but she never was the type to sleep with her back turned to someone this comfortably, either. It’s different with you. It's theatricality, it’s the coldness of that bed at night, it’s your legs tangled with hers like growing roots now disjointed. It’s a thing, breathing and alive, screaming at nothing— I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

Is that girl you went with hanging from your every word in that way she always does? Is that a shameful thought to have? Ellie wipes it clean in a second and finds it immediately there again, at the front of her mind like a message on a cloudy mirror. She can't think about anything else. Is the storm keeping the two of you awake? Does a part of you find the girl brave for volunteering? Is she turning to look at you and asking, just loud enough, are you asleep? That fall earlier was rough, how are you feeling? Is she looking at your wounds like they matter more than doing a good job? Is your blood, warm and red and yours, on her hands now?

The last of the smoke spills past her lips in a sigh. Ellie pulls her knees closer to her chest and tugs at the loose thread on your ripped jeans.

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

There’s a comfortable weight that keeps you under, the loving press of her arm resting over your chest, her thumb brushing your chin. The sun feels warm where it’s draped across Ellie’s back, white tank top wrinkled slightly up her waist.

She watches you until you let out a little sigh, squint one eye open and then slowly the next, a smile stretching your lips as soon as your sight focuses on her. She looks beautiful. She looks just like she did before you left, your girl.

It’s weird— you’ve showered, scrubbed your hands clean and raw, changed clothes. And still you feel like you’ve brought in something dirty, like it’ll be stuck on you for a while, the grime, the guns, the storm. Your muddy shoes must still be sitting by the front door. Something in your head screams that you should get rid of them, burn them like an evidence of guilt. Do you look anything like you did before you left? You feel like a worn version of yourself, sticky and darkened. It’s a ridiculous worry to have, but the thought comes hand in hand with embarrassment and you can feel it crawling up your neck. You cover your face with your hands and groan tiredly, shy.

Ellie laughs, warm like musk, salve on a wound.

"Are you watching me sleep?" you mutter, voice ridden with exhaustion and joy all at once. The thing, love, obsession, both— breathes along with you. "Freak."

"Yeah, I was,” she shifts to sit on your lap, one knee on either side of you, spilling her confession easily. Ellie leans over to push your hands away from your face and press her lips to yours, passionate but short lived, still softly brushing against each other when she says, "I missed this face."

You chuckle, eyes tracing over her freckled cheeks, hands squeezing her thighs, feeling strangely like you’re being washed clean. “I missed you.”

Ellie closes her eyes and rests her forehead against yours, her fingers caressing your cheeks, looking at you again when her thumb brushes against the ridge of a scar. It’s a warped line that almost follows the shape of your cheekbone, from your hairline to somewhere near the corner of your lips. She'd seen it last night, nauseous with worry and relief to have you back, her vision clouded. The morning reveals it in a different, heartbreaking light. It’s okay, you’d said during the night, your hands on either side of her face much like hers are on you now, didn't even need stitches. Ellie tries to let that sink in, make the guilt feel any better. But it can't. Maybe you’d been saved the prick of a needle, but she knows it still hurt, she knows it bled and stung. It feels like a betrayal. If I can't save you the pain, she thinks, I owe you the witnessing, the chance to clean its wry edges, pat it dry. "How'd you get this one?" she asks, as softly as she can.

You’d been prepared for the question but not the devastation in her eyes. It falls over you like a ton of bricks, her love making your chest ache and sinking you back into the memory.

There was an empty house, or what looked like one. Pieces of broken glass scattered over the rotting wood of an old, wobbly table. A man's hand placed forcefully on your head. The side of your face rammed into the table with a thud when he pushed you down, the faint pain of something slicing into your cheek made worse by your struggle to get free. A kick and he stumbled back. A slice of your knife and he fell dead. You don't think the fact will do much to comfort Ellie. So, in hopes of sparing her, you hum and shake your head. "Come here," you say, or beg, a hand on the back of her neck like fond guidance. "Let me kiss your pretty face."

She feels soft like satin on your lips, tastes like honey and black tea. Ellie kisses like she argues, experienced and unruly all at once, with a point to make— I need you and I want you to know it. Her tongue slips past your parted lips and brings a muffled sound from your throat that almost makes her pull slightly away, if it weren't for the feeling of your fingers tightening on her neck to have her closer. A faint thought crosses Ellie’s mind, a feeling like pity for the person she was before you, whoever that was, an old self who couldn't know what it's like to be devoured so caringly.

She brushes her nose against yours and you let out a sigh that sounds painfully like a prayer, her short hair a dark veil over your eyes when she turns her head to press kisses on your cheek. "You can't leave me like that again," she breathes out.

You swallow her words, a confused wrinkle between your eyebrows. “Ellie—”

A kiss cuts you off. You slide your hands up her thighs to her waist, a surprised hum vibrating against her lips when she wraps her fingers around your wrists and squeezes, as if to keep them there. She leans back and stares into you, and for the first time since you’ve known Ellie, you can't tell if she's commanding you or begging. “I won’t let you.”

It’s a gesture. It goes beyond the reality of your lives, the fact that any day either one of you could be made to leave again, that any day either one of you could die. It means I missed you. It means I need it to be me who looks after you. It means I love you.

Your stomach flutters, hungry with an urgent craving. And like you have every day since you’ve known Ellie, you find yourself unable to deny her love or the indulging promise of a different world— but maybe those mean the same thing. "I'm not leaving you," you say, breathless, and it might as well be true.

Ellie makes a sound in response that feels painfully close to a moan, a soft mmhm that clouds your head of anything that may or may not exist outside of this room. The tip of her nose brushes against your neck and then continues its way down, her fingers sneaking inside your shirt, pulling up the fabric and pressing kisses over the skin that’s revealed. "I love you," she says, almost near the band of your underwear, her blushed lips parted. You feel her breath against the burning fire in your lower stomach, reaching out to cradle her cheek against your hand. She feels hot, flushed pink under her freckles, and you’re not sure if she hears you say I love you, Ellie as much as she watches you mouth the words. She presses her face further into your hand, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, begging as if she’d ever have to, “Baby, I need— please.”

You don't hear yourself say yes, but the look in her eyes says you must have.

[agustdiv1ne]

telepathy (m) — cbg

pairing: choi beomgyu x fem!reader

genre: smut, strangers to ???, mind reader/telepathist!beomgyu, funeral home employee!beomgyu (it's for the plot ok???)

wc: 11.7k

synopsis: most people would abhor a packed subway car — but beomgyu, telepathist extraordinaire, relishes in it. with a career in the funeral business, he finds his morning commute to be the only thing that keeps him relatively sane. reading the mundane thoughts of mundane people maintains his tether to his humanity, but when he goes to read your mind...oh, things get a whole lot more interesting.

warnings: mdni!! 18+ only, ageless blogs dni!!!, mentions of dead bodies, embalming, and funerals (though not very descriptive — it's only bc of gyu's profession), reader is a freak that listens to nsfw audios on her way to work!, gyu is a perv so it's a match made in heaven (hell?), gyu's honestly a little strange + obsessive in this...anyways, dom!gyu, sub!mc, solo male masturbation, on my big cock beomgyu agenda, very brief mentions of daddy/sir/master kinks, explicit consent is given before anything happens bc consent is sexy <3, mind manipulation (he makes it feel like he's touching her), exhibitionism in a way (it will all make sense, trust 🙏), degradation, praise, pseudo-fingering (idk how to explain it, f receiving), gyu calls mc: pretty girl, sweetheart, slut, whore, princess, mc calls gyu sir like once...whew! that was a lot, lmk if i should add anything!

note: you know i have a terrible bout of brainrot when the warnings are all nsfw related...yeah. Yeah. *presses post and runs away*

☆ playlist ☆

masterlist

beomgyu’s commute to work is, by all means, uneventful. 

the train is packed as per usual, filled to the brim with businessmen and office workers and other miscellaneous passengers on their way to whatever the hell their destination is. like most days, he finds himself towards the middle of the passenger car, snatching a rare open seat between a stone-faced man adorned in a suit — his head buried in a newspaper — and a slumped over college student nursing a cup of coffee. the poor kid almost looks like death itself, sporting dark under eyes, rumpled clothes, and a prominent slouch to his spine. not that beomgyu could really blame him; he remembers how easily college living (if you could call it living) can chip away at a person’s mental well-being. 

people-watching like this is what keeps him sane, he thinks. being surrounded by corpses all day, every day is more than draining — it sucks the soul out of him, really, being the only person on shift most of the time that he’s working, having to embalm and clean and pretty up all those cold, gray bodies so that their loved ones can say one last goodbye. it’s quiet in their minds and it’s all too quiet in the funeral home, the only sounds being the clanking of the embalming tools he’s been trained to use, his footsteps echoing down the tiled halls, his sighs of contempt when something small goes wrong — yet the living, breathing, warm people on the train provide a sense of normalcy, something to look forward to every day. to hear their thoughts, as prosaic as they are, has become a sort of saving grace from the lifeless, cold building that he finds himself in five out of the seven days of the week. honestly, if he can maintain a little bit of his humanity via strangers among the subway, even if it’s just by hearing their thoughts, then he’ll take what he can get. 

yeah, that’s the thing: beomgyu is a mind-reader, a pretty talented one at that. not that anyone knew, of course — he wouldn’t risk the government finding out. beomgyu is not usually one for promises, but he has promised himself one thing: there’s no way in hell that he will ever become one of the government’s sick little science experiments, even if his life ever hits rock bottom. he has no idea how his powers work — just that they do, and he would like to keep it that way. it’s bad enough that he doesn’t know where he got such abilities; his parents never mentioned anything about it and only ever grew worried whenever he read back their thoughts to them, so obviously the existence of his powers is some statistical anomaly in the universe. normal people can’t read others’ minds. he was forced to learn that at a very young age in order to keep himself safe. 

“how do you know that?” he remembers his mother’s alarmed tone when he first did it unknowingly, repeating back her own thoughts to her without realizing that’s what he had done. he was maybe six at the time — innocent, curious, plagued by voices in his head that he didn’t quite understand. those voices weren’t his. rather, they were his friends’, his family’s, his dentist’s and his doctor’s and his soccer coach’s voices that ricocheted about his mind uncontrollably;it was overwhelming for the young boy’s mind. the day he first admitted that he could hear them was the first day he heard his parents argue, their yelling from downstairs colliding with their internal voices in beomgyu’s mind, their terribly poignant concern for him and this development louder than any of the venomous words that they spat at each other in the living room. all he remembers from that day was himself crying, unable to block out anything that they thought, let alone his own thoughts. too much for his young mind to handle.

he heard their fear when they took him to the doctor for the first time of many, their heartache when the doctor came back and said that he might have psychosis, but more testing was needed. he heard how they started to deny it — their little boy couldn’t have that, could he? no, no he couldn’t. there’s no way he could. 

although beomgyu was young at the time, guilt ate at him. he was the one hurting his parents, he was the one making them worry. despite his official diagnosis when he was seven, something inside him knew that the doctors were wrong. those voices weren’t just the result of the machinations of his mind at work — they were voices of the people he knew, strangers who passed him on the street. what they said wasn’t evil, it wasn’t out of the ordinary. usually, it was quite mundane. at some point, he started to practice with it, trying focus on one certain voice out of the buzzing hive in his mind, blocking out the others, switching and focusing and blocking out until the action was as natural as breathing. it took him about five years before he reached that point, and after nearly two decades of living with his abilities, he’s gotten quite used to it. his mind is usually quiet — besides his own stream of consciousness — unless he allows others in. or, rather, they allow him in, which they always do. he sees it like a set of doors; open one, and you can hear that one person’s thoughts. close it, and he no longer hears them. and none of them are ever locked since no one expects to their thoughts to be read, which simply makes his life that much easier.

if he’s being honest, he didn’t used to read minds as often as he does now, but there isn’t much he can do about that now lest he go insane. beomgyu could admit that his habit was a little creepy…okay scratch that, extremely fucking creepy. these people had no idea that their minds were being infiltrated, their mental walls bypassed and their privacy violated like a computer infected with a malicious virus. it’s borderline depraved, how nonchalantly he robs these strangers of their utmost privacy, sometimes of their deepest, darkest secrets that they would never want anyone to find out about. he could sequester quite a bit of money out of some of these people, now that he thinks about it.

and sure, that may sound immoral, but beomgyu has never considered himself to be of particularly virtuous character.

without a second thought, beomgyu taps into the mind of the kid next to him. he’s thinking about how he’s failing his statistics class because he just bombed his midterm. no, now his mind is full of what he’s going to eat after his 8 a.m. class. he shifts his focus on the businessman to his right. stocks, his cheating wife, how he’s considering leaving with his mistress in the coming days…

”what a prick,” beomgyu thinks to himself, smirking a bit. just a few more stops until he gets off, now. 

he pulls his phone from his jacket pocket, scrolling aimlessly just to keep his eyes busy. sitting on the opposite side of the college student, an elderly lady walks herself through the stew that she’s going to make for her grandchildren tonight, excitement coloring her words. it’s cute — he loves hearing things like that. wholesome thoughts are not easy to come by nowadays, given the state of the world. exhibit a: a teenager standing on the other side of the train car worries himself into a frenzy over whether the girl that he has a crush on likes him back. exhibit b: a middle aged man contemplates if he should quit his job. for a second, beomgyu thinks that he might be in the same boat as him, before realizing that he has nothing else to fall back on — exhibit c. he could keep going.

a clear, robotic voice overhead announces the subway’s arrival to the next station — his station. sighing, he sits up a little taller, slipping his phone into the pocket of his slacks. a vague sense of dread weighs down his shoulders, knowing that he has a service to set up for the moment he clocks in.

he’s not looking forward to today, and yet the train still slows to a stop, the doors still slide open, and he still grabs his work briefcase from the spot between his feet. like clockwork, beomgyu maneuvers through the crowd, out the doors, and climbs the stairs up to the chilly streets of seoul.

decompressing after a slow-moving shift can take beomgyu’s night in many directions. sometimes, he simply returns home and hops into bed after a long, scalding hot shower that removes the invisible layer of grime that lays heavy on his skin. other times — typically on fridays — he’ll stop by a bar and catch up with his friends, occasionally leaving with a woman hanging off of his arm if he drinks enough to lower his inhibitions. more often than not, however, his excursions at the underground bar that taehyun is partial to end in him stumbling home alone and waking up the next morning with a raging headache. nursing a hangover alone, eating breakfast alone, bathing alone…he has never really become acclimated to it. the monster that festers inside beomgyu’s chest craves for love, for connection, for somebody to hold when the nights are too dark and his thoughts match the shade of the sky. the lack of connection is slowly getting to him. is this what insanity feels like? he wouldn’t know, nor would he like to find out. he’s sane. he’s perfectly sane. 

beomgyu understands that his profession can be off-putting to potential lovers, but it’s not as if he had much of a choice in the matter — not when his one shot at the career of his dreams crumbled below his feet when the company filed bankruptcy, sending him tumbling back down to earth, to the reality that his college degree meant little to nothing to the vast majority of employers nowadays. though he applied to dozens of jobs, the only one he ever heard back from was from the listing titled “mortuary assistant,” and in desperation, he accepted the position without much thought. maybe if he had tried a little harder to find a different company where he could apply his skills, maybe if he had pushed himself to make connections in the industry when he had the resources to do so, maybe if he had pursued music production a little harder, had not given up so readily when things grew difficult…maybe things would be different. 

beomgyu often thinks about the maybes.

this particular night, he finds himself leaned over a bar counter, a glass of amber-hued beer in hand. he half-listens to yeonjun’s slurred account of his dance crew’s latest win while he stares down at the mahogany tabletop. some condensation has gathered on the wood, and he swipes a finger through it. a slap to his shoulder brings his focus back to his surroundings.

“gyu, dude, y’should totally try out,’’ yeonjun pitches as he sloppily swings an arm over beomgyu’s shoulders. “get out of that. that—” he stumbles over his words for a moment, expression warping into a confused grimace. “that gross ass dead people building.”

beomgyu exhales a laugh as yeonjun’s head lolls against his shoulder, quietly whining about how his head hurts. while yeonjun is substantially gone already, beomgyu is only on his second beer. scanning the spacious, dim-lit room, he shakes his head. it’s times like these where he does not feel the need to slip into people’s minds — being surrounded by his friends is enough. “nah, man. i don’t think i could keep up. it’s been a while.”

“sure y’could! you’re like th’second best dancer here!” yeonjun says as his torso slumps down against the table. the bartender eyes him from further down the bar top with concern, but beomgyu sates the employee with an apologetic smile, ensuring that he turns away before setting his attention back on his friend.

beomgyu scoffs. “and i’m assuming you’re the first best?”

“uh, obviously. i literally run th’thing,” yeonjun retorts as he glares at him with a single eye open, an ear now resting on top of his crossed arms on the counter.

“yeonjun’s right,” taehyun butts in from the other side of yeonjun’s collapsed body. though his glazed over eyes give away his inebriated state, taehyun’s tolerance tends to lean much higher than yeonjun’s; this fact is confirmed by the crystal clear enunciation of his words as he continues, “you’ve been acting differently ever since you started working there. it wouldn’t hurt to try something new.”

great, even his friends have noticed. exhaling deeply, beomgyu nods.

“yeah, i’ll think about it.” 

as the conversation meanders off into other topics, beomgyu sinks back into his own little world. curse taehyun and his acute perceptiveness. he knows that he’s been acting off, but maybe his friends are right; he once dreamed of being a choreographer, back when he was a teen, before he discovered his love for music production. perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to try.

unintentionally, he meets the gaze of a girl sitting at a booth with her friends. he quickly averts his gaze, and by the time he looks back up, she has been roped into what seems like a shot-taking contest. six other girls circle the table, one joining the first girl in taking rapid-fire shots, four others egging them on, and one laser-focused on her phone, occasionally sipping water through a straw. from what he can gather, she’s likely the group’s designated driver — though it seems her role has morphed into more of a babysitter. she’s pretty, he’ll admit. just his type. if he was on his third or fourth beer, he’d probably be over there trying to strike up a conversation with her, rather than any of her drunk friends. 

as she looks up and throws a cursory glance around the bar, she catches him staring, her kohl-lined eyes meeting his own. an eyebrow raises as her gloss-coated lips twist, as if to say “don’t even try it.”

oh, how terribly he wishes to slip into her mind and let her know that he has no intention to. 

the ear-piercing screech of yeonjun’s barstool to his right tears his gaze away from her. yeonjun now stands, one arm around taehyun and the other around soobin, the latter sporting a borderline disgusted grimace directed at the older boy hanging off of him while kai simply stands behind the trio of men. yeonjun’s head hangs low below his shoulders, chin nearly touching his chest, as he emits a pathetic groan. at least he’s not puking this time.

“we’re about to go grab some food. this one,” taehyun’s head nods to yeonjun’s sagging frame. “definitely needs it. you coming?”

unwilling to allow the night to end quite yet, beomgyu hums, quickly pays his tab, and allows the brief, silent encounter with the woman to fade away into the back of his mind.

the rest of the weekend passes without fanfare, and monday returns to rear its ugly head once again. monday is beomgyu’s least favorite day of the week; it brings a raging headache from his 5 a.m. alarm, a bone-deep fatigue that lingers for the rest of the day. it brings grumpy commuters whose knees and elbows uncomfortably bump against his own. it brings people who think that he should give up his seat, and silently tell him so with narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows. how selfish, they all think whenever he actually bothers to read their thoughts. what a fucking dick, some of them even snarl within the so-called impenetrable walls of their minds, walls he so easily breaks down. he levels those ones with a half-awake glare, pupils gloomy and lifeless. internally, their uneasy reactions make him want to laugh, hysterically cackle in their faces because wow, is he really that scary? he shouldn’t be, but maybe the dark under eyes are doing something for him.

surprisingly, the subway car he frequents is less crowded than usual. not as many people stand in front of him, and he’s actually able to see directly across the car for the first time in a while. doors shut, and he’s left to look around at the regulars and the new patrons that often don’t show up again. they’re easily less interesting than the regulars. really, what can he say? the daily life updates satisfy his nosy tendencies. 

still, he hates mondays. mondays suck. mondays make him want to crawl into a hole and eventually join the bodies at his workplace. they bring out the worst in his mind. all they do is remind him of the neverending cycle that he has trapped himself in — wake up, work, go to sleep, and do it all over again the next day.

mondays bring a lot of things he fundamentally dislikes, but this particular monday also brings you. 

it’s split-second eye contact. nothing more, nothing less. your eyes grow wide, your lips parting just the slightest bit in surprise. though he has not invaded your mind (yet), he can already tell what you are thinking. fuck, he isn’t blind — he knows that he is handsome.

your eyes shoot downward, your head hanging low with your phone clenched between your fingers. one of his eyebrows raises while a small smirk plays on his lips — you’re new, and even better, you’re cute. his dark, seemingly bored gaze trails over to the earbuds nestled in your ears, then to your crossed legs. you glance up at him again, eyes blowing wide again as your thighs press together just enough for him to notice the movement. his own eyes narrow slightly, evaluating the sight. 

you seem...interesting. prim, proper, sitting in a modest-length skirt and a plain blouse and coat that paint you as an unassuming character, just another random person in this sardine can of a train car. yet there’s this glint in your eyes that tells him there is so, so much more to you than what meets the eye — that the innocent, put-together little front that you display to the world is a complete and utter lie. it’s intriguing. new patrons come and go from this particular subway car every day, but you and your fresh face have caught his interest — and so has your odd behavior. 

then, without warning, realization punches him square in the gut.

you were there the other night, with those girls at the bar. the one sitting at the end of the table with the small glass of water as you scrolled through your phone. the one who shot a piercing glare at him as you looked out for your inebriated friends. your current behavior is a far cry from the strong front he first encountered that night, small and oh-so meek and lacking the sharp, piercing edge to your gaze that initially piqued his interest in you. the change, for some reason, intrigues him more. what happened to that feisty glare, that confident air to your posture? he wants to know why you seem so meek, so he taps in to your mind and—

“you’re my dumb little slut, aren’t you? fuckin’ say it—”

beomgyu flinches in his seat, the door to your mind slamming shut as he sits there in shock. did he really just hear that? are you listening to fucking porn on the subway? what the fuck?

he’s never had this happen to him before. he’s accidentally stumbled upon the occasional horny thought before, sure, but listening to porn on the subway? that’s a new one. he decides to give you another glance; your lips are pressed together now, eyes pointed towards the floor as you further shrink into yourself. fuck, you’re so cute, but now he knows you’re also awfully perverted — and for some reason, he feels himself getting hard in his trousers at the thought of entering your mind again. 

he should do something about this little development, shouldn’t he?

yeah, he thinks that he should. a sick sort of curiosity wins over the more logical side of his brain, the side that tells him that he should feel guilty for even thinking about what he’s about to do. he can’t, can he? no, he can — he wants to, he really fucking wants to. opportunities like this don’t just present themselves on a silver platter like this on the regular. if he doesn’t take this chance, then he’d be an absolute fool. 

the subway slows to a stop, the weirdly cheery, robotic voice calling out another stop. not his, thank god. he takes this opportunity to open that pesky little door to your mind again, now fully expecting the depravity echoing in your brain — and rather than do anything drastic too quickly, he simply sits there and listens. he listens through an entire audio alongside you, ignoring the twitch of his cock as he listens to the woman be degraded and praised, in missionary and in doggy, her moans mixing with the man's in a cacophony of pleasure — he loves the way you jump when the sound of a hand striking flesh sounds through your mind. your fleeting sigh of “god, i wish that were me,” causes him to bite his lip. you like being treated like a slut, huh? like a stupid little whore only made to take cock? that’s music to his ears, really — because he likes treating girls like that too. 

as sick and disgusting as it is, he continues to listen as if mindlessly tuning in to a podcast, subtly adjusting himself in his pants as he fights off a raging boner. he wants to be the one to do those things to you. he wants to make you scream and sob and beg for mercy as he completely ravages your body, fuck you until you’re brainless, perfect little slut for him. you’d love that, according to the audios you consume for the remainder of his commute — to be fucked so hard you legs give out from under you, to be owned, fully and completely. he likes that sound of that as well.

a few minutes into the second audio, you take another glance at him, eyes squeezing shut right away once you catch his gaze — and suddenly, your thoughts are full of him. he’s encountered countless strangers who can perfectly visualize their streams of consciousness, and you seem to be yet another one of them. images of you on your knees between his thighs and sucking his cock in the middle of this subway car flood his own mind, switching to one of him fucking you from behind against the wall while everyone else watches, then to him finger fucking you with a hand around your throat…what the fuck. what the fuck? how do you just do that? how do you think of such terribly shameless things while looking so pretty and demure, as if you’re a shy little thing rather than some fucking whore? he shifts his briefcase over his lap again. fuck, he’s so hard it’s starting to hurt. shit, fuck. 

he should be appalled by you, but fiery, ardent lust is the sole emotion that floods his veins. would it be a bad idea to talk to you? no, you want it. you want it so fucking bad. just look at your mind — and he can make all your dirty little fantasies come true, if you would let him. 

just as he’s about to actually do something about you, the subway slows to a stop once again, the same cheery voice announcing his stop. god dammit. pushing himself up to his feet, he finds that you’re doing the same, wide eyes flitting around nervously as you move towards the door and stop nearly right next to him, those earbuds that hide your biggest secret in plain sight still stuck in your ears. he can still hear those degrading words and moans and slapping sounds that still echo through your mind, loud and clear as if those white earbuds are sitting snug in his own ears. 

the doors slide open, and soon enough, he loses sight of you in the surging crowd. stepping out of the subway, he looks around once, twice. you have completely disappeared; nowhere to be found, your mind has grown too far from his own for him to locate nor access, the tether between the two of you frayed to the point of snapping in half. with a brief purse of his lips, he sets off up the stairs. it’s fine, there’s always another day. it’s fine, he tells himself over and over again. there’s nothing he could have done in such a short time, anyway. 

the sun sits high in the sky today, but the bone-chilling air cuts through his puffy coat like tiny needles puncturing his skin, or millions of scalpels slicing open flesh nearly to the bone, cold and sterile and far from comforting. autumn shouldn’t be this cold, and his slightly soured mood isn’t helping his case right now. he should have done something back there, he should’ve opened up the channel between the two of you and taken the plunge. it wouldn’t have hurt to try, but no. no, he let that opportunity go like every other one he’s had in his life. with his jaw set, he promises himself that it won’t happen again. it won’t, because if he keeps living like this — allowing all these opportunities slip through his fingers like grains of sand — he’ll never be able to forgive himself.

and honestly, beomgyu is no clairvoyant, and he should brush off the tickle in his brain as a stupid, naive hunch…but he has a compelling feeling that he’ll be seeing you again tomorrow. 

when beomgyu returns home, the sun slowly sinking towards the horizon, he doesn’t unwind like he usually does. today’s shift was a slow one, with no bodies to preen and primp and no services to set up for, so most of his time was taken up with cleaning, filing documents, and sitting around aimlessly. no matter how much he tried to fend them off, thoughts of you bounced around in his brain for the entire eight hours he was on shift. fuck, he doesn’t even know your name, much less anything else about you, yet he wishes he could travel back in time and redo this morning all over again. he’s not sure how it would have panned out, exactly, but he has a few tricks up his sleeve that would’ve made it exciting.

he shakes his head. the current moment presents much more pressing matters than ruminating on this morning’s terrible decisions; the strain in his trousers proves to be a pertinent issue, a tent formed in the black fabric and aching to be touched. now that the public eye no longer holds his gaze, his apartment door locked shut behind him, he allows himself to give in to his most base instincts. a hand comes down to cup his hardness as he imagines his fingers as yours, you on your knees below him, those adorably wide eyes staring up at him in desperation. you’d wait for permission, right? you’d beg so prettily like a good little slut should? fuck yeah, you would. you’d be good, you’d take what he would give you — and you would love it. 

groaning, he crashes onto his couch, head throwing back against the back cushion as he gropes his cock harder. he’s forgone slipping off his dress shoes and has barely even slipped his coat off before he’s giving in to the pulsing ache in his groin that’s nearly unbearable, the white hot need swirling in his stomach that demands his immediate attention. his belt quickly unbuckled and his trousers pulled halfway down his thighs, he slips his cock from his boxers, gasping at how sensitive he has become. 

“oh fuck,” he breathes out into the quiet air, a shuddered sigh following when his thumb swipes over the angry red head, the bead of precum that has gathered there spreading across his skin. he brings his hand up to his lips, gathering some spit beneath his tongue before letting in loll into his palm. bringing it back down, he drags his hand up and down his shaft, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as pleasure rushes through his veins. he pumps his cock steadily, hips rolling up into his hand as if fucking your throat. eyes fluttering closed, his free hand grips the couch, fingernails digging into the worn leather and leaving half-moon indents in their wake. “fuck. god, fuck.”

would you be able to take him? he’s been told he’s big, most women barely able to take him even after extensive prep. he imagines how you’d keen as he enters you, your back arching so prettily and your walls stretching to their limits to accommodate his size. how you’d choke and gag on his cock if he decided to use your throat, tears streaming down your cheeks as you peer up at him pathetically, fingers digging into your thighs as you resist the urge to touch yourself. would you like to be slapped around a little, punished with spankings and little taps to your cheek? 

“focus,” he mumbles to no one. to you. “focus, slut. be good for me.” 

he’s delirious at this point, has dived so deep into his fantasies that he barely registers that he’s fucking his fist and not your mouth or sweet little cunt. that doesn’t stop his fingers from tightening their grip, squeezing the head before gliding back down again, then back up, the rhythm of his hips growing frenzied as his high inches closer. his free hand smooths up his stomach, taking his button-up with it as he clenches it with desperate fingers. he bites down on the fabric, pumping himself once, twice, three times before his high hits him, his cum spurting out in staccato ribbons. he’s making a mess, but he can’t bring himself to care when this is the best orgasm he’s had in months. the shirt falls from his mouth as he moans unabashedly. 

“take it,” he groans, his hips canting upward. “fuckin’— fuckin’ take it. shit. such a perfect little whore for me.”

he cums and he cums, spilling all over himself until he’s milked dry. eyes closed, his contracted muscles melt into the couch, hot pants replacing his moans and groans. a few minutes pass before he fully comes down from his headspace and returns back to earth, only for him to realize just how much he came, staining his clothes and coating his skin in creamy white. he blinks. 

reality crashes down on his head. 

he just…jerked off to you. he just came so hard he saw stars just from the mere thought of you. oh, he’s in deeper than he first thought. too deep, too quickly, he can barely breathe. 

“fuck,” beomgyu murmurs as he stares down at his cum-covered abdomen, his sticky hand. “fuck.”

beomgyu was right: you do come back the next day. and the next. and the next.

over the remainder of the work week, he watches you — well, more so listens to you, but he can’t deny himself the little glimpses he allows himself to take, drinking in how you worry your bottom lip, how the muscles in your throat contract each time you gulp. the poker face that you don crumbles oh so easily whenever he meets your stray gaze. it’s exhilarating, knowing the power he, a complete stranger, has over you. your microscopic slips in expression remain undetected to the rest of the passengers, but he sees every single one. they’re a perfectly entertaining backdrop for your explicit musings. 

he knows he could approach you like a normal human being would, but where’s the fun in that? he’s not quite a normal person in his own right, anyway. instead, he’s decided to keep you in his sights, learning what exactly you enjoy, what you like to hear, preparing for the day where he again gathers the courage to toy with you within the walls of your mind. he’s in deep, and at this point, he’s accepted it if only to justify his sadistic obsession with you. actually, on second thought, he wouldn’t quite call it an obsession, perhaps a morbid curiosity more than anything. yeah, that’s all it can be.

it’s almost as if the universe has sent him a little present in the form of you, an apology for the trials and tribulations that whatever is above has rained down on him this past year or so. of course he’s going to savor it. who wouldn’t? so he sticks to his plan, and keeps watching you, listening to you, observing you, identifying your little quirks and deepest, darkest desires. they’ll be quite useful later, he’s sure. 

over his…research period, he’s found out a lot about you. you like to be bullied, to be called a slut, a whore, but you also enjoy a little praise mixed in: good slut, good whore, pretty girl is so obedient for sir, for daddy, for master. you’re also not too picky in what you listen to, as long as it contains a male dominant in some capacity. couple’s content, threesomes, gangbangs are all on the table, as are solo audios that usually have some sort of plot to them — coworkers to lovers' first date that ends in sex? check. hot librarian who fucks over a table you after closing? that too. he could go on about what he’s heard in just the solo audios you consume, but even that list would be exhaustive. 

by the time friday rolls around, he doesn’t even have to try to search for your mind; call him crazy, but it’s almost as if you, on some subconscious level, know that he wants in and are more than willing to let him. as if you keep the door cracked open just for him. 

at least, he likes to think that you do. 

staying close, but not too close, to you proves to be difficult today. fridays bring with them a surge of new faces that crowd the subway car, which is generally quite annoying, but at the moment, he also finds it to be frustrating. no seats are open when he boards, he can’t even see you through the dense crowd, but you’re there. your mind is there, open and waiting for him to enter.

though he won’t be able to see your cute little reactions, he steps through that mental threshold. 

“it’s okay, baby. shh, don’t cry, you can cum. cum for me, just let go,” a gentle voice coos. aw, you must be having a rough morning, how sad. the only other day you listened to these kinds of audios, you looked absolutely miserable, the corners of your lips pulled down and a deep, pathetic furrow to your brows — it was wednesday, that’s right. two days ago, when you seemed frazzled and completely out of it. a little digging resulted in him learning that you had spilled your coffee all over the concrete on the way here, you thought your hair didn’t look right (even though, to him, it did, it looked perfect — he wished he could’ve told you that), and worst of all, your boss emailed you late the previous night to admonish you for your performance, demanding a meeting first thing that morning. 

still, he wishes he could take care of your boss, eliminate that weight off of your shoulders. if it were up to him, your boss would be sitting in the morgue at his place of work, gray and comatose and unable to admonish you for things that beomgyu is sure you had no control over. because that’s how offices work, right? sink or swim, big fish eat the little ones, blaming those below them for everything they should be taking responsibility for. your boss has to be one of those. he was pig-nosed and donning a constant sneer when you pictured the verbal berating you’d be getting once you got to your workplace. 

that day, he found himself thinking about how he’s become pretty talented with a scalpel. 

“good girl. doing so well for me, pretty girl,” the same voice soothes, soft cries and sniffles from the submissive mixing with the gentle words. he could treat you all sweet too. he could be anything you want, if only you knew him. 

he wants you to know him — needs you to, really.

there’s no clear cut reason for your current sour mood, your thoughts too jumbled together for him to properly decipher. are you picking apart your appearance? did you wake up late? is this all because of your boss again? he might just kill the bastard if that’s the case…if only he could approach you, tell you that everything will be okay, but he doesn’t want to knock down the house of cards he’s spent such precious time building over the course of the week. you’re too special for that. it’s the very reason why he tries to blend into the crowd, why he tries to keep eye contact to a minimum. the last thing he needs is for you to run away from him when you’re one of the only things holding him together.

when the car slows to his and your stop, disappointment nips at the space between his eyebrows. he didn’t even get to see you today, and the end of the work week means that he won’t be seeing you for two entire days. sighing, he falls into his typical routine: move towards the doors, wait for them to open, and follow the other exiting passengers out. where could you be? you’re still here, he knows that much since he’s still connected to you, still hears those soft words and moans, but where the fuck are you? you, as in your body. that you.

with a single cursory glance around, he swears he catches a glimpse of your figure before the crowd swallows you whole. as he’s shoved towards the stairs by the crowd, his chest grows heavy.

friday has just begun, but monday couldn’t come any faster. 

“so, are you gonna try out?”

yeonjun is far more sober compared to last friday night, his eyes lacking that fatigued droop they always get whenever he’s had too much. beomgyu tears his glazed-over gaze away from the television screen to look at the yeonjun, sinking further into the couch below him. he points to himself. “me?”

yeonjun rolls his eyes, a knee swinging over the arm of the armchair he sits in. “who the fuck else would i be talking to?”

scoffing, beomgyu shoots him a glare. “i don’t know, man. y’don’t have to be a dick about it.”

the open bottle of beer in beomgyu’s hand chills his fingertips, so he switches it to his other hand before taking another sip. meanwhile, soobin plops down next to him with an already open bag of chips, offering some to him. he shakes his head, and soobin shrugs, beginning to munch on them by himself. 

“i’m serious though,” yeonjun continues. “you should really try out. there’s not much to it, just dance to one song and you’re done. i’d probably pass you even if you sucked.”

“that’s nepotism,” taehyun chimes in from the floor, eyes trained on the screen as he shoots a player down in the game him and kai are currently obsessed with. the sound of gunfire fills the living room of soobin and yeonjun’s apartment, the murmurs of the two boys a low drone beneath it as they figure out their best strategy to win. 

he almost wishes he lived here with soobin and yeonjun, or with the other two. yeonjun and soobin, taehyun and kai — only beomgyu lives alone. alone doesn’t necessarily mean lonely, but in beomgyu’s case, it does. maybe that’s why he’s latched onto you so hard: to cure his loneliness. he swats that thought away like one would a pesky mosquito. he hasn’t latched onto you, he admonishes himself, he’s simply curious. yeah, curious. 

just a little innocent curiosity. 

disregarding taehyun’s comment, yeonjun raises an eyebrow towards beomgyu. “i know i was drunk when i said that shit last week, but you really have been acting weird since you started at that job. we’ve all noticed.”

“yeah, it’s like you’ve gotten more reserved, or something,” soobin says, words muffled by his chewing. beomgyu grimaces, shifting closer to the arm of the couch. 

“you’re the most introverted one here, you can’t say shit,” kai snorts. soobin throws a chip at his head.

“anyway,” yeonjun butts in with a scalding glare before an argument can begin. soobin and kai blanch, mouths closing. “we’re just…concerned about you.”

“is this some kind of intervention?” beomgyu laughs, disbelief apparent in his tone. he’s fine. he has you now.

“no, we just want you to know that there’s other things you could do that would make you happier than work at a fucking funeral home,” taehyun says, eyes still not straying from the tv. 

“like joining my dance crew,” yeonjun tacks on. 

beomgyu sighs. they’re kind of right, if he’s being honest with himself, but is he ready to put himself out there again? is he ready to face the potential of rejection, of failure? he’s had his life fall apart in front of his eyes once already, what if it happens again?

“...i guess.”

“c’mon.” yeonjun shifts around until he’s leaning on his elbows, focus solely on beomgyu. “tryouts are next saturday. i know how fast you can learn choreography. hell, you could probably learn something in a couple hours and be fine.”

“honestly, you’ll never know if you don’t try,” soobin chimes in. “it might end in something good.”

“yeah,” beomgyu says before taking another large swig of beer. “yeah, i know.”

and so another weekend passes, and monday returns once again. 

soobin’s brief, sage advice plays through his mind again and again. although he understands that soobin meant for it to apply to his current career situation, beomgyu has adopted it for his situation with you instead. he should try, he’s going to try, eventually. 

it might end in something good, he tells himself over and over again. he has to try.

mondays are a bit less excruciating now that you’re around. he has only known you for a week, but it’s been long enough to know that you make his day-to-day routine bearable — hell, he’ll stay at his terrible job as long as you keep showing up each morning. the day that you don’t will be the nail in his coffin — he chuckles at his stupid joke. yeonjun is rubbing off on him too much.

the sky is overcast today, and endless expanse of gray that contrasts the warmth of the changing leaves that line the sidewalk. it might rain soon, he surmises, but he hopes that it won’t. he’s forgone an umbrella today. digging his hands further into his coat pockets, he ducks into the subway station, descending the stairs and weaving through the crowd until he finds his usual platform. when he gets there, you’ve already arrived, ears vacant of those white earbuds, but it’s not a foreign sight to him. you typically put them in once you sit down. the fact that you get on and get off at the same stop as him…he almost likes to think of all of this as fate. 

maybe the universe really is trying to apologize. 

the subway arrives at the platform a few minutes later — minutes in which he tries not to stare at you. he’s not a creep, he swears that he’s not. he’s not a creep, he’s not a creep — he repeats this to himself as he follows behind you into the subway car the two of you frequent, he finds a seat across from you a few feet to your left. he can’t be too obvious.

and most importantly, he’s not a creep. 

you dig around in your bag. ah, here come those infamous earbuds, he’s sure of it — but then they don’t, and then the digging through your bag grows a degree more frantic, your lips parting as you continue shoving whatever is in there aside in search of your most precious possession.

you feel like crying as panic surges through your veins. oh god, you forgot them. how could you have forgotten them? what are you going to do now? 

beomgyu decides to tap into your mind in that moment, finding you in an unbelievably frazzled state. his heart clenches in his chest, he wishes he could help somehow…

wait. he could…oh my god, he could. no, that’s sick, he’s not a creep — well, no, he could. he definitely fucking could, and you’d probably end up liking it…

he could be your temporary replacement for today — no, he could become your constant source, the one you need to get through the day. he could become your audios. he wants to. they’d be far more…interactive, if he did, after all. you’d love what he could do to your pretty fucking body just with access to your mind. reading thoughts isn’t the only thing he can do — and soobin’s right: he’ll never know if he doesn’t try. how could he sit here any longer and not give in to his burning desire to ravage you? you know what? fuck it. this is the perfect opportunity, served up once again on a silver platter, waiting for him to take. he’s not going to let it slip away again — and oh, you just look so devastated right now, how terrible would he be if he didn’t help you?

in a split-second moment, beomgyu decides that today is the day. deep breath. focus. okay, he can do this. one, two, three…

“hello, pretty girl.”

you flinch before you look up and around, only to find no one is looking at you — well, he is, but through his peripherals. wouldn’t want to get caught, would he? suppressing a smirk at your reaction, he shifts in his seat.

“was someone just talking to me?” you ask yourself, brows furrowing as your eyes continue to dart around. your hand comes up to your ear to see if you accidentally remembered your earbuds, your frown deepening when you register that they are, indeed, not in your ears. glancing around again, your eyes skirt over his form. he shivers at the thought of what’s to come, biting his lip as he avoids your gaze. “is this some sort of prank?”

“calm down, sweetheart, this isn’t a prank. now, stop looking around, you’re the only one who heard me.”

your brain flits from thought to thought so quick he can barely keep up, the volume of them rising as you panic. your fingers clench the strap of your purse as if to ground yourself. “am i hallucinating right now? what the fuck? this has to be a prank. should i go to the doctor’s? no, my boss would kill me if i called out, but fuck, i should really go if i’m hearing things—”

beomgyu chuckles, the sound echoing through your mind as well. freezing, your muscles lock up as you look around again. your distressed stream of consciousness stops for a moment, before resuming at a much more rapid pace. “what the fuck, i need to call out right now, where’s my phone—”

sighing, he leans back into his seat and closes his eyes. so cute, how easily you spiral. “quiet that pretty little head of yours, pretty girl. you’re not hallucinating, this is all real. very real.”

a few moments pass before your internal freakout quiets down. for once, silence fills your mind…and rather than him break it, it’s you: “someone’s…talking to me through my mind? this is real?”

“such a smart girl. you figured it out so quickly,” beomgyu taunts, resisting the urge to coo again. adrenaline rushes through his veins, urging him to continue. you need him. he can make you happy. he just needs to hear you say it.

your thighs press together at the praise, fingers digging into the trousers you had chosen to wear. you shouldn’t be feeling like this. this is strange, terribly strange, and even a little frightening, now that you are aware that someone — that a complete stranger, at that — has full reign over your conscious. yet, at the same time, you’re curious to see how this will play out.

“and you can speak to me, too, if you focus hard enough…” his voice trails off. okay, you can do that. allowing your eyelids to flutter shut, you begin to breathe deeply until even the mechanical noises of the subway and the murmurs of passengers vacate your senses. mind empty, you exhale a shaky breath. focus. stay focused. 

“hmm, impressive. you’re a natural at this.” god, he needs to quit praising you like that with his deep voice. by the way he laughs, you know he heard that too. fuck. 

“who are you and why the fuck are you in my brain?” you decide to ask. straight to the point, no fluff to it, it’s reminiscent of your attitude at the bar where he first laid eyes upon you. this is the wall you put up towards strangers and any other threat to your life, but little do you know, beomgyu’s breached that wall already. this is just a little front. “answer me, you fucking asshole—”

“woah, woah, watch the language. why would i tell you who i am? it’s much more exciting this way, don’t you think?” the smile in his voice is unmistakable, but he purses his lips to keep them from curling upward. 

you start to gnaw on your bottom lip, biting hard enough for pain to bloom across your nerve endings. this is stranger you’re talking to right now, a stranger who you’re talking to through your fucking thoughts. this is weird. you never signed up for this. “get the hell out of my mind before— before i—” 

“before you what? can’t kick me out, you don’t know how to do that, pretty girl.”

fuck, he’s right — wait, if he’s in your mind right now, can he also control it? is he going to hurt you? is he going to make you his puppet and go on a murder spree? is he in this car with you, or somewhere else? what if…what if…

beomgyu can almost feel your panic swelling in his own chest. fuck, he needs to put a stop to your spiraling before it gets out of control. if you freak out now, then all of his work over the past week will be for naught. after all, he’s not going to do anything without your permission. the last thing he wishes to do is scare you off completely before he can have his fun. with great urgency, he cuts off your ramblings, “hey, now, relax for me, princess. i’m not going to hurt you. i’m as human as you are, just a bit…different, i guess. and i am in the same car as you right now.”

rather than respond, you look around again, eyeing every single man around you with suspicion, even him. he stares at the floor, maintaining what he hopes to be a neutral, borderline bored, expression. he needs to keep it together. he’s gotten this far, he can’t ruin this. “looking around again, huh? if i were that easy to spot, then this game wouldn’t be very fun, would it?” 

“game? fucking with my mind is a game to you?” 

the corners of his lips twitch up before he’s forcing them back down. this is it, the moment he has been waiting oh so patiently for. keep it together.

“well, not really — i actually have a proposition for you, if you’d hear me out.”

scoffing, you urge him along. “just get on with it.”

“so impatient. that’s okay. i can work with that,” he smirks. “i know what you listen to every morning, you know.”

your heart drops to your stomach. he what? oh god, you think you’re going to be sick. your arms wrap around your stomach, squeezing hard. this is bad, this is really fucking bad. “do you want money, or something? are— are you trying to blackmail me right now? i’ll have you know, i’m actually kinda broke right now. i really don’t wanna end up homeless, can you just. pick someone else to fuck with? there’s like twelve different businessmen in this car, i’m sure they’re rich and corrupt—”

beomgyu’s brows raise imperceptibly. jesus, are you always this flighty? “woah, chill. i’m not here to judge you — or blackmail you, for that matter. i’m not evil. aw, don’t look all shameful now. i told you i’m not here to judge — i actually wanna help you, if you’d let me.”

“help me?” you dumbly echo. “help me how?”

“well,” he starts. “i noticed you forgot your earbuds today, and you just looked so sad and lost without them. how else are you going to get through your commute? and then i thought maybe i could do something about that. y’know, help you out, get you through the morning.”

“so you invaded my privacy just to tell me that you wanna dirty talk to me for the rest of my commute? is that what you mean? ‘cause if so, that’s pretty weird,” you reply, though your stray thoughts that dart around tell him that you’re actually considering his offer — it’s tempting, isn’t it? to give in, to let his deep voice get you all squirmy and needy, knowing he could be anyone in this subway car. still, your words make him laugh, because of course you’re deflecting right now. it’s okay, he hasn’t given you the full story quite yet.

“that’s only part of my offer, princess,” he starts. “i can read minds, yes, but i can also do…other things.”

oh, you’re really considering it now. maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let him. his voice is nice, and maybe, just maybe, it’s kind of making you horny. after a deep, long breath, you gulp once, then, with curiosity dripping from your tone, you ask, “...like what?”

jackpot.

beomgyu’s high on a mix of adrenaline and dopamine, utterly giddy because he’s got you right where he wants you, where he needs you. he’s played his cards just right, shoved your worries to the side and drew out your curiosity enough that you’ve taken his bait. perfect, oh, this is perfect. he knew you’d be good for him.

“it would be much easier for me to show you.”

“then show me,” you immediately reply, heat flooding your cheeks at the sheer desperation in your voice. god, calm down. he hasn’t even done anything yet.

chuckling at your internal conflict, he decides not to comment. “tell me if you don’t like something. i’ll stop.” he watches as you slightly nod to yourself, a soft “okay,” echoing through your head and into his — thus, he sets his plan into action. 

something warm caresses your calf, but when you look down, there’s nothing there. your eyes widen — was that a hand? it definitely felt like one, the way it creeped up the back of your leg, calloused fingertips pressing into your skin. a shiver races down your spine. that had to have been him. 

“it was,” he confirms, then his voice is growing impossibly deeper, adopting that gruff edge that you love so much. “you want more, princess? i can give you more.”

another phantom hand skirts over your waist, dragging down over your hips to your right thigh, just to stop there. biting your bottom lip, you nod, hoping that whoever is in your head right now sees it, wherever he is. the hand moves to your inner thigh; despite how tightly pressed together they are, it skirts over your skin with ease, seemingly beneath your trousers. “i need words, pretty girl, or i might just stop right now. and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

no, you wouldn’t, not at this point. the unbearable ache currently building in your core makes you want to cry; you haven’t felt this level of desperation in a while, and you need to be touched. you need it so fucking bad. 

“please.” the single word comes out meek, quiet. shame flushes your face, a fiery heat that spreads up to your ears and down your neck. 

you hear the way his breath shudders, causing your own hitch. “fuck, you’re so cute, but i need more than that. beg. beg for me to touch you.”

his voice — fuck, his voice is so deep, so dark and wanton. you wonder what he sounds like when he’s moaning, how he would sound if he fucked you, pounded you into the mattress so hard you saw stars. the image of a faceless stranger fucking you from behind, your back arched behind you and your face buried in the sheets, as he holds your wrists behind your back flits across the big screen of your mind. you shake it away, but the man in your head is already tutting. “use your words, sweetheart, not pictures — though i’d love to do that to you too. you’ve got quite the imagination on you.” 

beomgyu’s cock twitches in his boxers as you whine, frantic pleas bubbling up from the deepest, darkest recesses of your mind once he takes the sensation of his hand away from your thigh. you sound halfway dumb already, begging for his hands, his cock, his tongue — anything. you’ll take anything just, “please, sir. please touch me. need you to touch me so bad.”

you don’t even know who he is, yet you’re being so obedient, calling him sir, begging so sweetly for him — it’s like you’re begging straight into his ear. his heart swells at the thought, as does his cock. you sound so pretty, but he finds himself wishing he could hear these words come from your lips instead. 

“yeah? my little slut needs more?” he prods, laughing meanly when you whimper out a yes. “aw, ‘course she does. desperate whores always need more, don’t they? so greedy.”

you have to swallow down a whimper at that, focusing so intently on keeping quiet that your nails have dug into your palms deep enough to almost break skin. the pain seems to help keep you grounded — that is, until you feel the sting of a palm against your backside. you flinch in your seat, gasping sharply. the man sitting next to you glances over, but you only hang your head and shrink into yourself. he looks away. 

“focus, whore. you’re drawing too much attention to yourself.”

two hands are touching you now. one cupping your pussy, the other wrapped around your throat, pressing into the sides of your neck so you start to grow dizzy. the hand on your throat releases its grip to slide down to your chest, circling around one of your nipples before a thumb swipes over the pebbled flesh. your back arches off of your seat when the sensation morphs into that of lips, plush warmth enveloping your tit before the sharp bite of teeth interrupts. you inhale a shaky breath from your nose as lips return to soothe the sting. despite the hard press of your thighs, the hand on your pussy drags up and down your folds, dipping down to your entrance before dragging up to your clit. a tiny squeak sneaks up your throat before you’re masking it with a cough. 

“aren’t you just a sensitive little thing? so wet too,” he coos, shifting his briefcase over his lap to gain some semblance of friction. his fingertips tingle as if your wetness coats them right now. fuck, he’s hard. if it were up to him, you’d be taking his cock right now, moaning so prettily as he presses you up against the wall and fucks up into you, your legs giving out from under you because he’s just making you feel so good, isn’t he? never mind that, he has a job to do. “how about i just…”

two lithe fingers breach your walls while a thumb continues to slowly circle your clit, barely brushing over the sensitive bundle of nerves. you feel like you’re going insane, trying your best to hold still as his fingers begin to move inside you, curling up into your walls. searching, he’s searching for that spot inside you that will get you crying—

then he finds it. 

your knee jerks up, your legs falling open slightly before you’re pressing them closed again as he abuses it over and over again, crooking his fingers just right to find it with each thrust. your hips roll up into the sensation, stilling as soon as you realize that you’re squirming too much, being too obvious. people are starting to stare, calm down. calm the fuck down.

god, you don’t think you can. it’s too difficult to keep still with the way he’s finger-fucking you right now. with the way there’s lips suddenly circling your clit, sucking the pearl in so that his tongue can play with it. little kitten licks that make you want to scream and cry and beg for mercy because you don’t know if you can keep up this front of normalcy with the way he’s touching you.

it’s like he’s speaking directly into your ear right now, warm breath fanning over your earlobe, your cheek. “wanna see you fall apart, wanna see you lose it in front of all of these people, baby. bet you wanna cum right now, yeah? just wanna feel good, don’t even care if you quake and cry in public? you’re that fucking desperate for it?” 

you nod to yourself, eyes squeezing shut. you’re so close. oh god, you’re going to cum. you’re going to cum like a brainless whore in the middle of a fucking subway car. you’re sick. you’re fucking sick for enjoying this.

you’re just as bad as him, beomgyu decides. he knew you’d like what he could give you, he knew you needed him. it was just a matter of time before you realized that fact. that’s okay, because he needs you just as badly. it’s a carnal need, white hot in the center of his stomach — fuck, he’s obsessed with you. he wants you to be his forever. 

and beomgyu knows you’re close, but he’s not quite ready to give you what you want. 

“please, oh god. please let me cum. fuckfuckfuck— no, please don’t stop!” you cry as he slows the pace of his fingers. “please no, ‘m so close! no no no—”

“you drive me crazy, it’s only fair if i return the favor. makes it more fun.” ripping the sensation away from you completely, he watches you bottom lip tremble as you blink back tears, your body melting into your seat as the pleasure fades away. “now, now, don’t cry, sweetheart. i have something even better for you.”

a few seconds pass before something breaches your entrance, your walls stretching to their limit, yet the sting of pain never arrives. filled to the brim, you throw your head back against the window behind you. to others, you seem to just be resting your eyes, but the way your mouth falls open is not lost on beomgyu. he knows you can feel him everywhere, knows you can feel the way the head of his cock nearly touches your cervix, how it presses into every single sensitive spot inside you. he knows he’s big, but you take it like a champ, your hips grinding down into the seat, as if to bring him deeper inside you. what a little whore, his little whore. 

“y’feel that, pretty girl? feel my big fucking cock inside you?” he asks as your chest heaves, a feeble attempt in holding yourself together. “calm down, now. i’m gonna start moving, okay?”

he doesn’t wait for your response before he’s spoon-feeding you the sensation of his cock pulling out until nothing but his cockhead remains within your walls. a few seconds pass, then your begging returns. tearful, this time, fucking pathetic. he basks in the power that rushes through his entire being. you need him. you need him in order to feel good, and he loves that you do. he brings a hand down to adjust himself in his pants, hissing quietly at the ache that the action brings. he needs to fuck you right now. physically fuck you, none of this thought manipulation bullshit — but no, he has to be patient. he can be patient as long as it’s you. 

the subway is slowing down again, and he comes to the gross realization that he only has a few minutes before both of you must depart. dammit, he has to make this quick. 

meanwhile, you’re already halfway to your high just at the mere feeling of him inside you. as soon as his cock begins to move again, you’re choking back moans, head hanging low as your muscles tense and your hands press into your lap. you can feel him in your throat each time he thrusts back in, his thrusts growing faster and faster until he’s pounding into you. 

“fuck fuck fuckkkkk!” you wail, encouraging him to continue. in reality, your walls clench around nothing, but your mind paints a different picture. you almost beg for him to cum inside, but you cant find the words, too fucked out to think about anything else but the knot in your stomach that grows tighter with each passing second. “fuck, please. please, fuck i’m, nghh—”

imaginary fingers swipe across your clit, and you’re a goner. 

thighs quaking, your release coats your panties, walls fluttering, but the movement of his cock doesn’t stop until you’re begging for mercy. beomgyu almost cums in his pants at the depraved wails you emit, half-baked sentences pleading for him to “s-slow down, please. i can’t, no, i can’t — shit!”

finally — finally — he grants you reprieve from the onslaught of pleasure. your body slumps into your seat, your eyes shut as you begin to float back down to earth. the clack-clack-clack of the subway slows until it stops completely. the usual robotic voice announces his stop, but you seem so out of it that you don’t even register that you need to get off. 

“good job, baby. you put on quite the show for me,” he praises as he rises to his feet. luckily, he decided on wearing a longer coat today which he uses to cover up his raging hard-on. this has to be fate.

no response. with an excited gleam in his eye, he disconnects from your mind and moves towards you. looming above you, he drinks in the beads of sweat that have formed along your hairline, the wrinkles in your trousers where you gripped the fabric a wee bit too hard, your dreamy eyes and how they blink down at his black loafers before raising to meet his own. concern has painted itself across his features, his head tilting as he holds your bleary gaze.

“are you alright, miss? you look a bit ill.”

you blink once. twice. god, how are you so cute even after getting fucked so hard? he can barely control himself from blurting out who he is.

“what—what stop is this?” you ask him, eyes wide and red-rimmed from your earlier tears. he tells you, and he watches those same eyes widen. “oh shit, this is my stop!”

attempting to stand, you stumble straight into his chest. he catches you with gentle hands before he’s helping you steady yourself. your legs tremble like those of a newborn fawn, sexy yet terribly adorable. he gulps at the image of you unable to walk, legs so sore that you’re forced to let him dote on you, that forms inside his mind. later. that can come later, don’t get too hasty. 

“oh, you’re a bit shaky there,” he murmurs, a hand curling around you elbow when you stumble again. “are you sure you’re alright?”

“i’m f-fine, sorry for the trouble,” you reply with a polite, yet jittery, smile, stepping away from him. he wants to tell you to come closer again, he wants to smell your sweet perfume again, feel your warm skin beneath his fingertips. 

but good things come to those who wait.

“no worries.” with a charming smile, he shuffles beside you, until the two of you have exited with the rest of the crowd. he catches your wrist before you can get too far, and you turn to face him once more. afterglow looks wonderful on you. “it looks like we’re getting off at the same stop today, so would you like me to walk with you until you’re feeling a bit better? i’m sure some fresh air will do you good.”

you pause for a moment, hesitating. have you seen him somewhere before? you feel like you have. “i…that would be great, actually. thank you.”

“of course,” he nods, holding back a smirk. he can’t help the words that escape him next.

“lead the way, then…pretty girl.”

the way you look back at him with alarmed realization — even a hint of fear — causes a grin to split open his lips. you begin to sputter as you back away, but he merely follows with light, casual steps. “w-what, who—who are you—”

his smile grows knife-sharp. the door opens — it always does. 

“aw, c’mon, sweetheart,” he coos inside your mind, biting his lip as he watches your knees buckle. “who else could it be?”

© to agustdiv1ne. do not copy, repost, steal, and/or translate.

[princesssmars]

hockey player!abby, skier!reader, and those stupid olympic beds. slight nsfw.

it was no secret to anyone that you and abby had a very healthy relationship. you fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, compatible mentally, emotionally, romantically…

and physically. definitely physically.

it only took a month after your first time together for her teammates to start teasing her, pointing out the purple marks trailing up and down her body in the locker rooms, how her mood has somehow gotten even more chipper, not to mention that time some frat dickhead flirted with you at a party and you showed up to a game the next day with abby’s custom jersey on a slight limp in your step…

it got to the point where just your presence at a practice pulled abby’s attention in like a black hole, the blonde constantly checking to make sure you were in the same spot and waving cutely at you before getting slammed by someone she was supposed to be guarding against. after a few times her coach had to temporarily ban you from coming, or at least wearing the ugliest piece of clothing you owned if you came.

so yes. everybody knows you’re both very satisfied.

now, when you picked up your phone and saw five missed calls from abby in the span of ten minutes in the middle of the day, it’s safe to say your heart nearly dropped out of your ass. pressing the call back button and holding the device up to your ear, nothing but the worst scenarios fill your mind until her fast breathing fills your ear.

“babe, oh my god! why didn’t you pick up!”

“abs what’s wrong, are you okay?” you try to keep your voice steady, knowing that your panic will only make her panic which would be the worst thing if she was in an actually dangerous situation.

“no i’m not okay. is it true about the beds? please tell me it’s not true.”

you can hear two of her teammates giggling in the bathroom and it takes everything in you to not hang up and the phone spend the next month at your own place.

“what….abby what beds?”

“at the games! the olympics! jamie said the ones in milan are gonna be cardboard. and that they had a ban on. well, yknow.”

you let out a long sigh, clearly a loud one if the increased laughter in the background of the call is anything to go by. you pinch the bridge of your nose and try your best to act sane.

“yeah, babe, they’ll probably be cardboard. but there’s no ban of sex, that were just some temporary covid restrictions in tokyo. don’t think one would work, anyway. thousands of hot athletes in a single village? let’s be serious.”

halfway through your explanation she lets out a relived sigh joined by a ‘oh thank god’, a plethora of laughs and faux kissing noises drowning out her voice.

“ugh, you two are so whipped.” jamie’s voice pipes in from the background, abby groaning with the tell tale sound of fake slapping ringing from your phone.

“why don’t you tell jamie to keep her mouth shut and worry about how her girlfriends had her in the doghouse for three week?”

abby cackles on the other side of the phone, pestering her teammate for answer before you hear the sound of her stomping away, the other girls following after her.

“gosh, thanks for that. they never stop pestering me about you. whatever, they’re just jealous i got to you first. and that i’m not sharing.”

your heart warms at her possessiveness, always giddy when she shows clear affection towards you. “aww, you’re cute. tell me when your practice is over and i’ll pick you up, take you to get some pizza and i’ll spill all of the drama i learned last week.”

“you’re the best. buttt now that i know there’s no ban, maybe after pizza we can start warming up for our post game activities.”

“abs, the games are two years away.”

“i always say practice makes perfect!”

last month i had a whole fantasy played out of abby and reader competing together in paris and having sweet ‘we’re in love and olympic champions’ sex before i realized their sports are winter olympics. which are in milan. 2026. i’ve never been the brightest.

[warframe1999]

Sooo…

The protoframes, huh?

i wanted to go a bit into what each member of the Hex (yay, new syndicate!!) had to say when you got into proximity of them in the relay. there’s honestly a lot here to set the scene not only for 1999 itself, but introducing each protoframe as well as sort of hinting at their interpersonal relationships, and how they interact with one another! some of my favorite kinda of lore is specifically character development and personality-focused dynamics like this so here!!!! i walked back and forth for an hour for YOU! here is all proximity dialogue for each character in the Höllvania Mall relay:

ARTHUR:

“Question. Could I take Quincy down if he turned on me?”

“We’ll find you, Doctor. That’s a promise.”

“Stop sniffing around my head, Eleanor. If I want to talk, I’ll talk.”

“We need to keep Lettie on her feet. If she goes we all go.”

“Dunno why we even bothered with that cleaning rota.”

“Yeah, we can hold this place.”

“One day, Aoi. No more roadblocks and checkpoints. Just you and me and the bikes, open road for miles, all this bullshit far away. I swear to Sol.”

“Still too open. We need more chokepoints.”

“Bottled water. Like sodding gold dust.”

“Well Amir’s still alive. That’s a win.”

LETICIA:

“I got nothin’ to prove to you, Quincy! Go play your little games, niño.”

“¿Qué onda? The Lady Eleanor ain’t no more freaky than the last time you checked in. ‘Less you know different?”

“Yo, Aoi. Chill, hermana. Do something for yourself, for once. Arthur ain’t going to blow away if you blink.”

“The boss says care for his sister I care for his sister. As long as you still are his sister… and as long as I feel like listening to him.”

“Being loved and being hurt? Yeah, I make no distinction. I knew someone, once, wired the same way. Kept me sane. And what of it? Te crees muy acá ¿no? Get outta my head, Eleanor.”

“Never signed up for this. I’ll be home Mamá. Your little girl doesn’t end here. No te preocupes.”

“Man, I’ve been awake so long that even the spiders in my head have all gone to sleep.”

“Wacha: unless you’re pissing blood right this second, whatever it is can wait.”

“I swear, should lock Aoi and Amir in a cuna. Didn’t sign up for no babysitting gig.”

AOI:

“I don’t wanna go on patrol. I wanna take stuff apart.”

“Nearly time for the On-lyne boys.”

“Metal, metal, metal, what do you want to be?”

“Yep. I can live like this.”

“Arthur needs to keep some fuel in the tank for himself. Goddamn savior complex that man has…”

“I oughta get some headphones. Then I wouldn’t have to hear Quincy work off all that surplus testosterone!”

“If they take Entrati out, who’s going to look after that mutant jaguar of his? Poor thing won’t last five minutes in the wild.”

“Amir! Remember to hydrate!”

“Dear past self: we finally got those super powers we always wanted. Whaddayaknow.”

“GodDAMN. Lettie would you keep your frickin’ rats OUT of my SPACE?”

QUINCY:

“Don’t look up, Doctor.”

“Arthur needs to leave the Major to me, innit. Respect my methods.”

“Don’t mind the waiting. Plenty to be thinking about.”

“You don’t know me. Never see what darkens your rooftops. Inevitable, like the rain. Handing out consolations in a transient connection. Boom. Smoke. And ghost.”

“You wiv me, Eleanor? How deep in you go? See anythin’ you fancy, girl?”

“Amir is a weak, weak boy. Like Aunty said, ‘duppy know who fi frighten.’”

“Thassit… nice and steady.”

“How many man have the opps got? Not enough t’be takin’ me. Never.”

“Oi, Lettie! Grab y’ strap and let’s go. Best a five buys the drinks?”

ELEANOR:

“Don’t expect me to tell you what I’ve seen in Amir’s head. He’s not a beautiful, broken marionette, and he’s nobody’s project. He’s one of us.”

“Quincy thinks he’s going to wake up one night to me chewing the flesh from his ribs. Maybe he’s right.”

“I know you’re there. I can feel you. It’s okay, I won’t tell the others.”

“Aoi? She’s lovely and kind and strong, and… I kind of hate her a little bit. Because it should have been her spreading her happiness into everyone’s heads, and me throwing cars and trucks around.”

“I thought there were going to be two of you! Where’s the other one?”

“Blood. There’s gonna be a fight. Something… bursting. Crossed swords. Arthur!”

“What on earth is a ‘Mara Lohk’?”

“Oh, you’re going to make such a difference this time around.”

“I don’t think Doctor Entrati expected me to survive. I had a lot more than just a cough. But… survive I did. And Lettie has not forgiven me for it.

“Oh. OH. She’s wonderful! Triple-faced goddess! But there’s a shadow on her, isn’t there?”

AMIR:

“A little zap, and… infinite credit! No more ‘insert coin’! Not that we could insert coin. We have no coin. Once we had coin, but now Aoi has smooshed all the coin. Coinnnn.”

“Why did they never make a console port?”

“BAD MOVE, SPACE CAA-DET.”

“But the one thought none of them spoke out loud was - could Lettie reattach a head?”

“Hey, Arthur! Arthur! Arthur! Arthur! Arthur! Dahh, you missed it.”

“Eleanor? Are you there? Can you - can you give my brain a hug please? Thank you.”

“We’re getting a little too excited, let’s step it down, step it down before we get the blue cracklies. In one two out one two.”

“Oi’m Quincy. Oi’m gonna blow out yer kneecaps. Mashup in yer chip shop alright.”

“Ungh! This violent video game is influencing my emotions! Societal norms… eroding! Morality… subsumed! I MUST KILL!”

“This place used to smell so good. Coffee. Cookies. Fresh clean socks. Now it’s just rust, pain, and old socks.”

[doawks]

༊*·˚ what it’s like being with joshua hong.

♫. that’s my girl, frank sativa.

contains sfw & nsfw.

Joshua likes to call you an angel because that's what you are. In fact, if he's feeling extra sentimental (which he normally is) ━ He'll tell you that it was obviously fate that brought you two together. He remembers his late nights when he was usually deep in thought, and how he would pray and pray for God to send an angel his way and bring sunshine to his world so his heart could heal and grow ━ It's memorable to note that since he's met you, you've done just that. Brought light to his world and now his heart's big and fully grown.

Joshua likes to spoil you from the hairs on the top of your head down to the tip of your prettily manicured toe because you deserve the best and nothing less. Seriously, whatever you want. 'Cause nothing is ever too much for his girl - ever.

Joshua likes to show you off━ not to flaunt you like you're some kind of animate object and ignite jealousy in other males, no. But to show the entire world how breathtakingly beautiful you are.

Joshua always, always has you in mind. It doesn't matter what he's doing or where he's at. He needs to have you in his mind, especially when he's on tour and he's so busy to the point where he can't even pick up the phone to text you. The mere thoughts of you and your pretty face is what's keeping him sane.

Joshua likes to listen to anything and everything you say. Every little thing, even when you think he isn't listening━ he is. He likes that you always get so excited when you speak about your day or something as simple as the weather, it's so adorable and he's very fond of it.

(nsfw) Joshua likes to kiss you━ Wherever. But if he's going to be appropriate, Joshua likes kissing your pretty lips because they're perfectly molded and feel so soft against his. He likes to kiss your nose, your cheeks, your forehead. But if he's going to be inappropriate, Joshua likes to kiss your neck, your collarbone or down your pretty body so he can ease his way down to your cunt - spending his morning in between your thighs. Obviously kissing on your clit and puffy lips, because he loves kissing you ━ every damn inch of you.

Joshua likes making everything about you. If he hears one of the members talking about something they like and you just so happen to like it as well, best believe this man will be like, "Oh! YN likes that as well!" with a big ass, boyish grin on his face. Or if he's out at the store shopping for clothes or anything and he see's something that reminds him of you, he'll be thinking, "YN would probably like this." and end up buying whatever it is . . . this correlates with him always having you in mind.

Joshua likes when you send pictures of yourself because he's always quick to make it his wallpaper instantly. He's also saving every picture you send and adding it to his "My pretty girl" collection. He's so whipped for you, it's honestly crazy. And when he's on tour or far away from you, he goes through that collection with a small, content smile on his face ━ silently soaking up all your beauty from the screen awaiting the days 'til he'll get to see your pretty face again in person.

(nsfw) Joshua likes to be sweet and delicate with you. He likes to whisper huskily in your ear, telling you how pretty look while taking his cock like a good girl. He likes━loves to tell you how one day he's going to fuck you full of his come and make you mommy - belly round and breast full of milk as they drip from your swollen nipples. But Joshua can also get rough and mean, telling you how much of a nasty little slut you are for taking him from behind in this dirty public bathroom at the club because you just couldn't wait 'til you two got home so he could properly take care of you. No, you just couldn't wait. Now you're whining and moaning like a bitch in heat while Joshua's splitting your pussy apart on his cock, mascara running down your face, his hand in your hair - pulling the back of your head to his chest.

Joshua's love language: Act of Service. You honestly don't even know why you try to lift a finger when Joshua Hong is around. He makes breakfast every morning and on top of that, he feeds it to you! Giving you a look and a disgruntled grunt when you attempt to lift up your own fork. When he's home before you are, he running you a bath as soon as you walk through the door ━ when he comes from the bathroom, he's making his way over to you, pulling you over to the couch, placing you onto his lap and rubbing your back soothingly; letting you tell him all about your day, not saying anything until you were fully finished. In the bath, he's seated in the back of you and he's washing every part of your body, kissing the skin behind your ear lovingly while doing so.

At the end of the day, Joshua just likes loving you and he will continue loving you until his last breath on this Earth. Even then, he'll still be loving you in the afterlife.

[ms0milk]

pitch in a teapot

sanemi x inn keeper

reader has a business to run and sanemi can't help but watch you do it well, barking orders, teaching firmly, smiling and scurrying around like a fancy little bell. There's something he's been trying to get out of you all afternoon but chores keep stealing you away. cw MDNI, frustrated thunderstorm quickie, reader w vagina + penetration, slight manhandling, desperation and a little bit of sass. 4.1k

thank you so much my darling @neiptune for requesting a little sanemi this @ficsforgaza season! you were so generous and patient waiting for this to come out, I hope you enjoy angel

Six bowls of soup upstairs and an old man somewhere in the bowels of the inn with a limp and half a shoe. Right, okay, send two girls to the garden– no. One to the garden and one to the kitchen. That’s dinner taken care of as long as the scholar with the fat pony– donkey, maybe– doesn’t regurgitate an encore of the rakugo performance that couldn’t have been funny in the first place.

You roll the sleeves of your apron slightly tighter in their tasuki. The cyprus walls of your inn bleed fragrance before summer thunderstorms so you make a mental note too, to order storm doors for the second floor before the clouds go black and blue. Incensed breeze, juniper, wisteria, paper windows, one foot, the next, again, each step down the wooden hallway is a quiet knock. Each summer at home is heavier, heavier, and this year is the flood.

“Oi.”

“Not my name,” you blow from the corner of your mouth without changing pace. That breath was ready to jump off your lip before the demon slayer even called out to you; he hates doing nothing and hates even more what great pains your staff take to avoid his room.

“It reeks.”

“Excuse me?” You huff and this time do turn enough to interrogate him via glare. Sanemi, ridiculous, folds his arms in the doorway of a very nice room, a too nice room, without any of the appropriate embarrassment of someone who has been lying in wait. The stippled blue pattern of his robes doesn’t suit him. They clash with his ugly scars and uglier attitude but don't keep him from wearing the chest wide open like a well paid rent boy.

“Stinks.”

“Whatever of, princess?”

He growls and drops his arms as you brace for the lecture, “Demons.”

His heart is incapable of peace and yours with it, and every summer he’s assigned a post in your mountains by a master you’ve never met and who couldn’t possibly be sane themself. Four years of this. Four years of twelve weeks of sixteen-hour-days of the world’s most neurotic demon slayer.

“The whole property is wide open for any fuck to attack.”

You adjust your grip on a slender bucket handle and the cloth in your other arm and continue back downhall, “You always say that.”

“I’m always right,” he nags and pushes free of his bedroom.

You met Sanemi when you were sixteen and still working under your parents. He was a brand new hashira then and prone to fist fights, spitfire, bloodshed. Nothing special. Nothing new. Hashira come and die and new hashira come again. They arrive in flashbangs and ego and leave like everyone else, in pieces.

Your parents were calm, they had peace and practice, they ran this inn, they welcomed Sanemi with his summer floods. They loved him, took his counsel and died by it, and they probably wouldn’t have lost an old man inside the house. But this is your inn now. They aren’t here anymore and at your inn sometimes old men get misplaced.

“And what would you like me to do about all that, sir?”

The hashira keeps an easy military pace behind you, “The gardens need to be reinforced and–”

“Nine acres of wisteria arbor need reinforcement? Yeah I’ll get right on that.”

“The storm will take out ha–!”

“And the other half will hold until autumn. Go berate the kitchen staff for their unpreparedness– they’re all unarmed you know? Totally unprofessional.”

“Y/n–”

“Shinazugawa,” you spin and it all comes out as a threat, a hiss, instead of just a whisper so much so that the water in your bucket nips up your sleeve. “I am the lady of this establishment and you will not address me so familiarly.”

Dark cyprus, cool hallways, the undeniable scent of thunder. Sanemi rests his hand on his sword to glare like he does when his hands don’t quite know what to do with themselves. His eyes roam, quiet under long lilly lashes until they have traced the shapes your tasuki makes with your waist and rise again to your gaze. “We’re not fucking finished.”

“Go eat,” you snap and turn back down the hallway, red at the ears. Lady of the establishment, great job.

Feet aren’t complicated, bone to tendon, tendon to muscle, muscle to skin, one step and another. You tilt your head back and an eager girl rises to wipe sweat from your temple.

“Like this,” you hum and tilt the old man’s heel in your palm. He winces but lets you continue while the girl stares on. “When the skin is split like this it can’t receive moisture– sorry sir, better?” You set his foot on the hammock of cloth between your thighs, “So you need to soak it first before applying salve. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” the girl parrots, still unable to look away.

“Yes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smile through an eye roll but gesture for her to come sit beside you. You’ve been like this since he’s met you, too old for your body.

You’ll train anyone who asks, hire any runaway girl, absorb the cost of thieves when runaways are exactly that, and you will wash old men’s feet before eating dinner with the self preservation of a samurai. Famously long-lived, those. Sanemi has to look away when you take scissors to the gnarled yellow nails and almost covers his ears when your pupil starts asking you questions about it.

“Feels good right?” You chuckle at the man’s response to your ministrations, and then a little louder, when you realize just how seriously the girl beside you is trying to focus. Birdsong. “Do you have companions on your pilgrimage, sir?” He shakes his head.

You lean away again so the girl can dab your brow and push back stray hairs and turn back to explain overdetailed care instructions to this man who is obviously so embarrassed he can’t hear a word you’re saying. Something about tallow and socks, Sanemi tries to read the syllables off your lips and loses focus the second time your teeth catch damp and pillowed pink.

The man seated in front of you grumbles some and flexes a few fingers around his cane like old men do, but doesn’t protest your instructions. He nods instead of thanking you like a real tough guy.

“Fetch a new pair of sandals from the garden shed,” you instruct your girl who bolts up and out the door past Sanemi without so much as a breath. “And you,” you turn back to your patient, “keep the nails short, you hear?”

He nods again, increasingly avoidant of eye contact. Sanemi tenses in the dark outside the guest’s complimentary room and hates ungrateful fucks enough for both of you.

“And don’t skip any more meals.” 

The man’s wrinkled skin unfolds at his eyes and he pulls his legs back underneath him. You dry your hands after scrubbing clean in a soapy pot and stand to collect your tools. “I couldn’t find you this evening and I hate to lose track of my guests at mealtime.”

You are going to feed every stray you find until the economy collapses. Peasant monks, pickpockets– you’d put up a demon if its stomach growled. After too many unnoticed minutes watching you, following the white x between your patterned shoulders, eating your voice, warming the hallway, you finally pick out Sanemi’s eyes in the dark behind the sliding door. He’s waiting for you. You clear your throat for the broke old pilgrim one last time, “You don’t owe any money. Do not skip meals.” And bid him a wordless good night. The door cracks shut behind you. It isn’t late enough for sunset. Thunderstorms make it so dark so quickly and they mask the scent of blood with all their rain and iron. “What is it?” You deadpan and shuffle towards the stairs with all the confidence in the world a tenured hashira will work to keep up with you.

“Not fucking finishied with you,” Sanemi grunts, working to keep up with you. The apron over your service kimono forces your hips to sway in tight little circles and Sanemi sucks his teeth. He doesn’t look away.

Through the hallway and down the servant stairs, socks on polished wood, you tap, tap, tap nimbly to your next assignment. The room below radiates heat and life. “What do you want?” you whisper.

“I–” he slips barefoot on the slick last step into the kitchen and you stumble in your newly damp right sock. “Euh, I–”

“Mimiko!”

“Lady?”

“Wet.” You point behind you, palming Sanemi out of the way, and a free washerwoman dives for the spot with the rag tucked into her belt. The kitchen rages silently in the easternmost corner of the mansion; men and women sweat over donabe, rinse their body weights in rice, and beat little fires with littler fans. Two women and a boy linger just outside the paper door in clothes that match yours for formality and Sanemi assumes as he weaves through the bustle, that they are responsible for bringing food to customers and for doing everything they can not to sweat through their pretty borrowed uniforms. Your own kimono is purple tonight, a cool little shape bobbing nimbly between flames.

Sanemi opens his mouth to shout after you and shuts it again just as quickly to grind his teeth instead as you lift your apron over your head. You let a girl feed you a spoonful of something on your way out of the room and she wiggles when you nod several times before ducking through the door.

Laundry next, then a double check of the firewood cache and the whole while Sanemi occupies your shadow. A few times you hiss over your shoulder at him for looking so gruff, for looking like a bodyguard, for making your customers imagine your distrust of them, always you bite back before he can get more than a few words out but mostly you just scurry in preparation for the storm picking up warm wind outside.

You avoid the entrance with him so close in tow, armed and obstinate, but make a show of circling both tatami halls where guests come after dinner on rainy nights to stretch and smoke by the brazier with strangers. A female musician trills her koto. The sky hasn’t let loose a single drop of rain yet but wet hangs like a fog and thunder scents the air ahead of its arrival. As Sanemi trails the outer walkway of the mansion behind you, the sky bleeds with the last of day’s light in the cracks between bruised and racing storm clouds.

“Second floor secure?” You confirm with the men slotting thick panels into grooves where paper doors usually go. They nod in their white uniforms. Beyond the porches, beyond the east garden and its fat green vegetables, beyond dogwood trees and sarusuberi and maples that have begun to tremble violently in winds buffeted by humidity and nightfall, the wisteria arbor glows. You radiate a cool purple pull beside him just like your flowers.

The arbor surrounds the property on all sides for half a mile and all three paths away from the house are barred by gates of twisting wisteria vine. The inn belongs to your family, but does not serve Ubuyashiki. Theirs is not the only house that discovered a use for these flowers. Yours is not the only wisteria business in the country. 

“Do you see that?” You murmur at so much the same tone as the wind that Sanemi almost cannot hear you.

Three years ago he left before the end of summer, called away to investigate a massacre nearby. A tree fell that season. It crushed a straight path through the edge of the mountain forest and onto your property where, lured by so much blood and wine, a pair of sister demons descended through the broken orchard and devoured everyone who wasn’t fast enough to hide in the flowers like the slayer suggested they should in an emergency. Your parents evacuated the house and died in it with the guests who couldn’t walk on their own. Nestled under three braided vines at the far edge of the property, you listened to them die.

The winds kick up sand from your vegetable garden and you step off the porch into the start of the storm. Tiny and purple. “Y/n!” Sanemi lunges for you. His sword whips the meat of his thigh and you step out of his way before he can grab any part he intended to. The men on the porch watch you both scramble through the backyard. You snap at the strange guest and duck when he swings a hand towards you, hop in your sandals when he tries to trip you into his arms and dart away like a dragonfly.

“Get back here!”

“Go inside!”

“Y/n!”

“How dare you!”

“Motherfucking, Y/n!” 

“That’s enough!” You bark and twist back towards the garden shed. Your pupil left the door wide open and all its shining tools caught your eye across the yard. Sanemi was staring when you stepped outside. His eyes feel like beads of sweat on the few bare parts of you. His gaze is all teeth on the back of your neck.

With all but one storm door up, not a single guest can hear the ruckus you two kick up outside in the prologue of the storm. “It’s about to pour!”

“Then go join the other guests!” You shout through a particularly violent breeze and you have to grip to the break in your kimono closed. He does not. By the time you lay a winded hand on the wall of the shed, it has started to rain.

A silencing wall of water falls from the back of the property straight towards you. It kills dust clouds in its path and paints every surface soaked in a perfectly straight line. Sanemi rushes from behind and nearly lifts you off your feet to get inside the shed as you watch the supernatural army advance on your home.

“Shit,” he grumbles and winces when the rain overcomes the little shed and splashes off the pavement into his face. He pulls you deeper inside and you jolt. The first crack of thunder is a scream that shakes the ground, “Scared of thunder now?”

“Scared of my profit margins, you oaf.”

Under his shoulder you are glaring at the storm between this shitty stuffy shed and your business. You are so small and wrapped so tightly in layer after layer of fabric. It must be hot. The damp drips down his open chest and thighs, it frizzes his hair at his ears. You must be sweating somewhere in that formal getup. Wet glistens at the curled little hairs on the back of your neck where the skin is just barely visible and it sparkles under your high collar.

“I can’t walk back inside soaked,” you groan, “there’s not enough time to change before final rounds.”

Sanemi takes his hand off his sword. There must be damp parts of you hiding from him. He brushes his knuckle up the bare skin of your neck, across your throat, and you falter slightly.

“Sanemi–”

“Nuh uh, don’t address me so familiarly,” he smirks and cups your cheek in his big hand when you jerk around.

“That’s not–!”

“Not what?” He smiles now, and drops his hand back to his sword so that you might find your own weapon and finish the fight. Four years of this.

You shove a finger into his chest, “You’re such a clingy fuck Shinazugawa,” and shout a little because you know the thunder will hide it. A sudden gust blows the sheet of rain sideways and straight inside the open door of the garden shed, up your dress and down his robes and through your prettily pinned hair. “Y/n this, y/n that, I’m busy Sanemi, I’m stuck in a shed! You’re the only one who calls me and people think we’re fucking! You want my attention you have it so please tell me all about the demons that’re gonna slurp up my customers and fuck my taxes to shit and–”

The door creaks in Sanemi’s hands even through the oceanic sounds of storm when he begins to close it. He nods as you get louder, nods as he slides the door closed and flicks the latch.

“Do not,” you growl, “there’s five thousand–”

“Five thousand little bitches in there lost without direction? They’re fine, Y/n.”

“Don’t call me that here.”

“They’ll survive, little lady.”

You spit, “not better.” And the new humidity of the closed shed begins to swallow you whole. It fills your throat. “What about all the demons you’ve been crying about?”

“You’re such a cocky cuss.”

“And you’re needy,” you taunt. It’s Sanemi’s turn to wince and his frustration starts to drip from all those places he shoves it away from you. He's been gentle with you since that summer. He lets you interrupt him, he follows where you go. “I watched you check perimeters this morning, you don’t need to talk to me about demons.”

“Eyes everywhere huh?” His throat is pink, “Lady of the house.”

You grin and pull him by the loops of his robe into your tiny purple kiss, “Shut up.”

“M’lady,” he growls against your lips and succumbs.

Four years of stolen touches, lips on damp summer skin, coming out of empty rooms too ruffled and pulling the hashira between your legs without disturbing the folds of your work kimono. “Don’t call me that either,” your breath hisses against his throat like an iron and he drops his sword quickly to gather you in his arms.

Too much fabric. Shovels and shears clatter against the floor and one another when the thunder shakes their little house again, and they tremble at every thump and roll of your body against Sanemi’s. He pulls your hips against his and guides your legs around his waist so he can sink into those soft parts of you. So he can tilt his head back to look up at you, so you can pour your kisses down his throat like wine.

You drag your nails up the back of his head when he offers his tongue to your lips, biting, suckling, drawing out gentle sounds and eating them before they compete with the rain outside. Where his hips dig into your own the folds of your skirt fall apart. Legs that glisten with sweat and rain part nicely for him and his own robes grow clingy with exertion where he grinds hard against you. Every subtle roll breaks your concentration in kisses, in lips sliding, begging with salvia and rainwater. His hands cup your cheeks, thighs, the collar of your kimono shudders open for him when he dips to suck bruises under your jaw and the swordsman’s hand loses control as he grips your belt to free you from all this formality. He’ll press crescents into your breasts, he’ll lower his tongue through your peach sweet folds and drink until you cry– but you pull his head back with a sharp yank of your wrist.

Your breath comes in clouds. The inn glows with candlelight across the yard but the light through the shed’s window is too weak. Welts of lighting illuminate the flush of your chest and cheeks. Two seconds of bright and twelve of dark warmth, shaking swirling thunder and then only rain. Sweat rolls from your temples and into the depths of your kimono. It’s been days since he’s had you like this and longer since you’ve had true privacy, others a whole yard away.

You can’t be gone long, he knows. Staff watched you race in here together, watched him shut the door, he knows he knows, he just can’t put you down yet. He leans in for another kiss and you let him fall close enough for his chest to crush yours before pulling back on his hair again.

“Y/n,” he’s suddenly not above begging but you hold his gaze tight. You watch him as your hand slips between the place your bodies meet. Pretty fingers reach for the heat between his legs. Pretty knuckles ghost over the swell of his robes and draw the fabric aside instead of ordering he bring you back inside. Sanemi’s cock perks up in free air as high as this position will let it and rests heavy under the swell of your ass.

He kisses you again, toothy and smiling and when you kiss him back your sharpest teeth clink together. He ruts into your desperation against the wall, harder than the rain, harder than the wind that threatens to blow your shed away and you with it. Obviously he wouldn’t let it but the thought that nature might be jealous of the rumple you made of each other drives him harder against you. Slipping, cock hard and suddenly shifted up against the hair under your belly. Peach fuzz yields to warm slick and Sanemi drops his head to your chest when he shudders to avoid whimpering into your mouth. He slips through your folds with a tight hold still under your thighs and drags himself up, down, up, hypnotized always by the faces you make when you’re trying to keep quiet.

The scars across his body are forever numb, but when your clammy hands paw is his chest he swears he can smell color. He can touch light when you pull his face back to yours frantically, when your hips with all their fabric flowing off of them buck sloppily against his, when he thrusts once deeply inside of you and forces a broken gasp from the back of your throat.

Before you can catch your breath your lips have crashed against his and his hips against yours. Sanemi keeps the relentless, restless, starving pace you like and knows he’ll last only the next few minutes before the worst of the storm blows over. Again and again he carves a palace for himself inside of you. You guide him with the falter of your kisses when he finds that perfect spot and with the slick that coats both of your thighs. Your voice escapes you in choked whimpers, his name comes out in hiccups. You’re a little bell in his arms folded in half and singing for him.

Again and again, out and so deep back inside, Sanemi’s feet grip the floor as he plunges his hips into yours and both of your bodies into the swelling wood walls. His rhythm staggers as you flutter around him and with his head against your shoulder he watches the circles you draw on your clit with the tips of four clumsy fingers as your other hand muffles your voice. He grabs that quieting wrist without thinking and without taking his eyes off the place your bodies connect with lewd squelches and sticky white threads. His threatening grip, his thick cock and your fingers push you right over the lip of your pleasure and fluttering becomes milking spasms quicker than Sanemi can think to treat you gently. That half-sobbing voice he loves so much cheers him towards his own climax and the more sensitive you grow the easier it is to coax those sounds out of you that you try to keep hidden, “Don’t– don’t be so quiet.”

“Inside,” you whisper in reply and draw his face into your hands as his pounding stutters in pace and loses all flow completely under your dreamy gazes. Sanemi can’t keep his eyes open when he cums. His pretty lilly lashes flutter with lost concentration. He shudders, ruts you deeper into the wall and groans with release as he fills those swollen wet parts of you. Warmth pools in your belly and trickles off his cock still buried. Sweat falls like the rain outside.

“Wanna taste,” Sanemi rumbles without setting you down or stilling his thrusts fully. He nuzzles somehow farther into the dip of your collarbones. Soft snow white hair, a heartbeat in the fingers that grip you. Every twitch of his hips is a starving ache.

“C'mon,” you grin, “dinner’ll get cold.”

“Let me taste you.”

“Sanemi, what will I eat if you eat me?”

“Have a few ideas,” he smiles back through the trembling of the shed in encores of thunder and gale. A leak tip tap tip taps nearby. Four years of this, maybe more.

[kairismess]

Omg I just saw a tiktok and it was the cutest thing ever! Okay so this girl goes up to her fiancé after his game (the like meet n greet or whatever) and acts like his fangirl! Could I get something like that for Atsumu please? (You don’t have to but thank you if you do <33333)

well hello, pretty stranger.

after atsumu signed yet another one of his fan's merchandise of him, he took in a deep breath and tried to brace himself for another round of smiling nonstop and acting all charming, like how his fans think of him as. it does get suffocating after a while of this, all he can imagine of to keep himself sane and from teetering at his wits' end is by dreaming of coming home in a few hours, laying down on your lap, and being treated to a night long full of loving between you two.

as he's stuck day dreaming about you, the next person in line comes up; with her excusing herself to him to catch his attention as he sat there, in a bit of a daze, imaging how soft your lap would be and how much he just wants to get this over with already so he can smother you with his affection.

he soon snaps out of his gaze when she waves her hand in front of his face a little, catching his attention. he quite literally snaps out of it, his back jolting in surprise as he gains sobriety once more and realizes just where he is and what he was doing before dreaming of you and your embrace. he chuckles and rubs the back of his head, an embarrassed smile on his face as he apologizes for not noticing her earlier.

he doesn't look at her face yet, but he politely takes the jersey she handed to him to sign, but for some reason, the feel of the jersey was... familiar. the smile fades from his lips as he looks over the clothing she handed him, seeing the number on the jersey was the same as his, but on the back, the words, "mrs. miya" were printed on them. it was then that atsumu realized... you came to his signing, you came to his meet and greet today.

all his wishes came true much earlier than he thought, and when atsumu looked up, his suspicions were confirmed. "um... are you okay, mr. miya?" you ask him with a shy, yet awfully knowing, smile; making atsumu do a double take and pause for a minute to collect his thoughts. he nodded and gave you a beaming smile. "yep! ...never been better." he muttered as he signed your jersey, taking all his time to let this moment with the woman he'd spend the rest of his life with in a few months linger for just a split second longer.

when you thank him and take the jersey back from him, he sneakily wraps his calloused hands around your wrist, gently pulling you close to him as he whispers in your ear, "thanks for saving my ass and sanity, babe. i love ya." and when he relinquished his grip on your wrists, leaving you flustered and unable to return his 'i love you', he looked to you from the side as you were about to leave and wait for him somewhere in the building, sending you a genuine smile of gratitude, and a wink your way. he couldn't wait to officially make you his mrs. miya in the future... you gave him enough energy and excitement to last 50 more of these meet and greets for one whole sitting!

[miley1442111]

needing you, part 2- r.cameron

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

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

a/n: last part!

summary: you two reconcile

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

warnings: hurt/ angst, breaking up, fighting, mentions of rafe's addictions, mentions of al-anon, mentions of break downs and bad mental health in general, kissing, happy ending :)

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

“I’m sorry. I fucked up and I was an ashhole and I know I don’t deserve you but I need you back. You’re the only thing on this fucking island that keeps me sane and I don’t know what to do without you. You my girl, my best girl. You’re always there for me, and you know me, the real me. And somehow you’re still with me. You’ve seen me at my lowest and you chose to stay- for whatever fucking reason, and you made me the person I am today. I love you so much, not just because of who you are, but because I feel fucking better when I’m around you. And I didn’t mean fucking anything I said last night. I was just tired and I was jealous-”

“What were you jealous of?” you asked, cutting him off. 

“You and Jj,” he shrugged as you rolled your eyes. 

“Why would you be jealous of us?” 

“Because you’re always all over each other!” he groaned. 

“We hug each other Rafe! You’ve specifically told me to stop touching you on multiple occasions, so why does Jj giving me a hug piss you off?”

“Because I like it, and I wasn’t sure how to say that,” he admitted, much smaller than before. 

You put a hand on his cheek. “You have to talk to me about these things Rafe, if you’re having a bad day, tell me, don’t throw me under the bus. I’m on your side,” you sighed, and Rafe was full of hope.

“So- so we’re back together?” he asked, his hands grabbing at your waist. 

“Yes, but,” you smirked. “Only if you promise the next time we have to break up, we break up over something worth breaking for.”

Rafe was almost insulted. “You and I are never breaking up again, I’m taking you for keeps,” he smirked, and kissed you passionately.

He meant it. The ring in his bedside locked literally had your name engraved on the inside, just with a different surname…

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

obx masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games, challengers :)

[winterarmyy]

Behind The Facades | Part I

An unrequited pining over a certain super soldier.

Summary: In which Y/N is pining over Bucky while she watch him wrap his arms around someone else.

Navigation: Part I || Part II || Part III (end)

Words: 1.2k++

Pairings: avenger!bucky x female!reader

Warnings: angst. just pure angst and pain.

P/S: i'm feeling melancholy all of the sudden, therefore this idea was born. It's a very short one but I hope you enjoy!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

"Never let your true feelings show." was one and if not the most important lesson Y/N learned from where she was trained before becoming an agent under the avengers program.

It was so deeply etched within her very being, that the habit had became as natural as breathing the air into her lungs.

"Keep that mask on, and no one will be able ever break you." They said.

So, she did exactly that.

She giggled when Bucky told her about how he managed to make a fool of himself when he attempted to flirt a girl that he had fallen for at that bar he regularly went to.

He really shouldn't read those random top 10 pickuplines articles on Google anymore.

Tears were threaten to fall, as her shoulders shook in silent laughter, "Really, Barnes? I thought you were the ladies man back in the 40's"

"Exactly. 'Were' . Now, I am clearly not. Urghh, I can't believe I let that birdbrain convince me that these 'pickuplines' would do the trick."

Despite his gruff annoyance towards Sam, she could see a tinge of red shade on Bucky's cheek; probably feel embarrassed from what happened.

Gulping down whatever drink he had in his glass Bucky huffed, "Honestly, I don't think any sane person would even consider to approach me, let alone date me." His sharp gaze wavered into something more vulnerable.

Though he didn't mention anything about his history but when he shifted his view to the metal of his left hand, Y/N knew what he meant.

Y/N gaze softens, "I'm here with you. Am I not?" Her nails dug into the skin of her thighs as she held back from wanting to touch him, kiss him, hold him; to whisper sweet nothings in his ears in hopes that it would shut whatever doubts he has of himself even for just a moment.

There was a swift glaze over Bucky's eyes. As if he realized something but his words seems to deny his revelation, "I said 'sane person', Y/N."

Y/N gasped with an exaggerated perplex on her expression, "Sargent James Buchanan Barnes..." she purposely called him by his title, hoping it will remind him that he should have the reputation of a respectful man, "... are you accusing me of losing my sanity?"

Bucky shrugs with a face of pure innocence, "In this tower? We all are. But, especially you." a playful smirk tugged the corner of his lips as he waited to witness her reaction.

She stifled a laugh when she heard a knock on her door and then greeted by what looked like a mountain flower, and in between them was Bucky.

He had impulsively bought almost half a dozen bouquet of flowers because he couldn't decided which one of them is pretty enough for his date.

He shyly laughed it off when she told him "You could've face-timed me at the shop instead of ended up buying this much of flowers, Buck."

"God, you're right, doll. Why didn't I thought of that?" He frowned as he sighed.

"Because you're old and forgetful, that's why." Y/N teased as she leaned to the door frame, arms folded across her chest.

Bucky rolled his eyes before sending a glare towards her, "You're not going to stop mentioning my age in everything, are you?" he grumbled.

He might not know it but Y/N managed to noticed a tiny pout on his lips; something only, as they said, Steve can notice. That slight difference on his lowers lips; a very minimal protrude, barely noticable.

But secretly, she can see it too. And it was something she wished she could brag about, something she could tell the world; how lucky she was to be able to notice those little things about him.

She chuckled with an answer, "Never."

Another grumble escaped from Bucky somewhere behind the bouquets, before he presented a particular set towards Y/N, "Anyway, this is for you." He acts reluctant but she knew he was always sincere with actions.

Her eyes skimmed through the gorgeous arrangement of daisies; her favourite.

For a mere second, she let her heart flutter and a genuine smile bloomed on her lips; however the truth was not supposed to surface.

If Bucky was not blinded by the bouquet, he would've seen how the joyous glint her eyes faded even if her smile was still intact.

"Bribery is an act against the law, you do know that right, Sargent?" Nevertheless, her hands reached out to take the gift.

Bucky chuckled in response, "Yes, ma'am. I do."

She smiled when Bucky's love-struck gaze shines when he told her about his first kiss with that lucky lady, during one of those midnight coffee trips she share with him at the pantry.

He should've seen how beautiful he looked that night; free of worries and caught in pure joy.

"It was..." Bucky sighed in content; he was so happy he lost his words. As he tried to find the right description of the kiss, she could see his gaze softens.

Y/N knew he was recalling the kiss, but she couldn't help but to fall for him all over again; not that it's not a recurring event everyday but she really did felt as if her heart stopped for more than necessary.

'He's so happy.' She thought to herself. 'Then, I should be happy for him too'

So she did exactly how it supposed to be done.

"Mirror their feelings; that way your true feelings will never show."

Y/N did exactly that.

That one habit that had lead Y/N to countless of undercover missions.

The same missions that left Y/N with one of the highest rate of successful inflitration, unharmed.

And yet, the facade she wore seemed to failed her this time.

Why didn't work?

Why does it hurts?

The longer she kept the mask on, the more it burns from within.

"Keep that mask on, and no one will be able ever break you."

Then, why does her heart aches as if it was falling apart?

Y/N could feel how weak her knees were becoming, she had to lean on counter tops for support. The slow ballad filling the living room, leaking to the pantry from where she stood and watched.

Oh, she loved this song.

She wrapped her shivering hands around the warm cup of coffee that she made as she watched the couple danced. And the longer her longing gaze linger on Bucky, the blurrier her vision get.

"Y/N..." Natasha softly grazed the side of Y/N's arm. How could she not notice Natasha coming in. Must have been her widow effect.

"You're breaking, honey." Natasha was meaning to imply about Y/N's heart but she was so set on hiding her feelings she thought Natasha meant differently, "I know." She replied as she sipped on the warm drink.

Her facades are breaking.

Her hazy vision remained on the, now shadows of the dancing couple, "I will put up a new one." She didn't even notice how her own voice cracked.

Tears overflowed from the corner of her eyes, "Just let this one crumble." Her lips trembled as she told the truth, "Cause I don't think I can fix this."

Part II >>

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: I'm thinking to have more of this couple; should i do it? Any thoughts?

[shalotttower]

The Art of Disappearing (part 1)

Title: The Art of Disappearing Fandom: Resident Evil Village Characters: Lady Dimitrescu x Reader (female) Summary: Lady Dimitrescu enjoys wine; you enjoy living. You pray to god those don't overlap. Word count: 1800+ Notes: mentions of death, implied torture and violence, NSFWish, WINE Part 2

Hiding in plain sight is a skill honed by necessity here.

Melt seamlessly into the decor of drapes and velvet curtains until you're indistinguishable from them. Become wallpaper with eyes that stare and mouths that don't open, and arms that only pick, and pass, and scrub, and fold.

You're not the girl who was locked in the cellar last week.

You're not the girl who dropped a plate yesterday.

You're not the girl whose blood got so deep into the dining room rug that it's better off being burned.

You want to say that you won't be that girl, but you can't promise anything anymore except that dinner is at 6 o'clock every evening unless stated otherwise by Lady Dimitrescu. Your schedule revolves around hers entirely, like planets rotating around their dying sun, even if it's not your shift. There's no such thing as a day off in the castle.

But there're such things as a quiet day, or a normal day, or a bad one.

Today is a bad one.

Lady Dimitrescu's favourite lipstick is missing.

It's a very rare, expensive shade, like the red shell of a ladybug, or the last breath of a maiden. Your ears pick up the word being murmured from one maid to another — 'if anyone sees the item, return it to the Lady's vanity immediately'.

You hope that someone finds it soon. Nobody here is dumb enough to steal, so it's probably forgotten somewhere. But you don't say it of course, because Her Ladyship doesn't forget anything and you still need your tongue intact.

---

Lady Dimitrescu likes wine; you enjoy living.

You pray that the two never overlap.

So far luck has been on your side — for six months now you've been working in the castle. You've cleaned stains from carpets and floors without asking what they are (because it was clear even without questions); polished silverware until you could see yourself reflected in them and arranged flowers countless times to learn which ones Lady favors over others.

You were a mouth that didn't speak and eyes that saw nothing. A piece of furniture with legs and arms.

As long as you do your job and keep a low profile, you're safe. Humans thrive in delusion, and so do you. It keeps you sane, what an oxymoron that is.

---

At three in the afternoon, you clean the bathrooms.

Bela is the neatest among the three, and Cassandra leaves everything scattered around for maids like you to collect and place where it's supposed to be. Daniela is... unique. You're not sure how she manages to get stains and fingerprints on such random surfaces. Sometimes you wonder if she does it on purpose.

Daniela loves fun surprises.

Like sneaking up on you when you're on your knees, scrubbing the tub. She pokes your shoulder. "Hiya."

Your heart drops into your stomach.

"Lady Daniela," you greet while trying not to let your hands shake under the apron.

She's smiling sweetly today, like she didn't just scare ten years out of you. You're not fooled and know better than to trust that expression. Nothing in this castle is innocent and saccharine and nice. Especially not the daughters.

"Can I help you with anything, my lady?"

Please say "no" and leave.

Daniela rocks on her heels then leans forward, inspecting your work.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

She's bored, you realize. Great. Bored means unpredictable behavior, and unpredictable behavior means trouble for everyone else who isn't Daniela herself. You wait for whatever she wants — entertainment? food? — patiently despite the churning in your gut.

"I'm bored," she announces.

"Yes, my lady."

"Let's play a game. Hide and seek, like little ones."

Six months have yet to make the instinctive urge to flee within you die out whenever one of them wants something from you directly. You'd think that this whole time might've increased your chances of survival, but humans thrive in delusion. In reality, everything is a gamble here. An embroidery of chance and circumstances that determines if you will live another day, that's all.

"I would be honored, my lady."

The bathrooms must be finished by five, and it's almost four. You're not going to make it on time.

"Who is going to hide first?" You ask after a moment.

Daniela claps. "Well you, of course, silly!"

Of course.

---

Hiding in plain sight is a skill honed by necessity here. Melting seamlessly into the decor of drapes and velvet curtains.

But you're not a vase or a coat rack. You're just a girl who's been in the castle for a while and has gotten good at being invisible. You can't hide your heart beat. Your scent and the warmth of your skin are impossible to erase.

"Ready or not, here I come!" Daniela's sing-song voice carries from the other end of the west wing, and then fades.

She didn't count to ten. You know because you've been counting along, just to have an idea of how much time there's left until she finds you. There're no harbored hopes about the opposite happening. Hide and seek is one of Daniela's favourite games, and she dedicates herself to it thoroughly, with great interest.

It's not about winning the game — that much you realized early on when she played against other maids, plucking one out and chasing her around the castle before dissolving into flies with a cackle.

It's about the entertainment good enough to satiate her.

You're not the most agile, not the fastest. Even after six months your knowledge of the castle's layout is patchy, but you try to think logically. What places will she check last? What will Daniela expect you to choose?

Closets are off limits. So is the library, unless you want Bela on your tail as well.

Your mind wanders.

There're so many rooms in this castle that you haven't seen once during all of your shifts. You're always cleaning hallways, sometimes the daughters' parlors, and nothing more.

Down the stairs, past the servant quarters, is a place where rumors are born. Of thick barrels stacked to the ceiling like dominoes and wine in various stages of production. It smells sour-sweet down there — like fruit rotting in August.

Wine that never runs out in Dimitrescu castle as long as there're maids.

That's what others say, at least. Nobody has come back to confirm.

Would she look in the cellar? Would anyone?

It's the last place you'd search if you were looking for someone insignificant and replaceable.

You take off your shoes so that your steps don't echo in the expanse of marble and stairs.

---

There're all kinds of things down here. Broken furniture that's been tossed aside for disposal, boxes and crates of unidentified items, old paintings of people you don't recognize.

And wine.

A lot of it in barrels and bottles, some of which are labeled, some aren't. You walk past them, following the corridors of dusty brick. The air smells like mold and fermentation, damp. It reminds you of the lakeside by your grandmother's cottage in summertime and you feel strangely nostalgic.

You miss home.

The thought is dangerous and you quickly push it away, back to where it belongs — in your memories. Home doesn't exist anymore.

Time passes. Minutes go by without the sounds of buzzing swarms or doors creaking open somewhere nearby. No voices either, except for your own breathing and heartbeat that fill up every corner of silence. You find a nook between the stacked barrels and settle there with your knees pulled to your chest.

The place is colder, uncomfortably so. Cool ground sends its chill through your stockings.

You've done everything you could. Found a good hiding spot, a perfect one, and it's out of your control from here on.

The art of disappearing is simple: be nothing and wait until time decides if you're worth staying like that or not.

---

Daniela finds you after your legs start to numb from sitting.

"Found you," she grins from ear to ear.

Her flies settle as she solidifies into flesh with a giggle, girlish and mischievous. It could be cute if not the bloody smudges around her mouth and chin. She crouches down in front of you, close enough for you to see the specks of gold in her eyes.

"Congratulations, Lady Daniela."

Your fingers dig into your skirts.

Daniela tilts her head; a fly crawls on her cheek before taking off. "I win! I get my prize now."

You didn't know you were playing for a prize. But nobody tells you anything in this castle until it's too late, like that you're not supposed to open windows in winter, or that you can't touch Daniela's books because she has them organized alphabetically.

"What would you like, my lady?"

Another fly lands on your lips, a thick creature with translucent wings and little fuzzy legs. They tickle but you resist the urge to make a face lest she takes it as an insult. At your question her expression turns impish, one of those you never fail to associate with trouble.

She reaches into your apron's pocket... and pulls out a lipstick.

You stare at it — a simple elegant tube with a golden cap.

"Look what I found!" Daniela waves it in front of your face like it's a toy.

Your blood freezes over. How did it end up there? You've been working for hours today yet you don't recall ever picking it up off anywhere. Where-

"My lady, I didn't take it!" you blurt out in horror, when it dawns on you. "I swear, I wouldn't! I would never-"

Daniela blinks owlishly and then breaks into laughter, clutching her stomach. Her smile is so wide that you can see her gums stained with coagulated blood which makes your stomach turn. The flies swarm and dissipate around you both, disturbed by her unrestrained mirth.

"Silly," she interrupts your stammering. "I know! You should've seen your face!"

Oh thank god.

You're so relieved that for a second all air leaves your lungs.

"...you tricked me?" you ask quietly after a moment, a bit more composed now when the accusation of theft doesn't hang over your head.

"Mhm," Daniela nods and wipes tears from her eyes, still giggling.

You're not sure if it was funny to anyone except her.

Her smile lessens gradually and eventually vanishes from her lips altogether when the initial amusement wears off. Something coy appears in her demeanor, sheepish even, as she fiddles with the lipstick in silence.

"Can you put it back in mother's vanity?" she grabs your hand suddenly and places it into your palm.

That's when you realize that you never even once questioned where she got it from. But Daniela gives you a pout with a warning look, like she's able to tell exactly what you're thinking. All questions die instantly on your tongue; you nod.

"Yes, my lady. Of course."

"Good," she pats your knee. "Don't forget! Or I'll eat you."

Flies descend onto your skirt, buzzing around Daniela's fingers until she disappears into dozens of black insects.

You know that she meant every word.