#Be part of the solution! Be part of the solution!!!

[sadclowncentral]

the scariest thing about the generative AI thing is how quickly people have accepted it as an indefinite, irrevocable part of their reality. people have genuinely convinced themselves that ChatGPT is the only solution to most tasks - tasks they did with their own brain without any large effort two years ago. like you know damn well all of us used to write emails ourselves why are we pretending like this is an impossible task to do with your own two hands. what's with the fucking. AI revisionism. i feel like i am going insane.

[ggukivrse]

just this once | jjk

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff (?)

word count: 5.1k

warnings: you’re gonna get sick of the title loll, brief alcohol consumption, this is lowkey pwp (there will be more plot soon i promise) swearing, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, fingering, oral (m. receiving), he’s very cocky but also pathetic, multiple orgasms, lots of banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk calls oc a brat x2, multiple positions, insinuated aftercare, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: you guys built this fic!! this was supposed to be out on thursday but i realised i was being wayy to ambitious cuz i definitely needed more than two days to write this loll. but alas, it’s here :3 as always, likes, comments, reblogs, feedback and asks are very appreciated! enjoy reading angels <33

ps. THERE WILL BE A PART TWO!!

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You fumble with your keys, swaying just slightly as you try to jab the right one into the lock. Behind you, Jungkook’s laughing under his breath, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck.

“Need help?” he asks, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.

“I’ve got it,” you say, jabbing the key with exaggerated precision. The door finally clicks open, and you push it in with a triumphant, “Ha!”

“You’re so competent,” he deadpans, clapping a mock applause as he follows you in. His shoulder bumps yours as he passes. “It’s honestly inspiring.”

You kick off your shoes, tossing your keys into the bowl by the door. “And you’re so annoying,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.

Jungkook drops onto your couch like it’s his own, sprawling out like he owns the place. Which, in some ways, he kind of does.

A hoodie of his is already slung over the back of a kitchen chair, from some night two weeks ago when he stayed too late and decided not to drive home. There’s an energy drink in your fridge with his name written on the lid in Sharpie. The blanket he’s tugging over his lap? That’s the one he gifted you for Christmas, mostly so he could use it whenever he came over.

It’s always been like this.

He tosses his denim jacket on the couch as you grab two bottles of water from the fridge, chucking one to him without warning. He catches it with the ease.

“You were definitely flirting with that bartender,” he says, unscrewing the cap and looking at you with that maddeningly smug smile.

You scoff. “He had a mullet and called me ‘miss.’ It wasn’t flirting— it was survival.”

“Sure,” he says, nodding like he totally believes you. “That’s why you laughed at everything he said, even when he asked if you liked your tequila neat.”

“It was neat!” you say, defensive and laughing at the same time. “And besides, you flirted with the girl in the fishnets for, like, an hour.”

He shrugs. “Guilty. She had good taste in music. And thighs.”

You groan and flop down beside him on the couch, letting your head fall back against the cushion. Your thigh brushes his, but you don’t move. Neither does he. The buzz from the party is still warm in your blood, and the apartment feels too quiet now — too intimate without the noise and lights and other bodies.

“You ever think we’re just... really bad at dating?” you ask, staring at the ceiling.

“Constantly,” Jungkook says, without hesitation.

You glance at him. “Like, maybe we peaked in college.”

He makes a face. “Don’t say that. I refuse to believe my best years happened while I was still eating instant ramen and failing comp sci.”

You laugh, and he turns his head toward you, watching you with that soft-eyed expression you know too well. There’s something about Jungkook when he’s like this — no bravado, no teasing smirk, just... present. His hair is a mess from the wind, and a dark tank top hugs his figure.

He’s too comfortable here. Too familiar.

“I genuinely think I’ve forgotten what a good kiss feels like,” you say, mostly to the ceiling, like it’s a throwaway thought.

Jungkook hums. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s not even bad, it’s just...” You trail off, searching for the word. “Empty. Mechanical. Like everyone’s going through the motions, but nobody’s actually there.”

He shifts slightly, angling his body more toward you. “So no decent kissers at all lately?”

You shake your head. “No decent anything, if I’m honest.”

He raises an eyebrow, curious.

You hesitate, but the alcohol in your system makes it easier to say what you probably wouldn’t sober. “I haven’t slept with anyone in like... almost a year.”

Jungkook blinks, not in judgment, just surprised. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” You rub at your temple with a laugh. “I didn’t plan it or anything. It just kind of... kept not happening. And then it became this weird streak, and now here we are.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Well,” he says eventually, “maybe your standards are just too high.”

“Or maybe men are just mid,” you shoot back.

That gets a laugh out of him, loud and bright. He tips his head back, and you watch his throat move as he laughs. Too long. Too hard. When he calms down, he gives you a look — something mischievous that you've grown to know too well over the years.

"What?" you ask, narrowing your eyes at him with a smile.

He shrugs. “I mean... I could help."

“With my standards?”

“With the streak.”

You snort. “What, you offering?”

“Maybe.”

You tilt your head. “So what? You wanna bang it out?”

It’s meant to be funny. You’re grinning when you say it. But when you look at him — really look — he’s not laughing.

His gaze lingers on your mouth for a beat too long. Then his eyes flick up to yours.

“Just this once?” he asks, voice low. Careful. Like he’s giving you an out.

You don’t answer right away. The room goes still. The hum of the fridge feels too loud. His eyes are still on you, and it’s not a look you’ve ever seen from him before.

Your heart stutters in your chest.

You swallow. “Wouldn't it be weird?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.

“Only if we let it be.”

You sit there for a second, the weight of it all hitting a little too fast. Your brain’s still catching up to your mouth, to the way your body’s buzzing — not from the alcohol anymore, but from him. From the heat in his eyes, the way he said it — almost like a dare.

And then his expression shifts.

His eyes flick away, and his tongue runs over the silver ring on his bottom lip, like he’s pulling it back, reeling it in.

“Only if you want to, obviously,” he says, quieter this time. “We don’t have to.”

He starts to lean back like he's resetting the mood — like this moment can still be folded back into the safety of your usual teasing — but you stop him.

You move first.

You grab the front of his tank top — not hard, not dramatic, just enough — and you pull him in.

You kiss him.

It’s abrupt. Heat over hesitation. A split-second decision that tastes like tequila and impulse, like comfort and fuck it all wrapped up in the same breath.

At first, he doesn’t move, frozen in surprise. But then he kisses you back — really kisses you back — and suddenly you're not thinking anymore.

His hand slides to your thigh, just enough pressure to ground you, and you shift toward him instinctively, knees brushing his. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of focused laziness, like he’s savouring it. Like he’s trying to figure out exactly how you taste.

You pull back half a second, just to breathe, lips brushing his as you mutter, “Took you long enough.”

He laughs into your mouth, low and smug. “You kissed me.”

“Yeah, well. You looked like you were gonna bail.”

“I was being respectful,” he says, voice muffled against your jaw as he starts kissing along it. “But sure, let’s call it bailing.”

You gasp a little when he nips at your neck, just enough pressure to make you arch toward him. Your hands slide under his top, fingers skimming the warm skin of his back, and he shivers under your touch.

“Jesus,” you murmur. “How are you this built? You eat, like, gas station snacks and leftover noodles.”

“I work out,” he mutters between kisses, grinning as he drags his mouth back to yours. “Also, you’ve seen me shirtless.”

“Yeah, but not like this.”

“Like what?”

You tug him closer until your chest presses to his. “Like I get to touch.”

That shuts him up real quick.

He kisses you again, this time more urgently, and you feel the change in the air — less teasing, more want. Your legs shift to straddle his lap without thinking, your hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just a little.

He groans, deep and rough, biting down on your bottom lip before kissing it better. You rock your hips forward slightly and he bucks up into you with a hiss.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

You smirk against his mouth. “You offered, remember?”

“Yeah, and I’m rapidly realising that was a dangerous choice.”

You laugh, breathless, before kissing him again. He tastes like beer and something sweeter — probably the gum he always chews. You bite his lip and feel him groan into your mouth, hips jerking beneath you.

His fingers slip under your shirt, warm on your skin. Not rushed, just exploring — like he’s been curious for a while and is finally allowed to look.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and his head drops back against the cushion with a low fuck that makes your stomach flip.

“You still sure about this?” you ask, teasing, as your hands drag down his chest, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

His eyes open — dark, focused, amused.

“You gonna stop me if I say no?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

“Then yeah,” he says, breath hitching as your fingers reach his abdomen. “I’m very sure.”

He catches your fingers before you can finish unbuttoning his jeans.

You raise a brow, breath still uneven. “Seriously?”

He nods, steady, calm in a way that only makes your pulse pound harder. “I said I was helping you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I thought that was like... a mutual helping situation.”

His mouth twitches. “You always gotta argue when I’m trying to do something nice?”

You open your mouth to throw something back — something biting, something stupid — but he leans in and kisses you before you can get the words out. One hand still wrapped around your wrist, the other cupping your jaw.

He pulls back just enough to speak.

“Let me take care of you.”

You stare at him for a beat, heart kicking hard in your chest.

“Fine,” you mutter, trying to sound unbothered. “But don't expect any thank yous or shit.”

“I’ll survive,” he says, already smirking as his fingers work at your jeans. “Though, for the record, I think you’re gonna want to.”

You snort — right before he pops the button of your jeans and drags the zipper down, knuckles brushing your skin. You shiver.

“God, you’re cocky.”

He glances up, eyes flicking to yours. “You saying I haven’t earned it?”

You don’t answer. Your breath stutters when his hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties, palm flush against you.

He stills.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “You’re wet already?”

“Shut up.”

He smiles cockily.

You roll your eyes — try to, anyway — but your thighs are already parting, your body moving without conscious thought. His fingers slide into you, testing the waters, and your head tips back with a soft sigh.

He watches your face like he’s waiting for something. When your mouth parts, when your hips twitch toward his hand, that’s when he moves.

His thumb finds your bud and he's gentle at first. Circling, then rubbing just a little firmer. You bite your lip hard, trying not to give him the satisfaction of the noises building in your throat.

“Still not thanking you,” you say through clenched teeth.

“Oh, you will,” he says, low. “Eventually.”

You glare at him. He grins back, fingers dragging lower, slipping in without resistance. You suck in a breath, and he laughs softly under it.

“Okay?” he asks, suddenly serious again.

You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He starts moving his fingers — slow at first, too slow. Like he’s enjoying making you wait. You squirm, trying to rock your hips into his hand, but he tightens his grip on your thigh.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, eyes gleaming. “You’re letting me do the work, remember?”

“I hate you.”

“You’re literally grinding on my hand right now.”

You reach out blindly and smack his chest. He doesn’t even flinch — just slips another finger in, and your breath catches so hard it punches the air from your lungs.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

His thumb picks up a rhythm again, and the pressure starts to build fast. He knows it, too. His free hand slides around your waist, steadying you as your body starts to shake. Your fist curls into the soft fabric of his top, needing something to hold onto.

“Still hate me?” he asks, voice rougher now, his breath tickling the shell of your ear.

“Don’t flatter yourself— fuck—”

“Yeah?” His fingers curl just right, and your whole body tenses. “Right there?”

You nod, desperate, eyes squeezed shut. Your thighs are shaking. You’re so close you can’t even keep up the bit.

“Say it,” he says.

“Say what?”

“Tell me how good I make you feel.”

You groan. “Jesus, Jungkook—”

He slows down suddenly, barely moving his hand.

You whine. Actually whine.

“That’s not what I asked for.”

“God, you’re annoying,” you say, breathless.

He grins. “You're the one being the brat here.”

You drag your eyes open and glare at him, but it’s all heat now. All want. You lean in close, lips pressing against his.

"Fuck— fine. You feel so fucking good, Kook. Please, just don't stop."

He doesn’t.

He kisses you hard and fast, and his fingers start again, slick and firm and relentless. Your body clenches around him and this time, you don’t even try to hold the sounds back. His name leaves your mouth like muscle memory, and he groans into your kiss, like he’s the one coming undone.

When you break the kiss to suck in air, he presses his forehead to yours, voice rough in your ear.

“That’s it. Let go for me.”

You do.

Your body arches, thighs trembling as the orgasm washes over you sharp and fast. Your fingers dig into his back, into his top, into anything that keeps you tethered.

He doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, twitching, pushing his hand away because you’re too sensitive now.

He pulls back finally, breath warm against your skin, his fingers wet. He looks at you, gaze heavy, lips parted.

Then, without a word, he brings his fingers to your mouth.

“Open,” he says, low and steady.

You blink at him, your body still humming, brain half-melted. “What—?”

He brushes two slick fingers against your bottom lip, and your mouth parts on instinct.

“You said no thank yous,” he says, smirking. “So this’ll do.”

You glare at him, but your lips close around his fingers anyway. He watches every second — the way your mouth wraps around them, the way your tongue slides against the pads. His expression flickers from cocky to wrecked.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice rough now, the smugness cracking around the edges.

You suck once, slow and purposeful, eyes locked on his, and he jerks slightly under you — hips twitching like your mouth is on him instead. When you pull off with a soft pop, your lips are swollen and wet.

“You said mutual help,” you murmur, breath still catching on the end of every word. “It’s your turn.”

He blinks, like he’s short-circuiting.

You slide off his lap slowly, hands dragging down his chest, and his breath catches when you settle between his legs on your knees. You palm him over his jeans, and he hisses, already hard under your touch.

“Fuck,” he mutters, head tipping back.

“You okay there?” you ask, voice sweet, taunting. “Or do you need me to go slower?”

He looks down at you, pupils blown, jaw clenched. “Don’t be a brat.”

You unbutton his jeans, real slow, enjoying the way he twitches under your hands. “No promises.”

You drag the zipper down, tugging his jeans and boxers low enough to free him. He’s flushed and heavy, tip already glistening, and you swear you see his hips flex at just the sight of your mouth this close.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You look way too good down there.”

You wrap your hand around his cock, giving one slow stroke, and he groans like it surprises him.

You start slow. Just your hand. Thumb brushing over the sensitive ridge under the head, watching his thighs tense beneath your touch. His head drops back against the couch cushion, and you feel the way his hips subtly shift toward you, like his body’s trying to chase more without him even realising it.

You lean in and lick a slow stripe from base to tip, tongue flat, deliberate. His breath catches — then shudders out of him like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs.

“Shit,” he mutters again, voice strained.

You hum like you agree, and wrap your lips around the head, just barely. You suck, not hard — just enough to make him twitch. Your hand works in tandem, slow, steady strokes, and your mouth follows, inching lower until the tip presses against the back of your throat.

He moans, raw and wrecked. “Fuck, baby—”

The pet name is barely more than a gasp, almost like it slipped out without permission. Your stomach flips at the sound it.

His voice borders on the line of sounding pathetic, and it makes you want to press your thighs together.

You fall into rhythm — your lips sliding over him, tongue pressed firm underneath, hand twisting where your mouth leaves off. Every now and then, you let yourself get sloppy. Let the sound of it echo between you, let him hear what he’s doing to you.

He’s falling apart above you. You can tell by the way his hand flexes and releases in your hair, the way his thighs tremble every time you sink a little deeper. He’s breathing hard now, jaw slack, eyes barely open. Watching you. Like he still can’t believe this is real.

“God, your mouth—” His voice cuts off into a moan when you swallow around him, deep and slow. "You're gonna be the death of me."

You pull off just long enough to breathe, lips slick, chin wet. “You deserve it.”

He laughs, but it breaks halfway through. Your hand doesn’t stop moving.

“You like watching me fall apart, huh?”

You look up through your lashes, tongue flicking over the head. “More than a little.”

You go back down — deeper this time — and he chokes on a groan. His hips jerk up too sharply and he curses, hands fisting hard in your hair.

“Shit— I’m—” He’s panting now, thighs shaking. “I’m not gonna last if you keep— fuck, don’t—”

You suck harder, then moan around him just to hear the sound he makes. It’s almost a whimper.

“Baby, stop— wait— fuck— please—”

You pull off with a wet pop just before he tips over the edge, lips red and swollen, saliva clinging to your chin. He’s barely keeping it together. Chest heaving, flushed to the neck, cock twitching where it rests against his stomach.

“You were right there,” you say, feigning innocence, voice soft and ruined.

“Exactly," he says, sitting up. "I'm not done with you yet."

He drags the fabric of his top over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought. The moment it’s off, your breath catches.

Fuck.

He’s all golden skin and sharp lines, chest heaving, abs flexing with every breath. His tattoos curl over his shoulder and down his arm, black ink stark against flushed skin. His cock’s still hard, flushed dark, resting against his stomach, twitching when he sees the way you’re looking at him.

And you — still kneeling between his legs — can’t look away.

Then you rise, shaky but determined, and pull your top over your head, letting it fall. His eyes snap to your chest, lips parting like he’s just been punched in the gut. You're movements are purposefully slow as you pull down your jeans, then your panties.

“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes dragging down your body. “You’re a fucking dream.”

You crawl back into his lap, your bare skin meeting his, and the contact makes both of you gasp. You straddle him, knees on either side of his thighs, and he groans the moment your heat presses against his cock.

He fumbles for a condom, pulling it out from an inner pocket in the jacket he’d draped onto the couch earlier.

You watch as he tears it open and rolls it on, fingers practiced but tense. You reach between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance, and the second his tip slides against your soaked folds, his grip tightens on your hips.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice shaking.

You sink down slowly, inch by thick inch, and your nails bite into his shoulders as you stretch around him. He’s big — your pussy gripping him tight, wet and pulsing as he fills you up. Every nerve lights up, every breath gets harder to catch.

“Holy fuck—” His head drops to your chest, groaning against your skin. “You’re so tight. So fucking warm. Gonna make me lose it.”

You whimper as you bottom out, walls fluttering around him. You can feel every vein, every twitch. It’s almost too much. Almost.

But not enough.

You start to move — slow, dragging lifts of your hips, circling them on the way back down. He watches, hands clamped on your ass, guiding the grind of your body like he already knows how to make you fall apart again.

You ride him, pace picking up fast, desperate. Every time your hips drop, the base of his cock grinds against your clit, slick sounds filling the room with every slap of skin against skin. His cock hits deep, stretching you wide, and a moan passes your lips.

He groans are low and guttural, eyes locked to where your bodies meet. “Goddamn, baby. Watching you fuck yourself on my cock— shit— never gonna forget this.”

You’re panting now, thighs burning, rhythm faltering. You try to keep going, but your legs are shaking.

He notices.

Without a word, he shifts under you, plants his feet flat on the floor, and grabs your hips tight.

“Let me help you, yeah?”

You nod. “Please.”

He starts thrusting up into you.

You cry out, spine arching, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on as he fucks you from underneath, sharp and deep. His hips snap up into you, cock pressing into your sweet spot over and over again.

The new angle is obscene. Filthy.

“Fuck, Jungkook— holy shit—”

He smirks up at you, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. “That’s it. Take it, baby. Look at you— so cockdrunk already.”

Your pussy clenches around him, soaked and messy, and the sound of it is downright pornographic. His balls slap against your ass with every brutal thrust, and you can’t even think anymore. Just feel.

Your head falls back, hips rocking with his. “W-we’re still best friends, right, Kook?”

His rhythm stutters, hips slamming up too hard, too deep, and his jaw drops slightly like he’s not sure if he actually heard you right. His pupils are blown, face flushed, and he stares at you like you just kicked the last brain cell out of his skull.

“What the fuck,” he pants. “You can’t say that. Not when I’m— fuck— inside you.”

You whimper, walls clenching around him like your body’s reacting to how wrecked he sounds.

“That’s so fucked up,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Say it again and I might actually come on the spot.”

You huff out a weak laugh at that, hands tangling in his hair, and he groans, fucking you harder, deeper — like he needs to wipe the thought of friendship off your brain with every snap of his hips.

“Y-Yeah,” you gasp. “So close, fuck— don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. One hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit while he pounds into you. You sob his name, hips stuttering, body locking up.

“Come on,” he grits out. “Wanna feel you squeeze me.”

That’s all it takes.

You break with a cry, body clamping down around him as your orgasm hits like a fucking freight train. Your pussy pulses around his cock, milking him, soaking him, your whole body shuddering with the force of it.

He slows just a little — just enough to let you ride it out — but he doesn’t pull out. He’s still hard inside you, jaw tight, eyes blown wide.

You collapse forward, panting into his neck, spent.

His hands slide down your spine, warm and possessive. “You good?”

You nod, still breathless. “Yeah. Jesus.”

"Good." He swiftly lifts you off him just enough to slip out, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But he doesn’t give you time to think.

He shifts, guiding you onto your back, his body following yours down to the couch. His hands frame your face as he settles between your legs, and when he presses back into you — thick and hard.

His eyes roam over you like he’s never seen anything more obscene or more beautiful. Your lips are swollen, parted in a messy moan. There’s a faint smudge of mascara under one eye from when you’d cried out his name, and your skin’s glowing — sweaty, flushed, wrecked.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he says, voice gone rough. “All fucked out for me.”

You pull him down into a kiss before you can think. It’s open-mouthed, greedy, teeth clashing a little. His hips start to move again, slow at first — long, deep thrusts that make your breath catch every time he bottoms out.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back to pull him deeper. His chest brushes yours, sticky skin against sticky skin, and your nails rake down his back.

He gasps into your mouth. “Fuck—”

“More,” you breathe, nails dragging again, leaving angry red lines down the muscle of his back. “Please.”

His hips snap harder, pace picking up again. He braces one hand beside your head and the other slides up your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise. Your body rocks with every thrust, his cock slamming into you, the slap of his hips against yours louder now.

“You feel that?” he grits out, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “How tight you are around me? Fuck— I’m so deep, baby, you’re taking me so fucking good.”

You moan loud at his words, head falling back against the cushions.

He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast — open-mouthed, wet kisses that make your skin burn. Then he’s back at your mouth, kissing you like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe.

He watches you with the kind of hunger that makes your stomach flip, watching how your brows pinch, how your mouth trembles, how you twitch around him with every stroke like you’re on the edge all over again.

And fuck, you are.

“Touch me,” you gasp, voice raw. “Kook, please—”

His fingers snake down your stomach, rubbing tight, perfect circles against your clit, synced with the rhythm of his thrusts. You cry out, thighs shaking around his waist, and he just watches — eyes dark and wild, like he can’t believe what he’s doing to you.

You clench hard around him, and he curses, slamming into you deeper, grinding at the end of each stroke.

“Gonna come again?” he pants. “Wanna come on my cock like that, baby? Let me feel you soak me?”

You’re nodding before he finishes, tears prickling in your eyes from how fucking intense it is. “Yes— yes, fuck, don’t stop—”

He kisses you as you fall apart — moaning into your mouth, swallowing every sound. You come again, whole body seizing around him. Your nails dig in, and he hisses at the pain, thrusting through it, fucking you right through the high.

When it ebbs, your body goes limp under him, chest heaving, lips swollen, slick dripping between your thighs.

Jungkook fucks into you again — slow, deep, like he’s trying to memorise the feel of you pulsing around him. His breath stutters, muscles drawn tight, every thrust rougher than the last.

“I’m not gonna last,” he pants, voice wrecked.

You bring your hands up to his hair, lightly tugging at his locks as you whisper, “Wanna feel you.”

He chokes on a moan, slamming into you one final time as he comes hard, cock twitching deep inside as he fills the condom.

His arms shake, muscles locked tight, and his face is buried in your neck as he rides it out, breath ragged, skin flushed and burning. You feel every pulse of it, every tremble in his frame, and all you can do is hold him there — legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms tangled around his shoulders, your nails still leaving stinging trails across his skin.

He presses kisses against your neck and jaw, eventually trailing up to your lips before pulling back to just look at you.

"I— you're perfect."

You smile, a familiar warmth enveloping your cheeks. "Yeah, yeah, you can stop with the flattery."

But he doesn’t smile back right away. He just watches you, quiet. Like he’s still catching up to the weight of what just happened. What’s still happening.

His hand drifts to your waist, thumb brushing lazily over your damp skin. “Let me run you a bath.”

You blink. “A bath?”

He nods, lips brushing your temple. “Yeah. You’re shaky. And I kinda wrecked you.”

You snort, catching the smugness in his voice. “What happened to, ‘Shit, baby, if you don’t stop I’m gonna come down your throat’?”

He groans, laughing. “Okay, first of all— rude. Second, I don’t sound like that.”

“Mm, you definitely do.”

He pinches your side lightly. “Keep talking, I’ll re-enact it right now.”

You shut up. But you’re smiling.

He stands a moment later, disappearing into the bathroom. You hear the water running, the soft clatter of bottles, his voice humming something low and familiar.

When he comes back, he tosses you a towel and holds out a hand, that same easy smile on his face. The one you’ve known forever. The one that makes everything feel… normal.

Even now.

You lace your fingers with his, let him pull you up.

Your legs are jelly. His hand doesn’t let go.

And as you follow him into the bathroom, skin still marked by his touch, lips still swollen from his kiss, a quiet thought flickers at the edge of your mind.

You guys were still best friends.

Right?

→ read part two here (coming soon — join the taglist for ‘just this… twice?’ to be notified when part two releases)

taglist | click here to join: @thegreatdepressionme @golden-loona @kissyfacekoo @cookysstuff @whoa-jo @minghaosimp

[kxsagi]

HIII!! love your writing 🙈 can i request bllk guys w an extremely pretty reader, i’m talking everywhere they go ppl are turning their heads to admire. (with karasu, rin, barou and whoever u can pick) feel free to ignore, thanks !!

“𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞”

a/n: thank you!!! omg this is me whenever i see my readers why are you guys so head-turning jaw droppingly gorgeous pls save some for the rest of us???

facial features perfect af, smiles beautiful af (pls go lip sync to maria by justin bieber in the mirror and bask in this confidence)

ft. karasu tabito, itoshi rin, barou shoei, itoshi sae, kaiser michael

karasu tabito

he thought he was ready. 

you’re his partner. you’re hot. he knew this. but the first time y’all go out in public together post-soft-launch? karasu realizes he is wildly underprepared. 

you walk into the mall and heads turn like you’ve got your own gravitational pull. dudes tripping over their own feet. girls side-eyeing you like you invented contour. an old man literally tips his hat. 

and karasu? karasu’s standing there like 💀 

“do i even exist right now,” he mutters. 

you sip your drink and go, “you’re just my silly little accessory.” 

he laughs. he can’t even be mad. 

but then someone asks you if you're a model and karasu panics. 

“yes, she is,” he cuts in, way too fast. “and she’s also very taken, thank you.” 

starts hovering behind you like a security guard with a minor superiority complex. 

"stop acting like my bodyguard," you say. 

"i'm not. i'm acting like your boyfriend who will throw hands at a 17-year-old if he stares at your ass one more time." 

itoshi rin

you are the bane of rin’s existence. and also the love of his life. 

he’s trying to go to the convenience store for ice cream and you’re there, looking like a runway model in joggers and a hoodie. 

you walk in and the store clerk drops his phone. 

"what flavor do you want?" you ask, oblivious. 

"the one that doesn't make people stare at you like you're the second coming of christ," rin snaps. 

he is not built for this level of social interaction. or this level of beauty-induced chaos. 

you think it’s cute when strangers compliment you. rin looks like he’s planning several hypothetical murders. 

and the worst part? 

every time he thinks he's gotten used to it, you smile at him. and it’s like the world goes silent. suddenly the stares don’t matter. 

"stop looking at me like that," he grumbles. 

you blink. "like what?” 

"like you actually like me or something." 

and you just grin. 

rin glares at the ground. he’s so done. he’s so whipped. he wants to scream. 

barou shoei

you’re a problem. an actual, walking, talking, heart-stopping problem. 

you show up in gym clothes and barou feels the earth shift. 

he already looks like a bouncer 24/7, so when people stare at you for more than three seconds, he’s automatically squaring up like he's in a street fighter game. someone whistles once and he growls. like. growls. 

you have to physically grab his face and say: “no mauling strangers today.” 

barou’s solution is just to glare at everyone. even babies. 

you’re like “babe. please. stop intimidating children.” 

“should’ve kept their eyes to themselves.” 

"he was a toddler." 

"he knew what he was doing.” 

but every time you reassure him – say you’re only his, kiss his cheek, sneak your hand into his – he softens. turns into a grumpy, silent puppy. still scary, but like… protective scary. 

you catch him staring and he just goes, “what.” 

“you’re looking at me again.” 

“i’m checking if you’re still real.” 

itoshi sae

you are his worst-kept secret. 

not because he wanted to keep you hidden, but because the second you step outside with him, everyone starts talking. he takes you to a match and it’s all “who’s that with sae???” on twitter within five minutes. 

he doesn’t mind, honestly. but when you’re in public and people won’t stop looking, he gives that look. you know the one. that dead-eyed, judgmental, “you’re beneath me” stare that says blink again and i’ll ruin your self-esteem. 

you’re like, “sae, they’re not doing anything.” 

“they’re breathing in your direction. that’s enough.” 

you laugh. he doesn’t. 

but he also spoils the hell out of you. treats you like you’re royalty. 

“you look good today,” you say. 

he shrugs. “i know. but you look better.” 

and the way he says it is so casual it knocks the air out of you. 

his love language is making everyone else feel inferior to you. 

michael kaiser

oh. he’s thriving. 

you’re pretty? you’re show-stopping, scenery-devouring, wreck-my-focus-on-the-pitch pretty? kaiser is the proudest man alive. 

walks beside you like you’re a trophy he won and he’s never giving back. 

“they’re all looking at you,” you whisper. 

he smirks. “and at me. by association. it’s perfect.” 

has zero shame, even when he doesn’t realize they’re not looking at him, they’re looking at you. 

"take a picture with me," he says mid-date. 

"why?" 

"so i can remind people i won the genetic lottery twice – once with my face, once with you." 

but oh, let someone try to flirt. he’ll go full drama mode. puts on his fake nice voice like, “hey man, great taste. but unfortunately, i got there first.” 

then stares at you like you hung the moon and sun. 

"you’re too hot for this world," he says. 

“so are you.” 

“i know. we’re gonna destroy mankind together.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[prokopetz]

why do you think indie metroidvanias specifically take so long to make, and is there a solution that you'd like to see them go for? (i know that would likely mean a compromise of some kind, but like, you know)

The reason why is fairly obvious: the classic metroidvania formula makes it very easy to fall prey to unintentional scope creep and is a positive nightmare to QA.

Non-linear progression gating based on precision platforming challenges where the player's basic moveset is constantly changing means every little thing needs to be rigorously tested in every part of the gameworld, carefully checking every room with every combination of abilities the player could conceivably possess for a wide range of failure states.

Is there some combination of abilities that allows the player to get into this room, but not out of it afterwards? Is there some combination of abilities that allows the player to do things in an order you didn't expect? Does that variation in sequencing in turn create situations where the player can end up somewhere without an ability you had assumed was required to get there? And so forth.

Even once you've got everything tested, it's not over. Every tiny change during development, even as small as adding or subtracting a couple of percentage points from the player character's jumping height or walking speed, can potentially have a domino effect that introduces a whole new set of failure states. It's not a pretty picture!

As for solutions, the one most solo or small-team metroidvanias end up adopting is to put a damper on the exponential QA explosion by linearising progression. If you haven't flipped the right switch or visited the right room, the door simply doesn't open, the progression-critical cutscene simply doesn't trigger, and so forth. Even big-name metroidvanias often make judicious use of this one: for example, Super Metroid has certain doors in the early game that just arbitrarily will not open until you've collected a couple of specific items from the game's combat-free introductory area.

The trouble with this approach is that if you use it to the extent that's necessary to keep your QA responsibilities at a manageable level for a small team or solo developer, you functionally end up with a linear, level-based platformer that makes you walk from one level to the next. Whether this disqualifies a given title from the "metroidvania" label is a demarcation problem I'm not interested in litigating, but folks who expected a more open world experience are quite understandably going to be disappointed.

The approach I'd prefer more indie metroidvanias take is to keep things under control by limiting their scope. Not ever damn thing needs to be the next Hollow Knight; many classics of the genre can be completed in well under an hour with good routing even without employing modern speedrun tech. Similarly, some of the best indie metroidvanias are those with the smallest maps; Alruna and the Necro-Industrialists, probably the best example of open-world map design of any metroidvania published in 2024, has a map that's scarcely twenty by twenty screens, and its routing is downright fiendish.

(One of my perennial probably-never-gonna-happen projects is to design a full-featured metroidvania targeting a two to three hour casual playthrough whose entire map can fit on a single screen while remaining at a vaguely playable zoom level, in the style of titles like 1 Screen Platformer.)

[frid4y]

you wouldn't call yourself dumb when it comes down to it, but your not the brightest tool in the shed. mainly because your focus isn't on school, and more on.. everything else. you would much rather go to a party or watch yourself in the mirror instead of sitting in a boring lecture.

but not everyone sees it your way, especially not your university, which is threatening to kick you out if you don't get your grades up. when you first got the letter, you only stared at it in shock , then spent an hour crying to your dad on the phone, who couldn't do much to help you. bribery is a crime after all.

he only had one solution, which was hiring you a tutor. at first, you were against it. now you had to listen to some nerd talk about math your not gonna need again? absolutely not. yet, that was until you met your tutor. he was hot, all six feet of him. those hazel eyes staring down at you with a scrutinizing gaze behind his black rimmed glasses. kento was his name, and you never wanted to forget it.

due to your ignorance, you thought it would be pretty effortless to get into his pants. batting your lashes a few times and running your hands along his biceps, gasping at how strong he looked and asking if he goes to the gym. it's usually that simple, men are easy. but, you would be lying if you said you were able to even get a reaction out of him. his response being to "keep it professional" and "i'm you tutor, you shouldn't be behaving in this manner."

three long excruciating months of sitting in the library and talking about subjects you had no interest in. you pulled all your best tactics, but he just never gave in. until one fateful night. you didn't have the energy to get up from you dorm, so you just told kento to come over. he was reluctant, but you promised you had no alternative motives. such a liar, anyone could've seen that. but he didn't.

you intentionally put on the smallest pair of pajamas you own, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. about 15 minutes into your studying session, you noticed kento's face was extremely red, and he was avoiding looking at you. you felt the smile threatening to form, but you couldn't let him know that. "kento? are you okay? you look as red as a tomato!" you say, placing a "concerned" hand on his upper thigh, feeling the muscle twitch under your hand.

his breathing gets heavier, and you look down where your hand is, your eyes landing on the forming bulge in his jeans. jackpot. the smirk that was hidden by your faux worry is now plastered on your face, and you see those hazel eyes darken as they flick between your tits and your face, his glare intense. your screwed, but you've been waiting for this fucking moment.

"the little whore thinks it's fun to tease, huh? f-fuckk... you don't know how long i've been waiting to put this bratty mouth to good use." kento grunts, his hands in your hair making a makeshift ponytail as his hips thrust up, grinding his cock into your mouth. the sight of your lips stretching around his length to fit it all in makes him go crazy, watching how his pre-cum and your saliva coat his dick. you maintain eye contact with kento, watching how his lips part in hazy satisfaction, then come together to muffle what you assume was a groan.

you feel tears brimming at your eyes, and kento sees them, the view only spurring him on and causing his cock to twitch in your mouth. "wonder how daddy would feel if he found out his daughter was slutting herself out for her tutor.. and parading around in these tiny fucking outfits— shitt, c'mon princess, don't tap out on me now.." he coos, pulling his cock out of your mouth with a wet pop as your nails dig into his thigh.

kento watches as you catch your breath, strings of spit connecting your lips and his tip. he smirks as watches your lashes flutter rapidly, every breath heavy and deep. “feel better baby?” he coos, tugging your bottom lip slightly with his thumb. when you nod, he smiles. “good, cause we’re not done. now say ahh and open up..” he taps his cock on your cheek, waiting for you. his cock twitches against your face causing pre-cum to smear across your cheek. when you open your mouth again, kento slips himself back in, your lips wrap around his cock eagerly as your tongue slides over his tip.

“good girl—and just when I thought you were incapable of listening. seems like you’ll only listen when your throat is stuffed with cock.” he teases, guiding your head farther down, the sound of your gags purely music to his ears. “wonder how much more I can fit in that pretty little mouth..” you can only make incoherent sounds as if in response, completely filling up you throat as your nose comes in contact with his pubic bone.

kento's grip on your hair tightens, his breathing getting heavier. you watch as he leans back and his head tilts up.. he's getting closer. he moans, his tugging almost bruising as his jaw slacks and his cock presses right against the very depths of your mouth, hips stuttering as his orgasm comes rushing out of him. you swallow his cum as quickly as it comes, earning a breathy whimper from him.

“i knew you would give in, just a slut like the rest of them.” you grin, kento rolling his eyes.

“shut up and get onto the fucking bed.”

[mullermilkshake]

I’ll look after you, second

Part 4 <- Part 5 -> Part 6

Things are tense, but you come up with a solution.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem Hunter!reader Tags - Smut, Car sex, Vaginal Sex, p in v sex, quickie, unprotected sex, creampie, trying for a baby, breeding, possessive thoughts, mentions of infertility, strained pressure in a relationship, Jinwoo just wants a family with you

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

Jinwoo never got a chance to fuck you before the association dinner, you trudged off towards the bedroom and slammed the door shut for a whole hour before emerging in a dress that took his breath away.

It was evident that you’d been crying and for the first time, Jinwoo was unsure how to approach you.

Besides making his feelings partly known that first night, there’d been too much emphasis from the association that you and he never fully had that chance to explore each other emotionally.

You were well aware of Jinwoo’s thoughts towards you, yet you never acted on them, not unless it was in the bedroom. You cooed all sorts of little sweet nothings into his ear, and only then did you make him think you felt that way. As soon as he came and you were finished, it all stopped.

He craved more than just a facade. More than just a show for the association. He wanted you to want him too. He had already killed for you to ensure you slept next to him at night, that you uttered his name with pleasure and ensured he was the first and last person you saw in the morning and before bed.

So why was everything falling apart and becoming so difficult?

Jinwoo wasn’t sure, he wanted to get to the bottom of it, so he thought of the most logical way and just asked on the drive to the restaurant. “So… I know things have been difficult. I wanted to let you know that I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

“You do?”

“I do. It’s not easy and I can’t imagine how awkward things are for you…” He started soft and respectful for now. “We’re in this together and I want you to know that just because the association wants to turn their backs on us in a month, it doesn’t mean I will.”

You were silent for a while, looking over at Jinwoo in the car every so often from his periphery, he could tell that you were conflicted. Each time you opened your mouth to speak, you stopped yourself until he looked over at you behind a red traffic light.

“I guess we haven’t really had time to find more about each other, huh?” You looked down at your laced fingers nestled neatly on your lap. “I guess this whole thing has thrown me a little.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“It’s just… If I’m less involved with you, Jinwoo, then I won’t get attached. And the pressure of all these negative tests is stressing me out- I want to get to know you better, but Jin-chul said it himself, in a month they’ll split us up, so what’s the point?”

What’s the point? The point is everything, it’s the very essence of this programme, the point is to get to know each other and make a baby. When Jinwoo eventually got you pregnant, because he wouldn’t ever give up, he wanted to be a family. That was his main goal.

He didn’t want some other woman’s child, he wanted yours. 

“There’s a point, but that’s probably a contributing factor to why nothing’s happened yet… Y’know, the whole ‘why bother if it isn’t going to work’, I think we need to reevaluate our stance on this.”

“So… this is all my fault?”

“No, no, no, I never said that.” Well, in honesty, it was. But how could he tell you that when you looked so hurt as he pulled up in the darkened parking lot, right by the streetlamp with the busted light. “All I’m saying is that it’s a cycle, and we’re stuck in it, so let’s pull ourselves out of it, okay?”

“So what are you suggesting exactly, Jinwoo?”

He had one idea, and that was to fuck you senseless in the car right now, but he went with the secondary option instead. “Why don’t we go on a real date and see how you feel then?”

When you turned to him, pulling off your seatbelt in the most adorable way, Jinwoo saw the cogs turning. “You want that?”

“I told you how I felt about you, remember? This is more than just an agreement to me, and it can be for you if you let it. But it’s your decision to make.” 

Making it sound like your choice made it easier for your brain to comprehend someone else making decisions for you without even realising. Eventually, Jinwoo would coerce you into picking every option he chose, darting around the wrong ones like a river around a rock.

The right choices were the ones involving Jinwoo.

“I don’t-” You didn’t flinch, not at Jinwoo’s touch to brush a hair from your face. “I don’t know what I want.”

“I can show you a few options. If that’s what you want?” Jinwoo’s touch never let up, his thumb traced your bottom lip, his eyes watching you softly under the interior light. “I want you to be comfortable and look forward to being with me, not dreading it.”

You swallowed deeply, biting your bottom lip and contemplating your life choices. “Why do you- how am I good enough to-”

Jinwoo kissed you, it was the only way to show you instead of spilling pointless words for you to deny. Actions spoke louder than words and it was about time you saw that. The kiss was quick and sweet, firm enough to mean business but shallow enough to stop you bolting.

And when you kissed him back, it was a sealed moment in the relationship. Not once outside of the bedroom had you kissed or even spoken about Jinwoo’s feelings about you since the beginning. He hoped once Hae-in fell pregnant, you’d stop with the barrage of guilt for sitting on Jinwoo’s cock in Hae-in's place. She was pregnant now and it was about time you were.

It was probably the reason Jinwoo was caught off guard when you pawed at his suit jacket, becoming more feverish and passionate so quickly, going as far as to turn the interior light off.

“What do you need?” He managed to get in between touches, heated exchanges in the passenger side after you slipped your stilettos off.

“Want you to- I need you to fuck me.” You were already hiking your dress up.

To fuck here, in the parking lot when the resturant was maybe fifty metres away, the association table most probably already collecting with hunters and you wanted to fuck?

Jinwoo was already at half mast just from your kiss and here you were, about to slip your underwear off.

“Leave them on-” Jinwoo launched his driver's seat back as far as it could possibly go and took a hold of your waist, pulling you on top of him as close as he could.

He gripped your hips and weighed you down over his growing erection until you ground on him instinctively. You were beautiful, breasts stuffed into your dress jittering perfectly with each stolen breath to make the car windows steam.

“What’s caused this?” Jinwoo wasn’t sure why he asked, but he did.

“I-I don’t know, I just need you right now.”  It was good enough for him, you caused friction over his suit pants that drove him wild.

Jinwoo chuckled, shoving his face against your chest and trying his damndest to keep his composure. He couldn’t ruin you, not right here before the dinner, but he could leave you with a present. He pulled your dress up further, past your waist and admired your body begging for his touch, each kiss was electric, every touch a lit fire under his skin. You were coming round to this idea eventually, the only thing getting in his way of keeping you permanently was a baby.

Before Jinwoo could really settle himself in the moment, you were tugging at his belt, lips locked in a hurried fashion with feverish tongues exploring each other's tastes. You tasted of spearmint toothpaste, gentle, refreshing mint right on his tongue. Jinwoo wondered what he tasted like to you, but that thought quickly flew away when you hurriedly pulled out his hardened cock to sit on.

It happened so quickly, yet earned no complaints from either participant.

Jinwoo pulled your lace underwear to the side, the softness gathering at his fingertips as he moved and and slowly pushed the tip of his cock inside you. You sat down quick enough to make him gasp, bottoming out with an overcharged huff, sexually activated.

Perhaps now you and he were joined as one as a couple could be.

You moved, slowly picking up the pace while Jinwoo held on for dear life, cursing under his breath at the very sight of you initiating something like this. It was more than just sex now, that much he understood. How could you say this was just sex?

So beautiful. He wanted so desperately to make you a mommy, filling you up time after time was his only way to truly get that ownership over your fierce independence you displayed out of the public eye. He couldn’t wait to break it down in exchange for codependency. You might be one of the country’s sweetheart S-Ranks, but Jinwoo knew you to be filthy, riled up and stubborn enough to give him a run for his money. Taming that was his ultimate adrenaline rush.

Jinwoo pushed you down further, watching your breasts bounce, the whole car trembling with the anticipation of an orgasm. His kink took over. 

“We’ll finish this tonight, but I’m coming inside you and I want you to keep it in for the entire dinner, can you do that for me?”

You nodded immediately. “Y-yes. Yes.” 

“Good girl.”  

He pulled you down to kiss, both tongues and saliva joining in desperation which seemed to spur you on further, ass bouncing and cupped in his hands for safe keeping. 

“Give it to me- now, I want it now, shit - we’re going to be late-“ 

“Don’t look at the clock, we have plenty of time, hold on.”

Jinwoo fucked you good. The little driven breaths from your lips drove him insane, fingers clenched around his suit lapels for support, ravenous at everything you did. The way your pussy sucked him in like it was meant for him, made for him. Fate enough that you fit so perfectly in his arms, the accentuation of your waist enough for his hands to sit like a carved art piece. So much perfection.

He loved it.

He loved you.

And he’d love the body you got while it made his baby and especially after that.

A family. He wanted a family with you so desperately. Give that to me, please. 

“J-Jinwoo, I’m com- I’m coming- oh fuck!” 

He wanted to kiss you so your moan escaped into his mouth, but that would have been a waste. “Let me hear you, don’t keep it in- please don’t keep it in.” 

You did as you were told and let it out, the most sensual and romantic gesture you had done for Jinwoo to date. When your hips jerked, you pushed Jinwoo’s back into the seat which made his heart swell three times the size.

Perfect. Just perfect. 

“Are you ready for me? Take everything I give you and keep it there-” He pulled you in for one last kiss. “You can’t waste a drop-”

There was something that mulled over in your eyes, like a darkness, but nothing like Jinwoo could produce when he was pissed off. Because you weren’t angry, you weren’t enraged or engulfed with fury. No, you were hungry, ravenous.

“You better fill me up good, or we’ll never make it to that dinner.”

Fuuuck. 

Well that just spurred him on and when Jinwoo did come inside you, it was positively the strongest orgasm he ever had in his life, not just with you, but in his entire existence. He held onto you tight like you would disappear in thin air, like you would leave if he didn’t have you in his clutches already.

Jinwoo wanted to forget about the dinner and in fact, he did forget as his toes tried to curl in his shoes, his knuckles seizing up at his iron grip on your hips and digging into the plush skin that would most definitely bruise tomorrow.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. The scene was sublime, the actions and words and everything happened as it should. Never for a second did he ever think you would do something so risky so early. In the grand scheme of things, two months was nothing, and you were bending to him like you needed him as much as he needed you in no time at all.

when it calmed down, you leant over to kiss him, your lips less passionate and more sweet like honey, though your face did not match it. It was like you were troubled over something you didn’t want to share, or thought it wasn’t worth acknowledging because you smiled sleepily right after.

If Jinwoo blinked at that moment, he would have missed it. So, he took a stab in the dark to gain your trust a little better. “Don’t worry, we still have time to do this.”

“I know… I just- I don’t want to have to start over again because they’re impatient. But…”

“What is it?” Jinwoo ran his fingers over your forearm, tickling them into goosebumps.

“What if I can’t- I mean, they never tested to make sure before we started this and I don’t want to be a disappointment.”

You weren’t really thinking that, were you? This was the association's doing, not yours, and Jinwoo would be damned if he let you think that way, just when you and he were making headway.

“Please don’t think that way. It just takes time, don’t compare yourself to Hae-in, she just got lucky, but we still have time. So let’s make the most of it, hm?”

It seemed to settle you. You didn’t get off of him initially and Jinwoo assumed it was to keep his fluids inside a little while longer, but that wasn’t exactly that. You laid down and rested your head on his shoulder for comfort, you even allowed him to stroke your hair in the process.

“Okay… Alright then, let’s do this. We can do it.”

Well this night became a whole lot more interesting than I initially thought. 

Originally, Jinwoo fully accepted that you were either going to ignore the issue and therefore ignore him, or it would blow up into an argument. Though you never really had it in for Jinwoo, he was the closest one to air your frustrations about the association. He tried to stay on side for the most part, but then he’d say something that didn’t align with your frustration and he’d get both barrels. While he never took it personally, it was getting kind of boring.

So when you and he straightened yourselves up, left the car with you full of his semen and holding hands like a real couple towards the restaurant, Jinwoo had high hopes of succeeding his untouched year long quest.

All he was waiting for now, were those two little lines on a pregnancy test and the first step of keeping you was complete.

One hell of a bumpy ride, but his suspension still seemed intact.

Part 4 <- Part 5 -> Part 6

If you would like to be tagged, please let me know! Thanks so much for all the support on this likes, reblog and comments appreciated! ❤️

Tag list - @bubera974,@snowy-violet,@sky2lar,@starrynights23x,@minh907,@yessirr7,@aussie-boys-wife,@yihona-san06,@mashiromochi,@daiyanomochi,@justatimidcreator,@alia-17,@otomegamesforlife@m00n-estelle,@towomatos,@stormnightingale,@johnnysactualgf,@solarisstarrsolomonsbeloved,@johnnysactualgf,@solarisstarrsolomonsbeloved,@notleclerc,@minkuro,@misakicchi,@lovingyeet,@soft-dots,@gina239,@sabrina-senpai,@tsukimoon-chan

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhua. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[bosbas]

Chapter 8: if I'm dead to you why are you at the wake

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem!daphne's best friend!reader WC: 1.6k

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, idiots in love, the usual pining of courseeee

Summary: At her wit's end after Anthony's multiple attempts to scare away her suitors, Daphne employs her best friend's help to keep her brother distracted while she tries to find a husband. It's a foolproof plan, except it ends up working a little too well. (or, a Bridgerton version of The Taming of the Shrew/10 things I hate about you)

September 24, 1812 - It had been two and a half months since Anthony had found out the truth about your intentions with him, and he considered himself to have largely overcome the summer’s chaotic romance. Fake romance, he reminded himself.

It wasn’t something he thought about excessively. Perhaps he did think about it every day, and it would be safe to assume that he thought about you every passing hour, but he wouldn’t say he thought about you every minute of every day. And that was progress, wasn’t it?

At least he had forgiven Daphne, and the siblings had been able to sort out their differences. Though Anthony truly wanted his sister to find a husband she liked in due time, it certainly didn’t hurt that she had ended the summer just as unattached and hopeless as him.

“I heard Lady Mitchell got engaged last night,” commented Daphne, who happened to be sitting next to Anthony. 

“Did she? To that Roberts fellow?” hummed Violet. “He’s a good man, she’ll certainly be happy she’s got that sorted.”

“A good man who made her wait six weeks until he proposed,” scoffed Daphne, unimpressed by her friend’s lengthy courtship, especially with how smitten she seemed to be. “Practically unheard of to wait that long this late in the season.”

“Have any of your other friends gotten engaged then?” asked Anthony automatically, the words slipping carelessly out of his mouth. 

He cringed slightly, looking up from the morning paper to see his sister shooting him an amused glance. 

“She hasn’t, no” Daphne responded, her voice soft, akin to when she talked to one of their horses after a tough ride. 

Immediately, Anthony felt his shoulders release some tension he didn’t even know was there. 

“Shame,” he said, making sure to keep his voice light in a desperate attempt to convince his family of his nonchalance.

A beat of silence prompted Anthony to look up and catch the tail end of a knowing look between Daphne and Violet. 

“It is!” he insisted, trying to convince himself at the very least. “I hope she’s found someone who cares about her.”

“She had,” cut in his sister. 

Daphne might be Anthony's sister, but was still your best friend, after all. And she was the only one who saw just how miserable both of you were since you had stopped whatever it was you had with Anthony and refused to step foot in the Bridgerton home.

Anthony scoffed, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. “I can’t have this conversation again.”

“Very well, then,” pressed Daphne. “There’s a remarkably easy solution to that problem.”

This earned an irritated groan from Anthony, who was rather tired of his sister trying to convince him to declare his love to you in some grand and extravagant way like you wouldn’t just laugh in his face. 

“I’ve told you, it’s for the best, Daphne. And that’s the end of the discussion. She’s not what I’m looking for in a wife anyway,” Anthony said through gritted teeth. 

“And why not?” asked Violet, scandalized by her son’s apparent disrespect of someone who was almost a daughter to her. “I know things might have ended on less-than-ideal terms between you but Y/N is still someone to be treated with respect and dignity.”

“It’s not that,” replied Anthony, already feeling a headache coming on. 

It’s because I love her, he thought. But of course, he couldn’t say that out loud. Not without having the rest of his day taken up by a long lecture from his mother on how fulfilling and special true love could be. 

He simply didn’t care. 

Not anymore, at least.

He’d had a taste of being completely head over heels for someone he intended on marrying. He'd had a chance to truly know someone, and consequently be completely in love with them. However, he rather preferred not having a flutter in his stomach– out of excitement or anxiety he didn’t care to find out –every time he thought of his future with you. 

Falling in love once had been enough. Anthony had done it. He’d experienced the love his parents had. And he wasn’t itching to experience it again. He could now just focus on finding someone adequate who fit his list of requirements for a Viscountess, which heavens knew you didn’t. 

“Well, whatever the reason is, you’ll have to get over it before Christmas,” sniffed Daphne, not in the mood to argue with her brooding brother. 

“Why Christmas?”

“Because Y/N is coming to spend Christmas with us in Kent, like she does every year,” responded Daphne in an obvious tone. The Are you thick? was left unsaid. 

Now Anthony felt the headache in full force. Of course, he’d forgotten. Well, at least he had a few months to prepare to face you again. 

---

“Are you quite sure there’s nothing we can do?” you said, exasperated.

Your carriage had broken down on your way home from the shops, and your father had taken the spare carriage for the day with no hints as to when he would return. 

“Afraid not, Miss,” said your driver, looking quite apologetic. “I can try to reach the Bridgertons, who don’t live too far from here.”

A sharp inhale. “That won’t be necessary,” you smiled weakly. You’d rather walk home than risk having to ask Anthony Bridgerton for help. 

Instead, you leaned against the lopsided carriage and put your head in your hands. A few hours alone with your thoughts wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it? Was it really too far to walk? Usually, it wouldn’t have been, but the sun was about to set and the chilly November air gave you pause. 

“Y/N? Is that you?” called the unmistakable voice of the oldest Bridgerton brother from atop his riding horse as he slowed down to get a good look. 

Speak of the devil, you cursed.

“Anthony,” you said, slightly taken aback by how handsome he was. 

You hadn’t seen him outside of the privacy of your imagination in a few months, and his hair was slightly longer than it had been over the summer. It suited him. Well, everything suited him. 

“Is something the matter with your carriage?” he asked, already hopping down and inspecting the vehicle, which lay in disrepair. 

“It’s quite alright,” you started, but your driver was too quick. 

“Just hit a hole in the road and had a bit of a hiccup,” he explained. “I’m afraid there’s not much I can do right now, we just have to wait for another carriage to come retrieve Lady Y/N.”

“Nonsense,” waved Anthony. “I can take her home right now if that’s alright.”

“That won’t be necessary,” you said, only to be spoken over once again.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Bridgerton. Especially since the sun is going down, it’d be best to get Lady Y/N inside.”

It seemed like you had no choice in the matter. Annoyed, you huffed and crossed your arms, but made your way over to Anthony anyway. 

“Can you help her on?” Anthony asked your driver, getting back on the horse and shuffling forward so you had enough space. 

Once you were safely atop the horse, Anthony grabbed your arms and put them around his waist. 

“Just don’t let go,” he warned you. “I know it’s not the most comfortable ride, but it’s the best I can do.”

“I- It’s fine,” you said, speaking softly lest your voice betrayed your true feelings. 

You rode the rest of the way in silence. A special kind of hurt bloomed in your chest as you passed the Bridgerton residence, which you once considered your true home over the house you were born in.

You found comfort in holding Anthony, even if only for a moment, and even if only out of necessity. It was surreal to be so close to him again, and you closed your eyes so you could memorize exactly how it felt to feel his heart beating and the rhythm of his chest rising and falling. 

You’d long convinced yourself not to think about what could have been, but it hadn’t made the feelings go away, and it was lovely to be in Anthony’s presence for a little while longer. 

Once you reached your house, Anthony slipped off his horse and held out his hand to help you off as well. 

As soon as you were stood on solid ground he retracted his hand, and you were left with only the ghost of his touch in your memory. 

The two of you stared at each other, and you saw an unreadable expression on Anthony’s face. There was an unmistakable longing, but also something else entirely you weren’t sure you had seen before. 

“Thank you,” you finally whispered, the words barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to do that.”

And it was true. Anthony had been a true gentleman, even in circumstances like these. Curse him for remaining the picture of grace after everything you'd done to him.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, his eyes flashing with some unknown emotion. 

“Anthony-” you started, not entirely sure where you were going with this but wanting to try anyway. 

But Anthony interrupted gruffly. “I said don’t mention it.”

You cleared your throat awkwardly, not used to him being so short with you. You took in a breath, readying yourself for another attempt at something. Begging for his forgiveness, confessing you still loved him, anything at all, really. 

But before you could open your mouth he had already turned around, not sparing you a second glance as he mounted his horse and headed back, presumably to the Bridgerton house. 

A choked sob escaped your lips as you saw his figure disappear into the dusk. You supposed this was just how it would be from now on. At least until you moved on and found someone else, which seemed more and more unlikely as the weeks went by. 

—

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[jennamoran]

Hi Jenna,

Do you have any specific tips to offer for writers? I feel like I can make the vibe of a scene come through very well, but the idea of what is actually happening suffers as a result.

I guess a more specific question might be 'How do you describe how something feels without the comprehension of the scene suffering, or becoming overly verbose.'

-Thanks, Skane

As the famously concise and universally comprehensible Jenna Moran,

First, I should say that you must write for yourself. Trying to be clear to a set of notional readers will not make your writing clear. It will make your writing convoluted and afraid, and even more people will misunderstand.

This is a problem. Sadly I cannot at this time fix the world.

You can try technical exercises. You can try having as many interesting conversations as you possibly can. You can look for a writing club of some sort.

It helps to be safe. If you cannot be safe, it may help to be angry.

It helps to be valued. If you don't have that, it may help to work with slow dedication and accept things take time.

It helps to have people read bits of your drafts and work and enjoy them. If you cannot have that, let yourself read and enjoy them yourself?

I do not have more direct solutions right now.

**

As to your specific concern:

I will give a bad solution. Then I will talk about it.

You can describe how something feels. Then, describe the scene. One, then the other. Both things are now perfectly clear.

... or as clear as you can make them.

There are two reasons that's usually bad. The first is pacing. The second is language.

Why would you want to describe them at the same time? Why not one, then the other?

Usually, because they are a single event.

We experience "this happens, and I feel this" simultaneously. So separating them when you write misstates the experience(s).

They're not just accidentally simultaneous. They intertwine.

Knowing that, it becomes false to present one, then the other. In a linear present-tense narrative that does a deep dive on both mood and action, we must first present the beginning of the conjoined mood/action experience. Then the next bit. Then the next, and on to the end.

If the reader becomes impatient, they become impatient with the experience. Loosely speaking, the fault may be in your choice of which events to describe, and in how much detail ... or in them.

If the reader cannot parse something, it is your description of that portion of the experience that they cannot parse. Loosely speaking, the fault may be in your wording, or in them.

If we look at what you must present as a stream of experiences, then in at least one sense it becomes simple:

Identify whose experiential stream you want to share. Think through what they experience as a set of sentence-sized pieces. Present them one by one.

Thus for pacing.

**

You may discover at this point that you still are not conveying the scene clearly. That is because what you believe you must convey is not part of the experience. Either change the story you are telling or switch to a narrator with the perspective you want.

You cannot tell this post's story in a way that reveals that I did not eat much breakfast. Not without kind of shoehorning it in. It is not part of this story, even if it possibly should be? My cat came in earlier and drooled on my arm. Shadows only exist in the light. Oatmeal often has gluten. People are good. They should love themselves. I don't even own a shoehorn. I want you to know these things. But telling you right then was a little bit weird.

**

Let's talk about language.

Language is an issue because it likes to do its own thing. You often want the words to echo the experience. You don't want to use the same words over and over again. (At least, not by accident.) You don't want the sentences to sound awkward. You want to pause at natural places but you have to keep your punctuation navigably close to "correct."

It's like, language writhes when you try to nail it down.

It writhes. It screeches and flails. It tears off bits of its skin. It's a problem. That is before we even get to how other people are understanding your words.

If I ever have problems just telling people what happens in order then that is usually why.

I think it can help to read things aloud. Often I replace what I wrote with what I say when I read it. For me, this is only useful poetically. For the technical side---whether I'm communicating too fast or too slow for a reader to follow---it does not help. I have to guess.

I can tell you from experience that you cannot be too obvious. Just being you, when your reader is not you, will add plenty of mystery. Oodles of mystery. You don't need to add any more.

I do not have a great solution for language. I'm sorry.

I don't even know which of my own tricks and habits brought me my audience and which of my tricks and habits drive people away.

If you are riding language and it shies away from the content you have to convey to the reader, probably you have to murder it and find a new, dumber steed. I'm sorry again. The rest of the time, you can maybe just have fun with the ride?

I wonder if it would be better to explicitly state that language is a horse in that metaphor. I probably shouldn't. It goes against my own advice.

So, a scene. Suppose I am eating a banana and I am sad. I expect I would walk to the fruit with a heavy heart. I would peel it. I would look at the inner fruit sadly. I would notice the pale yellow of its color. I would notice the texture. The pores. (Looks up banana images) The long, fuzzy lines. I'd take a bite. I'd eat it. Maybe someone talks in the distance. The banana would be gone. Maybe I'd just stand there a moment. Then I'd pull the trash can out and throw out the peel.

I do not think people will gather around and point at that in shock and call it great writing. I don't even know that it's better than "so, there I was, sadly eating a banana" or "it was the first banana I'd eaten since my grandmother died" or whatever. But I do think that is the correct sequence of experiences.

If I really wanted to talk about grief I'd want to talk about stillness and feelings like rolling clouds and stuff. If I really wanted to talk about eating bananas I'd try to find words for that dull shock of sweetness on the tongue, the way you roll the lump of the bite in your mouth. I can't imagine what would force me to talk about both at once but presumably I'd have to start blending the experiences (this is how you get smoothies).

**

I think I did eat a banana not that long after my grandmother died, for clarity. It was a while ago. I think there were clouds in my chest. Or the sea? I don't know. This constant rolling, shoving motion, soft as water and hard as water both. I don't remember much about the banana, so I can't tell you about peeling it, or about what most of it tasted like. I can't include that honestly because it's not part of the experience, right? And if like the reader doesn't know how bananas work they may be like "wait, aren't bananas in some kind of squishy rubbery casing? And you're just EATING one?" but I can't do anything about that, they just have to suffer in ignorance, they just have to suffer. It's not important to the moment when I ate a banana after my grandmother died that my cat came in years later and drooled on my arm. It's not important that I don't have a shoehorn. It's not important that I'd already eaten enough bananas in my life to know my way around removing the peel. (I'm so cool.) Those things were not part of that moment.

I think my hand was on the counter, which was blue. I think the sky outside the window was grey. I don't think I looked. I just think it was grey. And if you don't know why I had to pull the trash can out, or where the banana was before I got it, or---if anybody did talk in the distance---who might have been talking, or how many bites it took---it's because the only moment there that was actually part of the experience was that first bite, dull and sweet on my tongue.

[dailyadventureprompts]

DM Tip: My Time, Threat, Tension Method

Artsource

Inspired by playing the new updates to Blades in the Dark and a recent discussion on the best way to use information gathering skills like perception and investigation, I wanted to share a technique that's quickly become a fundamental part of my DM toolbox when it comes to designing scenarios in D&D and other TTRPGS.

This technique is useful for building individual encounters, but can scaled up to provide structures for entire sessions or adventures. It's the closest I've come to formalizing the supposed "exploration" pillar of gameplay that WotC is so fond of mentioning but never provided any rules for.

Here's the rundown:

Figure out what your party is trying to accomplish (gather information, rescue a hostage, get through a door to the next area of the dungeon)

Establish at least one or more threats that would impede the party trying to accomplish their goal (raising an alarm, getting attacked by a deadly monster, letting their rival gain the upper hand)

By and large the thing that's going to separate your party from suffering the consequences of these threats is going to be time: a resource they have a limited amount of because you're going to arrange circumstances to maximize the drama. You don't need to keep track of individual minutes, more of an abstract sense of "everyone in the party gets to do two things before I mention they hear footsteps approaching the door."

Players are allowed any amount of surface information they'd like and a bit of faffing about on the side, but if they want to get closer to their goal they're going to need to spend time. Some actions are going to cost a flat amount of time, while others (especially those that are up to luck when time is of the essence) are going to require the party to roll. As an example: finding a secret door in a room by noticing the lack of dust on a hidden lever vs. spending ten minutes tossing the room and bruteforcing the solution.

Place a few diversions in their way, whether they be outright red herrings or time sinks that get them something but not the progress they want. (emptying the villain's safe doesn't uncover the secret diary the party is looking for, but it's rewarding in a way other than progress).

You can also be a bastard and put some traps in, not just the type that spring up and deal daamge, but the kind that make threats happen sooner (alarms, surprise guardians) but the kind that introduce new threats (curses, lurking poisonous animals, evidence left behind that alerts their foes)

It's also a good idea to scatter some hints amid the initial setup/diversions to generate those delicious "AHA!" moments and reward players who are paying attention. When someone acts off a hint or guesses the right course of action there's no time cost or roll required. They solved the puzzle, let them move on.

Depending on the scenario you might swap out time with safety, influence, or limited materials as the "resource" being consumed for the sake of the goal.

You can use this method to plan individual escape room style challenges, entire wings of dungeons, or mysteries across towns. All that's required is for your party to know what their goal is and know where to look and you can build out the whole session from there.

[starseclipsing]

ִֶָ࣪☾. | Sinister.

ᥫ᭡. Part two! (Part 1 here)

Tags: canon-typical violence, pwp (porn with plot), cunnilingus, oral sex (f receiving), interrupted sex, sinister mark is his own warning.

Silently, you read on your soft, large bed. The one that you’d told Mark to get you after he had kindly snapped the last one’s framework in half.

Afterwards, you’d tried to convince him to sleep on the pull-out couch downstairs. Unfortunately, he had thought you were making a less-than-clever joke. 

Even with the window closed shut and the curtains drawn, you could still hear the destruction and the screams of agony from outside; and it was creating a serious detriment to your train of thought. You can’t focus if you’re rudely interrupted by a cry or a pained scream after reading a single sentence. 

You let out an annoyed groan when you hear a goddamn gun go off, and decide to take matters in your own hands. Or rather, dump them on Mark. 

You place your bookmark with little cats on it in the page you’ve stopped, a paw extending to point to the last sentence you read. Then, you hop off the bed to draw open the curtains and open the window. You don’t bother to direct your gaze downwards, where the murder and destruction occurs. 

“Mark!” You call out loudly. You wait for a few seconds, keeping an eye on the sky as you wait. Your expression warps to a more annoyed the longer he takes. “Maaaark!” 

Amidst the polluted sky, you see something like a sonic boom approach from far away. When he’s a couple hundred meters close, he steadily slows down, angling his feet forward to slow himself further. Till finally, he’s face level with you. 

“Yes?” He says with a grin. 

“What took you so long? I’ve been waiting here forever.” 

He sighs, “Baby, I was in Rome. You know how far away that is?” You roll your eyes, “Pretty damn far away.” 

He leans in through the window and plants a kiss, “If you want, I can take you with me right now.” He says musically.

You shake your head and smirk, “Lovely offer, but no.” Then, a frown takes place on your lips, leading you back to the reason you called him, “Mark, I can’t pay attention. I'm trying to read that stupid book, but I can't.” You gesture to your ears, “Everything is so loud.” 

In that exact moment, an explosion goes off. Mark genuinely thinks about it for a moment, offering a solution, “So, do you want to live somewhere more remote?” 

“No. I don’t want to live in a wasteland.” 

“So do you want me to kill everyone here?” 

“But then who will I talk to?” You complain. 

He sighs, “Can’t you just deal with it?” You frown, and he eats up his words, “Okay. Fine, fine.” You can practically see him roll his eyes, even with his ridiculous goggles. “But I want pasta for dinner.” 

You pout, “That’s what we had last night!” 

He grins, “But not from Italy.” 

He gives you a last, parting kiss, and then darts away. You nearly tip over at the force of it, then wipe your lips with a groan. You close the window and shut the curtains. 

For a few, particularly annoying moments. There’s nothing but annoying loud noise. You try to keep your mind off of it by plugging in your headphones and listening to the songs you’ve saved. 

You walk over to the bookcase in the room, pristine and untouched. After the fiasco a few nights ago, you refused him when he wanted to put it back in its original spot in the living room. Instead, you decided on keeping the nook close to your heart, and you. In the bedroom. 

You run your fingers across the rows of books. By the time you find that same, slightly tampered with book, the noise has dispelled, leaving you in a comforting silence. You hum along to the song as you open the book. 

The book that you are fairly sure that you hadn’t possessed before your fight. You don’t know what had compelled you to look for a book you didn’t own that night. But somehow, you knew you needed that book, and you knew it was just within your reach. 

For some strange reason, the man that had opened a portal to your dimension –Angstrom Levy– was not keen on grabbing your Mark by the scruff and chucking him to a lovely reality he can ruin for his own enrichment. Or, that’s what you thought the idiot’s thought process was. Who the fuck knows what he’s thinking, really. 

The book is on how dimensions work, how people that can open realities do that, and most importantly, how people who can’t inherently create a hole in the fabric of reality, learn how to. 

Interesting stuff. 

On the armchair near the bookcase, your legs are pulled to you and you drape a blanket over your lap. You take a sip of your warm cup of tea and set it down on the small coffee table next to you. 

You open to where you stopped, and begin to read. 

You have read this book more than a few times over the last couple days since you discovered it’s existence. During that time, you’ve found it’s less been a long read, and more a tough read. You’re trying your best to wrap your head around the idea before you even begin to attempt it. Because you only really get one chance. One chance to get rid of your Mark. And if you fail? Well, then you can kiss kicking Mark’s ass out of this reality goodbye. 

The entire late afternoon, you spend it in your reading nook, repeating over and over what you have to do to open a portal to a different reality. 

When seven o’ clock strikes, you hear the familiar click of the front door. And before you could even lift your face to see, you’re met face-to-face with Mark. 

He sees the book you’re reading, “I see you’re making good use of your time.” He kisses your cheek, “I’ll take a quick shower and meet you downstairs. I won’t take too long.” You suppose the last part was meant to be a threat. 

***

At the dinner table, you twirl your fork around the spaghetti, then push the spikes of it into a meatball, before putting it in your mouth. As you chew, you hum pleasantly. 

He watches your expression with a keen eye, a grin on his lips at his triumph. “See? I told you it wouldn’t be cold. You just like to complain.” 

You swallow. “It’s a little cold.” You don’t want him to think he did an amazing job and get too full himself. 

He throws his hands up and furrows his eyebrows at you, “No! It isn’t!” You just shrug. 

The rest of the dinner continues to be a series of cutlery clinking with each other as you silently eat. Per usual, Mark’s face is screwed up into a frown.

“So,” He tries to start, “How’s the book you were reading going along?” You look at him with an eyebrow raised, and he groans, “The one with the angsty guy.” 

You sigh and correct him, “Angstrom.” You take a sip of wine, it’s painfully good. “And I already told you, I can’t open a portal. It’s impossible. You have to be born with it.” 

You fall into yet another uncomfortable silence. And the cycle continues with Mark trying to speak up, “Well, what about those other books you were reading? The one with the dragons and princesses and whatever.” 

Each time, you respond as curtly as physically possible, and the dinner ends with you throwing the dishes in the garbage. Because who does dishes at the end of the world, anyway? 

Without needing to be told, you hop on the marble counter and let Mark slip between your legs. He holds your hips as gently as possible (for him, anyway) as he kisses your lips. But as the kisses become more heated, his grip on you tightens, and you repress an annoyed sigh. He’s such a goddamned brute it’s almost aggravating. 

He picks you up by the back of your thigh without cutting off the kiss, a show of his strength. You wrap your arms around his neck and let him kiss you on the table where you were eating at. You let him suck at your lips against the living room couch, and you let him mark your neck against the stairs, before finally carrying you up into the bedroom. 

Along the way, there is a mess of a trail of clothes. He throws you onto the bed and takes his underwear and pants down in one go. He kicks them away and crawls to you, planting kisses down your neck. 

“You’re so fucking…” He grabs your waist tightly, “bitchy without even trying.” He bites the column of your neck harshly, then again on the other side. You yelp both times. “You know how goddamn annoying you are?” 

He’s taking his frustrations out on dinner, and every dinner, on you. And you won’t have that. You slap his back, he shudders, “Either do it right or get off of me.” You grit. 

He just groans, “God, I hope that leaves a mark.” He kisses down your body. Starting from the middle of your chest, to your stomach, all the way down to your pelvis. With how impatient he is, it doesn’t take long before he plants a wet kiss directly on your folds. Your thighs instinctively cage his head. He snickers. 

“Oh…” He chuckles breathily against your cunt, making your spine shiver. “Missed this fucking cunt.” 

You don’t, or rather can’t, comment on how it’s only been two days since the two of you last had sex, because he decides to put his face directly into your pussy, licking at it. His mouth finds your clit, and latches on it, sucking. 

You immediately grip his dark hair, moaning. Your breath turns ragged as he leaves your clit a sensitive, puffy mess. “D-Don’t tease.” You grumble, but it sounds more like a whimper. 

He licks a stripe along your folds in response, “Baby, I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, ‘cause this is my pussy. You fucking got that?” He licks along your folds insistently, making you squirm. 

When you don’t reply, he slaps your hip, “You got that?” and you nod immediately, amusing him. As a reward, he slips a finger inside your wet core, and your breath is caught in your throat. 

Without bothering to let you get used to the feeling, he starts to slip it in and out. The lewd squelching sounds please him, and he returns his attention back to your clit. 

“M-Mark–” You barely say, your leg jerking, “Wait–” 

He takes that as an invitation to slip a second finger inside of you, making you gasp. He crooks them, trying to find your most sensitive spot, and he catches it when you scream. 

Determined to make you cum, each thrust of his fingers lands on your g-spot. Your head thrashed against the pillow, and your body jerks, trying to get away from him. But you’re pretty sure you’d cry if he did. 

He takes turns sucking on your clit, and marking your inner thighs. Every movement and jerk makes you flex, and he grips your thigh, “Stay fucking still, yeah?” 

You try, but it’s asking the impossible. Mark goes down on you again, eating at your pussy with renewed fervor. Curse viltrumite stamina. Or bless it. 

You feel the feeling in your stomach boil over, and you barely have time to warn him before he makes you come with a scream. You cry, and your cum lands on his mouth, making a mess, and he eagerly laps up your release. You breathe quickly, your thighs squeezing around him so hard his skull might bash in if he wasn’t superhuman.  

Eventually, you come down. Though your breath still comes in sharp inhales as you try to calm yourself. You realize it’s impossible with Mark still in between your legs. You try to push him off you as he licks at your inner thigh, “Mark—” You whine, “Enough. Stop. It hurts.” 

With one last lick, he finally gets up from between your legs. His tongue darts from his lips to clean them of your release. He crawls on top of you and kisses beneath your jaw, his hands going to feel your body up and down.

“Well it’s about to hurt a lot more. Because you’re such a sweetheart, and you’ll let me finish inside of you.” He squeezes your waist, “Won’t you?” 

Your cunt automatically pulses like a sleeper agent, and you feel the waves of arousal come back to you in an instant. Yes, the fuck. You are a goddamned sweetheart. The sweetest, even. 

You can’t help yourself from wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him, which he responds to with a pleasant moan. He grabs the side of your head and sucks at your lips, like he’s trying to eat them. But you don’t care. You want to have him. And you want him right now. 

His tongue slips between your kiss-bitten lips, and you feel his hardness push against your inner thigh. So close, yet so completely far away. 

“Mark.” You moan, “Mhm?” he says back, and you take a second to lay back down, looking up at his sickly sweet puppy eyes. Pretty eyes that are clouded over with lust. 

You let out a sound that’s like a whine. “Please? Now?” He chases after you like a puppy, immediately connects your lips again. 

“Yea, mmm, fuck. Yeah, okay.” 

He rubs his cock against your inner thigh, and it barely grazes your core, making you whine. You’ll die if you don’t get to have him inside of you right now. You wrap your legs around the small of his back, letting him know. 

He continues to kiss you like he’s starved, practically trying to melt your lips into each other as he humps your inner thigh. 

You feel sweat cling to your skin and Mark’s breathing becomes more frequent. 

He sits up on his haunches and strokes the underside of his cock, his eyes rolling back atthe pleasure. You swallow, enraptured by his display as he pumps his dick right in front of you. “You want this?” 

You look into his eyes with as much desperation as you’re trying to convey: yes. Oh my god, yes. 

He looks down at you with half-lidded eyes, and he brings your thighs around his hips. You help him without hesitation. Your body racks with nerves and anticipation as you eye his dick. Excitement bubbles up in your core. 

Just as you think he’s about to slam into you as roughly as he always does, he’s suddenly snapped out of his lusty haze, his face becoming more alert as he glances around the room. He quickly turns his head up to look at the window. Wordlessly, he jumps out of bed with speed and peels back the curtains. 

You know better than to even call out his name, so you lift the covers up to your chest and try to see what he’s seeing, sitting up. 

From the exact opposite side of the room, there’s a crackle, and an otherworldly sound fills the room as a bright green portal opens up. Instantly, it casts the room in its unrealistic, brilliant green. 

It continues to swirl in on itself, as it had done that fateful night. 

Mark looks at you, as if you’d done that, and you snort, “Yeah cause i’d have enough concentration to warp reality while we have sex.” 

He groans, not at all pleased with the turn of events. “Well, if you’re soo concentrated, close it back up again.” 

“And what the hell makes you think I can do that?” 

While the two of you bicker, a figure emerges from the portal, and your eyes flit to it on instinct. Meanwhile, Invincible’s instinct is to pull back his fist, ready to kill. 

Your jaw falls open as what emerges from the portal is not like anything you’ve seen. It’s a man, with a large, gross-looking head. He wears an inelaborate suit with a dramatic red cape. You turn your head and frown in distaste. 

You’ve always associated Mark with being some kind of freak accident, but this guy clearly takes the cake for being a mutant abnormality. 

“Invincible.” He declares, and in your opinion, ridiculously. “I have a proposal.” 

So it seems that’s what mutants say instead of ‘Hello.’ these days. 

You squint your eyes at the man. He seems familiar, but at the same time not at all so. 

“Angstrom?” You say, before Invincible almost punches through his guts with a yell. 

Instead, he catches himself and merely shoves him to the wall opposite, creating a crater. He looks back at you, “This guy?” He asks incredulously. You can only nod. 

“Thank you for your hospitality, I'm sure you’re known for it.” Angstrom groans after being struck. 

“What are you doing here?” You ask against your better judgement.

“Well, I wanted to give you guys some privacy so you can finish up.” He looks to Invincible, “But I don’t have all day for you to get off, too. And it’s as they say, ladies first, anyway.” 

You could not believe what your ears had just heard and what information your brain just relayed to you. You’re pretty sure your vagina just shriveled up and died right there. 

It’s only then that you notice Mark stands with his dick hanging. Just like that. Just…like… that. 

Perhaps it is just a way of life that you will never understand men.

Angstrom relays to invincible the deal that had slipped out of your mouth the night of your fight. To no one’s surprise, he instantly agrees. And faster than you can blink, he changes into his black and yellow suit. 

The man with brains for a head goes through the portal without further delay, confident Invincible will follow anyway. 

Invincible floats in front of the portal, looking back at you with his usual, cocky grin. You must look like a fish out of water. 

“This probably won’t take longer than a few days, you know?” 

You nod, not sure what to say. 

“And it’s what we want, to expand the empire.” 

You nod again, wordlessly. 

Satisfied, he flies through the portal, and it closes up behind him without delay. Instantly, the room is free of the portal’s glimmering green glow, and it’s shrouded in the complete darkness it was in.

Seems that mutants don’t say hello, or goodbye. 

You get off the bed sluggishly and put on your underwear and your shirt. You go to your small reading nook that was only made recently. The book Angstrom had given you is still laid on top of your thin blanket. You take it, and drop it into the trash can. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: sorry to edge, next part will have p in v, yay.

Tagged: @onlybatsyy

[galactic-rhea]

I was thinking back of some of the concept art for Encanto I always loved and... Long rambling ahead.

YUP! I remain obssesed wiwth it, especially the first one, the black butterflies!! In many latinoamerican countries (including mine) black butterflies in a home are a bad omen, to the point there's people absolutely scared of them (I have met a few, personaly); so the incorporation to it not only gives such a creepy image, but is an awesome call back to the culture.

The one where is raining on Mirabel's side of the house is also a perfect example of Magical Realism; the author whose work was first referred to as magical realism (in literature) had a short story called The Rain, in the story, the rain represents love, it doesn't really have much to do with the story in Encanto or the concept art on itself, just something that I remembered.

In Hundred years of Solitude, it rains for four years and the rain starts eating away the Buendías's house and destroying their fortune, and the decline of the house is what start of the town's decline as they're linked to the family.

I always said that Encanto was like a super sanitized and family friendly version of Hundred years of Solitude, and honestly I can see that a lot in the concept art, much more easily than in the movie

And to me, the biggest expression of Magical Realism in the concept art, is this one:

the mundane mixing with the nonsensical and magic, but the being accepted as part of the natural world without further questioning. And here's more of this on other of the concept art:

Magical realism as a term started being referred to art styles that depict something that objetively normal, has an uncanny element and often somewhat satirical. However, as a genre in literature, it started in Latin America, inspired by surrealism.

Is not just magic, is magic within a mundane world and being accepted as part of their lives. Latinoamerican literature tends to be fatallistic and crude; and magical realism follows similar steps, because the fantasy element isn't taken as something grandiose and something capable of solving every problem; the contrary, it just becomes something that just happens, and life goes on, and this usually means tragedy and death as well.

The magic isn't the cause, nor the solution, not even helpful because these stories kept on being harsh and sometimes cruel, in a sense Magical Realism reminds me more of Gothic Horror than Fantasy. Thousands years of solitude has these magic, fantastic elements, but it keeps on being a tale of the cyclical misery of the Buendías, that doesn't end until their entire destruction along with Macondo.

The Buendías aren't even meant to be liked (as in, good people), because they're supposed to be a selfish self-obssesed, land owners and the elite group that ruins the lives of others and keep digging their own graves.

For another example, the story that i mentioned, The Rain not only has a social commentary, but it ends in a very bitter sweet note, with a couple finally seeing the rain after a drought, but losing the kid that magically rekindled their love for each other. A lot of latinoamerican literature ends with painfully bittersweet, if not outright hopeless endings (Chronicle of a Death Foretold literally tells you, just with the title, what you will get into. Is a very cruel story and it has zero closure, the original "Dead dove do not eat/I don't know what i was expecting". Another example, Dead Houses is...well, is a bit more hopeful, but the cruelty is there and right on the face.)

Neither of these things fit very well for a disney family friendly movie, but just the fact they dared to show us Pedro's death and it being the origin of Encanto is a good enough attempt.

And a lot of these concept art does give a very dark tone, visually. I can see the attempt at trying to mix the whimsical of usual disney movies and the crudeness of the genre it takes its inspiration.

Another little bits that make me think of Encanto and Hundred Years of Solicitude, is that something important in the novel's narrative, is that Macondo is kinda trapped in time, both because of how remote the town is, but also because of the magic element; the huge impact of the town when outsiders and new technology arrives sometimes is taken as another magic element (they see ice, and believe it must be magic). Encanto has a similar setting, the exact time is taking place is hard to determine and there's some anacronisms. And also, the soap opera that Bruno's rats are "playing" is literally a nod to two characters in TYS; Amaranta Úrsula and Aureliano.

In the final version of the movie, some of these vibes the concept art shows was lost, but at its core it retains the key elements of magical realism! However, sometimes I wonder what would have someone like Guillermo del Toro done with the basic plot of Encanto, I have the strong suspicion that we would have ended with something much, much closer to actual magical realism

Ending this with, idk, watch Encanto. Or even better, read some latinoamerican literature (besides Gabriel García Márquez, whom I have a beef with. Can I suggest Julio Córtazar, Pilar Romero, Isabel Allende, Liliana Bodoc, Angelica Gorodischer, Juan Rulfo, Miguel Otero Silva, and Horacio Quiroga?)

[moonlight-prose]

mr. perfectly fine

a/n: i've had this in my drafts since i saw the trailer of we live in time. and honestly it was basically done, so i don't know why i didn't just drop it. so this is me digging it back up and putting some finishing touches on this quick drabble of angst. it's small, but writing it really made me want to re-watch the movies. so we'll see if anything comes from that. for now though, enjoy!

summary: there's a lot you would change in your relationship with peter. how late he'd show up to dates, the massive amount of missed calls and texts, and his forgetfulness. only there's a defining factor that might shift the entire trajectory of your lives together. peter parker was spider-man...and you didn't know.

word count: 2.3k+

pairing: peter parker x reader

warnings: not explicit, angsty as fuck though, peter gets dumped (sorta) but it doesn't last long, lots of tears, secrets exposed, fluff, forgiveness.

New York always seemed to reflect your emotions with ease. Like a mirror you couldn't break, or even avoid. Maybe it happened because you were looking for it without realizing; searching for answers to the never-ending questions that nagged at you. Different ways to work out the equations that held no solutions. A new way of figuring it out.

Yet no matter how many trials you ran, how many times you inputted the numbers, you seemed to always find yourself staring at the one thing that made sense. ERROR.

You counted the times he stood you up, tracked the calls he missed and the texts he only read but never answered. You compiled them like research, as if you were stuck in your lab and he was the experiment. He became the hypothesis you had to back up with well crafted proof. Only science never helped in situations of love. And you found that counting the days, watching the minutes and seconds go by, only made things worse.

The dinner went cold an hour ago, the candles snuffed, and the soft love songs were traded out for something sadder. Like other nights, you half expected you'd see him in the early hours of dawn. The glow of sunrise illuminating him like your very own hero, your favorite person to exist.

Every other time you chose to forget, to move on with your time together and find something happy to focus on. But tonight's calendar had been marked. A red heart written around your initials.

One that he wrote.

Six months passed in the blink of an eye.

Where you used to be awkward—barely able to speak to each other—now you found comfort in the silence. But when the quiet gave way to loneliness, you felt yourself begin to slowly chip away. You always thought he'd be here to put you back together, to save you in moments of brief darkness that left you wandering this shared path alone.

Yet when the clock finally struck midnight, and you were three glasses of wine in, you felt the final thread of hope snap.

You sighed, the burn of tears spilling over as you swallowed the last of your drink. "Happy Anniversary Peter," you muttered, getting up from the table.

The rain outside pounded against the asphalt. Wet streets glimmered with street lights and smelled of discarded cigarette butts. You wrapped the buckle around your waist tight enough to close up what parts of the coat gaped on your body. The dark charcoal wool fabric didn't belong to you. It lingered with Peter's scent, but you couldn't find yours as you rushed out the door.

You didn't want to stay in that apartment longer than necessary.

Perhaps you should have left some message behind—let him know that eventually you'd be back for your things. Somewhere in the back of your mind you understood what tonight was. A defining moment in your relationship. A chance for him to finally pull his act together and be with you.

Yet like everything else...you'd be simply another thing he'd have to let go of.

He wouldn't have a choice.

The salt of your tears mixed with the drops of rain that streamed down your face. You welcomed it as you walked. There wasn't a defining spot you were going—no grand plan once this came to pass. But somehow you wound up in a park, staring at a bench, and picturing a past version of yourself. Nose buried in a science book and lunch propped on your knees. You could see how Peter rushed by, how he nearly broke his neck turning to look at you.

You watched the moment happen all over again right before you. And for the first time in two months, you wanted to stop him.

The door opened with the usual creak. He winced at the noise with the memory of saying he'd fix it eventually. The DW-40 sat under the sink where he picked it up, never getting around to actually completing the job. Simply another let down that he'd never live down.

You said it was alright; claimed that the squeak gave the front door character. And that might have been true.

It still didn't stop Peter from beating himself up over it.

"Babe! I grabbed some food on the way home. Got your favorite." He stuffed his mask in his backpack, discarding it in the hallway as he went. The suit still clung to his already soaked body, but he hoped you wouldn't pick up on the peek of red beneath his clothes.

The plan to tell you was coming together nicely. A romantic dinner on the top of the Empire State after hours surely would give you a chance to think things over. He just had to work out the logistics of setting up everything with the security guard he befriended.

"Also I remembered to ask May about dinner in two weeks-"

He froze at the sight of the dark living room, of the table decorated with candles and plates filled with food. Very little scared the ever living shit out of him now. A familiar territory of adrenaline he’d come to welcome. But the sight of the calendar placed on his chair—the red heart blaring like a signal in the night sky—had his heart dropping to his stomach.

"No..." The food was forgotten about, dropped on the counter as he picked up the offending piece of paper. The clear mark around the date drawn by him two weeks earlier. A reminder to let him know that of all days...he couldn't forget this one.

He couldn't let you down again.

The clock in the corner read ten thirty and his heart lurched at the sudden realization that you finally did it. You gave up on his antics. All the moments he couldn't fix himself. You chose yourself over the madness of loving him. He wasn't sure which was wore. You not being here to give him a chance of groveling on his knees, or the silence in the apartment at knowing that your laughter and love would never fill it again.

He didn't have time to rationalize his decisions. Barely even noticed that he was walking out the door—the loud bang echoing in the hallway—as he went. Somewhere in the city you were mourning a relationship he was determined to fix. Yet he couldn't figure out where the hell to start looking.

This wasn't the first fight you'd had. The first time you left the apartment he found you in a hole in the wall cafe. A place he'd never even heard of before. And after three cups of coffee, a long night of talking, you both agreed to work on the communication. To heal what small wound had been opened.

Only this time was different.

This time the wound festered, grew to the point of being fatal.

This time he wasn't sure he could heal what he already broke.

His web clung to the building as he swung, landing five feet away from the already darkened cafe. Much to his own detriment you didn't bother to try getting out of the rain.

A crackle of lightning echoed in the night sky, thunder rolling in a few seconds later. It covered the sound of him nearly collapsing to the ground as a car swerved by—the horn blaring in his ears. The calendar was tucked in his jacket pocket, the ink bleeding through the soggy paper. But he refused to let it go. He couldn't. That was his final piece of you—the last moniker of a relationship that was worth it.

He only hoped you felt the same.

"Where are you baby?" he muttered under his breath.

After checking your favorite diner, bar, and bookshop. He was starting to run out of options. Almost as if you simply up and vanished from the city entirely.

You didn't want to be found. Yet Peter knew he wouldn't be able to live without you. How could he? When the chance of getting a peek at your smile was worth waking up early in the morning to see you off for work. Little moments of joy kept him going. And nearly all of his were spent with you. Each laugh, kiss, and look, were his to keep.

His to protect.

And he'd fucked all of that up.

Time passed quicker than he would have liked. The rain beat down on his body and he could no longer discern between his tears and the water. Still he searched. He checked every nook and cranny of spots you shared together.

Until the park came into his view atop a random apartment building. His heart leapt in his chest, body thrumming with nervous energy, as he swung down to the mushy grass that squelched beneath his sneakers. The cold shouldn't have made his hands tremble. Although perhaps the weather had nothing to do with what made his stomach twist, body overwhelmed with a fear he might never understand.

He knew why he shook like a leaf. He could feel the nerves beat alongside his heart, echoing his earlier sentiment throughout his entire body.

Letting you down this time wasn't a chance he was willing to take.

"Baby!" he called, running past low lit sidewalks and darkened tree lines. He ran until he felt the cold sting of rain on his face—until his clothes dripped water and the soles of his shoes were puddles.

Only to pause at the sight of a hunched over figure on a bench, their hands gripping the edge of the wood, and shoulders shaking with each stunted breath. Peter's heart tore into pieces. Fluttering to the ground as he stepped closer. Simply a flimsy piece of that ruined calendar. He could hear your sobs, smell the salt of your tears, and that broke him beyond repair.

He did this.

He took the most important person in his life and ripped them a part.

"I'm sorry," he said over the rain, catching the way you jumped—your eyes wide and lips swollen from where you bit down on them.

"Peter-"

Before you could get out the words to dismiss him. He dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands pressing into either side of the bench. Caging you in. This wasn't a chance for him to grovel, to give excuse after excuse. He’d passed that point months before. This was him finally letting you into the final piece of his life—the truth he wanted to shout from the rooftops if it meant getting a chance to see you smile again.

Fuck he'd give anything to see you smile.

"There's no good excuse okay? I don't have one. I'm just sorry." You sighed, moving to unlatch his grip. Only to find you couldn't get him to budge. "I don't want to keep hurting you. So if after this, you wanna go then you can go. I won't stop you, or call you, or even ask you back."

"Don't-"

He shifted closer, surprising you as his speed. "Just know I love you. I'll love you forever baby."

"Peter what are you doing?"

With a sharp gulp of air, he stripped off his jacket and t-shirt. They fell to the ground with a went plop as silence wrapped around the both of you. For a moment, he wondered if you'd take him seriously. Maybe you'd laugh. Maybe you'd leave him faster than before. But you simply stared at him—mouth parted and eyes wide as you took in the spider emblem sewn in his chest.

He coughed, shoving his wet hair out of his face. "This isn't how I wanted to tell you. The dinner with May was actually gonna be me telling you on top of the Empire State Building-"

"That's why you always forget the milk," you murmured, glancing to the side—a dazed expression now donning your face.

"What?"

"Every time I ask you to pick something up from the store at night. You never remember."

Heat spread rapidly across his cheeks. A red flush he knew was bright against the light on the sidewalk. "I don't always forget."

Rainfall filled the void of silence as you dragged your eyes along each web, the itch of your fingers too much to take—finally pressing them along the ridged fabric you’d only seen in blurry newspaper images. A mark that all of New York came to see as hope. The promise that for once in their lives they would be safe on streets known for violence and horrors.

You tried to wrap your head around the truth, pressing a thumb into the spider carved directly above a heart you knew was too good to be true. One that beat in time with yours, a familiar thudding echo you fell asleep to each night pressed tight to one ear. Peter was that man, the savior of a home you couldn’t see yourself leaving, the hero you’d only heard stories about.

“I guess this complicates things,” you finally mumbled, hand finding his chin soaked by the rain.

His sigh bled into the air, filling your lungs with the air you struggled to find. “Does that mean…you’re staying?”

“I’m just glad you weren’t cheating on me.”

Peter laughed, surging up with a speed you’d never witnessed before. “Never.”

His lips were cold against yours, gloved hands rough against the skin of your cheek, but the taste of him was the same. The man who asked for a chance in this park, promising to make your life interesting despite the chaos he dragged atop shoulders stronger than others. He carried the world with ease. Now it was your turn to do the same for him.

“So what’s it like dating Spider-Man?” you mumbled against his lips.

He grinned, pulling you up with an arm around your waist. “Free transportation.”

“Anytime I want?”

Thumbing the top of your cheek he pushed what tears remained aside. “For the rest of your life. If you want it.”

Oh how you loved him.

“I want it.”

[timereaper]

Simple solution. Take on the Potter name.

Sure it'll make everyone think they're part of a massive polycule with Lily and James and Regulus but that's what makes it fun! Marauders 2.0 is the Potters

sirius and remus arguing about who's last name they want to take

sirius: I'M NOT STAYING A FUCKING BLACK

remus: I'M NOT GOING TO BE WOLFY MCWOLF MARRIED TO DOG MCWOLF

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Video Games Continued

Alien: What is this floor, and why is there so much killing upon it?

Human: Have you not seen the things you meet on it?

Alien: No, why?

Human: You’ll understand once you do. -------------

Alien: Why are these humans going back for blood?

Human: What?

Alien: If they are going back for it why didn’t they pick the blood up when they were there last time?

Human: A world overrun by worm zombies and this is what you focus on?

Alien: Inefficient time management will always be the deadliest of threats. --------------

Alien: Why is this baby in an egg?

Human: No idea.

Alien: What are these invisible creatures are stalking us?

Human: Got nada on that one.

Alien: For what reason does that other human have a golden mask?

Human: I honestly couldn’t tell ya.

Alien: Well what can you tell me about this then?

Human: You’re basically an amazon delivery driver heading up to an isolated compound and hoping it isn’t 2024 again. -----------

Alien: If you are part of an army of super soldiers, why do they always send you out in groups of 3?

Human: What do you mean?

Alien: Wouldn’t deploying even 10 of their kind at once provide absolute success in any mission you embark on?

Human: Only if one of them wasn’t from the Lamenters chapter. -----------

Alien: Why would vampires want to be on an island?

Human: I don’t understand your question, please expand it.

Alien: By your own history vampires can not cross running water, ergo they can not cross over water to get to an island; so why would vampires wish to go hunting for humans on the one place they would end up trapped on?

Human: But oceans are not running water.

Alien: Ocean water is constantly in motion via the rotation of the planet, therefore it is running water.

Human: It’s meant to be more about streams and rivers.

Alien: Yet both of those feed into oceans.

Human: I would say focus more on the vampire killing than the story, but after trying it myself I would say this discussion is a more enjoyable experience. ---------------------

Alien: Why are these humans going into hell?

Human: For democracy! ---------------------

Alien: You would think with this being the fourth game of the series they would have learned how to deal with zombie outbreaks.

Human: What do you mean? They already have a solution.

Human: If shooting them in the head doesn’t work, use more bullets.

Human: If that doesn’t work use an RPG.

Human: And if THAT doesn’t work then just nuke the whole area.

Alien: You went from, what is the sayin…… “0 to 100”, rather quickly there.

Human: Yeah, we tend to do that a lot when it comes to zombies.

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

Alien: What is your fascination with apocalyptic fallout aftermath?

Alien: You have so many mediums focused solely on this subject yet showing the harsh reality of the situation.

Human:  In a way it is within our desire to break down society and from the ashes of the old try to make something better.

Alien: And has it worked?

Human: No.

Alien: Why do you say that?

Human: When the price for a better future is blood of innocents there are no winners. --------------------

Alien: Is this about going on a quest to destroy jewelry?

Human: No.

Alien: What about joining a fellowship to destroy evil?

Human: Nope.

Alien: Then what is the point of this?

Human: To grow potatoes and get high. --------------------

Alien: May I ask you a question?

Human: Isn’t that what you’ve been doing this entire time?

Alien: What is this event called the “Elder Scrolls Crusade”?

Human: It’s what happens when you dangle a game in front of gamers long enough without delivering and then the gamers get angry.

Alien: Ah, much like the “Grand Theft Massacre” then? ----------------------

Alien: Which Dynasty are these warriors fighting for?

Human: Whichever one has the most interesting color pallet.

Alien: What?

Human: I always side with blue myself. ---------------

Alien: I don’t know how I’m going to fight through this army of human soldiers with just a sword.

Human: Have you tried using the rotary grenade launcher?

Alien: What are you talking abo-

Human: *Proceeds to pull out M32A1 Grenade Launcher and blast their way through soldiers with spears and swords.

Alien: This feels unfair. ----------------

Alien: What makes this sequel different from the first one?

Human: It’s colder and there are even more pissed off people you need to deal with.

[delilahsturniolo]

⟡ ݁₊ welcome to the end of the world! (please leave your sanity at the door.)

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 . . . four friends: nick, matt, chris, and you—find themselves stuck together at the end of the world, trying to survive a zombie apocalypse with nothing but their wits, a questionable supply of snacks, and zero emotional maturity. you’re just trying to stay alive without losing your mind—or falling for someone on the team.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . mentions of blood, descriptions of a wound, romantic tension, slow burn.

CHAPTER TEN: NEW BLOOD, OLD WOUNDS

read more parts here!

you limp down the cracked sidewalk, leg aching, heart worse. the sky’s bleeding pink into a gray, tired dusk, and the group is quieter than ever. it’s like everyone’s waiting for someone else to break first. lana’s trailing behind chris and nick, arms crossed tight over her chest, eyes flicking to every shadow. she hasn’t said much since the diner, just quiet thanks and awkward silences. she doesn’t trust any of you yet, and, honestly? you don’t really trust her either.

you glance at matt. he’s walking ahead, again. not too far, but enough that it feels like a statement, a message. his jaw’s clenched. his knuckles white around his weapon. like if he just focuses hard enough, he can pretend he didn’t say something that shattered the air between you two like broken glass. and you wish you could stop replaying it…

“we kissed once. it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

it meant everything. even if he’s too afraid to admit it.

nick finally breaks the silence, walking backward like a tour guide in a war zone. “okay. i vote we find shelter and maybe have a full group therapy session, but like, in a chill, emotionally repressed way.”

“we’re not stopping yet,” matt says without looking back.“dude,” nick deadpans, “you’re limping. she’s bleeding. chris has been muttering to the cat for twenty minutes.”

“he has a name,” chris snaps, holding whiskers tighter. “and he’s helping me emotionally process our near-death experience.” lana finally speaks. “there’s a place up ahead. small house. boarded up, but i saw it on the way in. it looked empty.” matt hesitates. eyes narrow. “you’re just now mentioning that?” she shrugs. “you didn’t ask.”

nick raises a brow. “oh, cool. i love when strangers maybe lead us into traps. very fun for me personally.” but no one has a better option, so you go. the house is small. half-swallowed by vines, windows thick with grime. the door creaks open with a sound like a dying animal. but it’s quiet. still. no fresh blood, no smell of rot. for once… it feels safe.

nick checks the back, chris sets up a sleeping spot for whiskers, and lana sits in the farthest corner, hugging her knees like she wants to disappear into them. you collapse against a wall, pressing a cloth to your leg. it stings, bad. you’re trying to hide how much it hurts, but matt notices. of course he does. he crosses the room, dropping his pack next to you without saying a word. pulls out gauze. alcohol. tape. you blink at him. “i can do it myself.”

“you shouldn’t have to,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes. and before you can argue, he’s kneeling in front of you, carefully peeling back the cloth, your breath catches. because even now, even when you’re angry and hurting and full of everything you never said.

his hands are gentle.

he doesn’t look up, just focuses on the wound. “i didn’t mean to say what i said like that.” you don’t respond. he dabs the alcohol and you flinch. he curses under his breath. “sorry.”

“why’d you say it then?” you ask, voice quiet. he pauses. tape in hand. “because,” he finally says, “you make me forget that we’re not safe. that this could all be gone in a second. and i—i can’t lose you.” you swallow. “so your solution is to push me away?” he looks up at you now. eyes dark and tired and pleading. “i’m not good at this,” he says. “but i’m trying. i want you. even if it’s stupid. even if it’s risky. i just… don’t know how to be in love and be in survival mode at the same time.”

your heart stops. “in love?”

his eyes widen just slightly. like he didn’t mean to say it. like the words slipped out before he could stop them. but he doesn’t take them back. you don’t say anything, just stare at him like the floor’s disappeared under you. he finishes taping your leg, slower now. hands lingering. breath shallow.

then, suddenly—

a crash from outside.

everyone jumps. nick swears. chris grabs a pan. lana stands, wide-eyed. you freeze. matt stands, already moving toward the window. “stay here.”

“like hell i am,” you say, following him. and when you peer through the cracked slats, your blood runs cold. figures. three of them. not undead. alive. armed. heading straight for the house.

not zombies. people.

matt turns to you, low and panicked. “we’ve got company. and not the good kind.”

“you think they saw us?” as if on cue, a voice beamed from outside.

“we know you’re in there. come out with your weapons down. you’ve got ten seconds.” everyone’s frozen. you look at matt, matt looks at you back. and all of that tension, all the fear, the love, the mess of feelings…is right there between you again. he steps closer, matt grabs your hand and holds it. “if we make it out of this,” he says, “we’re not ignoring this anymore. okay?” you squeeze his hand. “okay.” the door rattles. you all lift your weapons. outside, the countdown begins.

“ten… nine… eight…”

© delilahsturniolo

[weaselle]

i just want to add that community and locality can often be the best solution if you can manage it.

my brother's wife started keeping chickens and we are getting eggs from her.

My sister and i have begun looking into going in together on buying a whole cow from a local school ag program.

The cows are sold to slaughter anyway, and there are many bonuses to doing this

For one thing, the money goes back into the education system. For another thing you can get details about how the cow is raised, what it was fed, what hormones or medicines were administered etc etc. The AG program people will probably be excited to tell you every detail.

Sourcing our meat from our local school ag programs means we would not be participating in the cattle industry deforestation of the Amazon and similar practices, and we would no longer be getting our meat shipped half way around the globe using fossil fuels.

the cow itself is only part of the cost, you have to pay separate for someone to butcher it and that can be hundreds of dollars, but it does mean you get to personally go look for a butcher who employs safe practices and runs a clean facility, instead of blindly trusting wherever the grocery store is currently getting their beef.

A whole cow plus the butchering is going to cost us like $2.5k, but if my brother's family and my sister's family and i all split it, it's reasonable and gets us like 500lbs of beef, which will go into three freezers (one at each household). The breakdown on price means that we get every part of the cow for the same price per pound as average hamburger meat (that means our steaks etc are much cheaper than at the store).

If every one of us for those three households eats a quarter pound of beef every single day of the year, that beef will last us almost a whole year - but since we don't eat beef every day, it will probably last us more like a year and a half or even two years. That means we will be definitely be spending less per year on beef than we do currently. If we find a butcher we trust enough for the beef and my sister in law starts keeping chickens for meat as well as eggs, our three households will be spending less money and have much more control over our food quality.

And they can't grow stuff at their houses (chickens take up a surprisingly small amount of space - plus they are pretty cheap to keep too!) but where i live right now we have a decent sized yard and we're on a well (so no water bill) and we grow lemons, oranges, plums, kiwis, guavas, grapes, cherries, strawberries, almonds, walnuts, peaches, apples, and persimmons. Plus the herb garden and we're thinking about getting the vegetable garden going again too. It's not enough to supply all of our fruits and veggies of course, but, it is enough to provide, for example all the lemons our three households need with enough left over to trade to our neighbors for some tomatoes and squash.

And, after all, if you directly control, say, about 50% of your produce this way, then you've lowered your chances of being poisoned by the anti-food-safety bullshit by quite a bit

Anyway, i know not everyone can access these exact solutions, but the local AG program thing might be doable for a lot of people out there, and there are other solutions i haven't thought of yet. Get with your friends or extended family about it and see what you can accomplish together.

My husband and I were discussing how the first felon is defending the FDA and how the quality control of our food is gonna basically disappear and I proceeded to have so much anxiety about it that I didn't sleep last night. How do we prepare for this? Is there a way to make food safe at home? How can we avoid getting poisoned from the grocery store? Sorry for bringing this anxiety to your inbox but I'm exhausted and scared and I'm hoping you've come up with food safety tips what with your general food complications.

I’m afraid I don’t have a solution for something of this scale and am just as equally terrified, but that said:

Check your local state regulations. Some states actually have strict testing that the FDA when it comes to certain things like milk. See if they are listing any recalls.

Stop eating things raw for the foreseeable future. Wash and cook everything thoroughly, even if the bag claims it’s pre-washed, wash it again. Cooking will also help eliminate any remaining pathogens. It means no more salads for a while but that’s okay.

For things like fruit, try to go with things that have an outer skin that can be taken off. If it requires you to cut into it with a knife, give the outer skin a scrub and rinse to reduce the chances of your knife being contaminated by anything like e-coli and then contaminating the insides by cutting it up.

For fruit that can’t be peeled, make sure to inspect and wash them thoroughly. If you are immunocompromised like me, consider cooking it down into a jam or pie filling to reduce further risk. Not as fun as eating it fresh for some people, but it’s a valid way of still getting the flavor and nutrients.

For things like milk, only drink pasteurized and ultra pasteurized. Try to get pasteurized eggs if you can too.

If you don’t have a meat thermometer, now is the time to get one. Make sore everything is cooked to its required internal temperature. For poultry, the recommended temperature is 165°F (74°C), while for beef and pork, the recommended temperature is 145°F (63°C) with a 3-minute rest time. Ground meats should be cooked to 160°F (71°C). Eggs should be cooked until the yolk is set. No more runny egg yolks for a bit until we get a competent source of information back about bird flu.

For things like flour, try to go for reputable brands that have their own independent testing facilities for things like gluten. They also usually test for other things and clean their facilities thoroughly. My go to is King Arthur atm.

Also, stop eating raw cookie dough if you’re not going to toast the flour in the oven first. That’s how a lot of people get sick, not necessarily from the raw egg, though stop eating raw egg right now if you do. Again, bird flu. [Addendum] I learned the flour trick in a job I used to work, but apparently, the pre-defunded FDA didn't think toasting the flour made it safe, so maybe just don't eat raw cookie dough. And I know someone's going to be a cunt in the notes like "I don't care I do what I want" good for you, hope saying that made you feel better.]

This is a dwindling possibility with the tariffs but try to buy food imported from other countries that still have food quality control. I get my masa harina from a small company that imports directly from Colombia. They can’t afford the gluten free label required to be classified as such in the USA, but considering Cheerios in the USA can afford to buy that label and the celiac foundation certification logo and still routinely sells contaminated produce due to not using gluten free oats and a mechanical sorting system that can’t be certified gluten free (1) (2) (3), I’m more inclined to go with other countries labeling right now.

With clean water under threat, use a filter for your drinking water. We currently use the ones by Life Straw. They don’t fit into your faucet but the LS filters are better than most of the ones that can be attached that way and the housing of the jugs and countertop filters are easy to clean. Make sure you do so once a week and change the filters as directed.

Most of this is just basic food hygiene stuff combined with what it’s like to be immunocompromised, but it’s always worth repeating in case someone didn’t know, but especially worth repeating right now with all our rules and regulating bodies going out the window 😞