#HE HAS SO MANY PLANTS I ASSOCIATE WITH HIM

[applestruda]

The Earth

[tzihomara]

SWEET AS EVER. . . ‧₊˚ ⋅

— look’s like you’re in luck! , your hot neighbor has a sweet tooth..

wc. 3.2k, mdni | fem!reader, breèding, squīrtinġ, clichè trope, age gap, reader early-mid 20s, nanami late-early 30s-40s, creampíe, coúntersex, ditzy!reader, neighbor!nanami, changing relationship, not proofread.

an; first post back yayyy, im so excited i have so many ideas, & nanami seems soo much like the type to think about marriage after this thing, not in a childish way but in a really serious one LOL

recently moving in to the new flat you got was possibly the best thing to happen to you. quiet, spacey, and most importantly having a hot neighbor like kento nanami, who you’ve made yourself quite familiar with over the month’s you’ve settled in, was perfect.

alway’s willing to lend a hand for his sweet neighbor, despite his busy schedule. opening the door every time. and for you, time and time again, appearing in front of his door in less than appropriate outfit’s, subtly leaning into him. a tilt of your head and a cute little pout. batting your eyelash’s at him, making your plea for help, whether it be with putting something together, or a jar too tight.

this time was no different, having bought a new piece of furniture in need of his “help”, why risk lifting your pretty little fingers when you had him? swiftly walking a few doors down, till you see the familiar small hanging plants outside of his door you’ve come to associate with him, giving your signature 4 knock’s.

and per usual, he answer’s. slowly opening up the door, a broad shoulder nudged into the corner of the frame, tensed by the sound yet slowly relaxing when his eyes land to none other than you, looking right down at you. and not just your face. clenching his jaw, the outfit you had thoughtlessly put together gave him a view that left little to the imagination. tiny shorts squeezing your hip’s and thigh’s. tank top with a dangerously low cut. sandal wedges flaunting your newly manicured toes. ochre eye’s narrowing into weary slit’s.

“is there something you need?”, he sighed. keeping that indifferent, stoic manner. never faltering it seems..until it came to you, atleast.

“mnn.. i was ‘jus wondering if you could give a little help putting together a nightstand f’me?” you pleaded, sweetly. a glint of eagerness in those big eye’s of your’s, ones on display for him. ”could bake ya some sweets. as a thank’s for the ‘hard work’, if you��d like mr. nanami.”, you offer, with a tiny grin. leaning in too close to him, your plump bust in his view. an eyeful if you will. the stoic demeanor you’ve come to love to crack wavering just a tad. eye’s narrowing at your proximity. “of course, i can help.” he spoke lowly, deep voice slightly on edge. “no need for sweet’s.” he declined, not wanting to inconvenience you. and you let out a pleasant giggle, always getting your way when it come’s down to him, and anybody else really, who wouldn’t be a sucker for you? “awwh, thank’s. you’re just the best, mr. nanami.” exclaiming, before subtly pouting at his additional rejection. “oh..- are you sure about the sweets? i’ll feel all guilty if i don’t repay you with something. anything ya want.”

he bit the inside of his cheek at your word’s, gnawing even. avoiding the internal debate if the implication behind your words were purposely terribly hidden, or if he was getting ahead of himself.

taking a deep breath, he sighed. “no.., really it's alright. i don't need anything, i appreciate your offer.”, and it’s enough for you to temporarily accept his word’s. with a swift nod and hum, you two were already headed in the direction of your flat, entering the passcode on your door. hearing the familiar beep granting you two entry, gently closing the door behind him. the sharp and weary gaze that was beginning to soften, lingering on the chub of your hip’s. damn those shorts. internally chiding himself and shaking his head. focusing instead on the already scattered piece’s of the nightstand on your table, in a poor attempt at organization, if you could even call it that. it didn’t look that complicated. but for a ‘ditz’ like you, it was way too much. “make yourself at home.”, you commented, familiar set of word’s falling from your lip’s, guiding him over to take a seat. like times before.

nanami sat at the table, eyes flickering between the nightstand pieces, and back to your sweet grin. it was challenging to focus on the task at hand when you’re right there. alway’s. a constant distraction for the older man. chin propped by your palm, wide eye’s watching him already. a sweet, soft hum, filling he silence. larger, rougher hand’s handling the piece’s of the stand, pay attention to everydetail. and occasionally the stand pieces that you could careless about when you had him in your dining room. haphazardly switching between the two. eyeing the few veins running from his hands down to his forearms. button up rolled to his elbow’s. thick finger’s navigating without instruction’s fluidly. it was attractive. looking at a man who knows what he’s doing would always be a sight that could put anyone in a trance, and you weren’t the exception. crossing your leg’s at the slight need forming at your core, nudging it away or possibly egging it on.

“you’re pretty skilled with your hands, mr. nanami..”, you commented, more for yourself, rather than stating a fact. a touch of admiration in your tone, something a bit more intense than mere “interest” hanging off your words. clenching his jaw tightly, with a quiet swallow. “years of experience,” he replied, a slight rasp in his voice. “you pick up a thing or two over time.” he added. his eye’s flickering to meet yours, and back down again. “oh?, i see.” you mumbled back softly, eye’s attentively watching his hand’s. traveling, roaming over to his forearm’s, all the way up to his bicep’s. thick and muscular, tightly fitting in his collared shirt. on perfect display. squeezing your thigh’s just a little tighter together. the only thing that seemed to break the more than ‘heavy’ silence between you two, was a lose screw rolling off the table with a little clink. your eyes shifting to it with disinterest, but a quick opportunity in your mind. “whoop’s. i’ll get that f’ya..” you blurt out, uncrossing your leg’s and bending over in your seat to reach. unintentionally displaying that cute, frilly, thong you just bought on a shopping spree. he had to stifle a groan. clenching the wood of the nightstand in his palm. with a sigh, murmuring a “thanks.” a man could only resist so much.

internally chiding himself for even looking, returning to the task at hand, trying to forget what he just saw. furrowed dirty blonde brows pinched together, the age gap between the two of you making him feel just.. particularly guilty. but not too guilty to stop him from letting something escalate. silently letting his thoughts wonder, while you mumble out a “mhm.” your eye’s back to being fixed on his every move. "almost done," he informed, tightening any loose screw’s on the mostly done stand. big eyes narrowing. “oh-, already?..” you slighty frown, a soft hum following. putting together the last piece’s of your stand, skillfully. letting out a sigh at the finished result, “there…, finished up. should be fine,” he announced. his body thrumming with a slight arousal, and tension. despite his indifference, it betrayed the whirling sensation’s internally. a hand of his rubbing down his face, pinching the bride of his nose. and you notice the slight difference in his demeanor. “something th’matter?, mr. nanami?” you ask, with a touch of concern. you two both knew what you were doing. you two were both adults, it’s not like either of you are clueless. and maybe that was the best part. the looks you’ve been giving him, the outfits, everything. an air of thick, deafening, silence between you both. his narrowed bronze eyes meeting your own, brows furrowed deeper than before. the look alone made you shiver.

you couldn’t tell how it happened, and you didn’t really care either. your attention was entirely elsewhere, and all you knew is that the tension added up, and here you were. shorts, and the same pretty thong you flashed him, dangling off your ankle. nanami had you on the counter of your kitchen, the hand’s that were putting together your nightstand, spreading your thigh’s apart as if he was handling a delicate flower, tender and gentle. careful not to break you just yet. lapping at your fold’s, with a tiny hand belonging to you tugging a fistful of dirty blonde strands that belonged to him. nose, lips, and chin sheen with your slick. clit rubbing just right against his pretty sculpted nose. tired eye’s focused on the treat infront of him. letting out a raspy groan into your cunt with every tug and squeeze of your thighs. deep voice creating a soft hum against your weak spot. tugging just a little harder at his hair, dragging his face all over your sopping cunt, as if you just couldn’t get enough of him. tiny whines, and greedy moans falling right past your lips. and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make his cock ache in his pants. straining against the fabric of his briefs, subtly seeking friction through that strain. precum staining through the fabric. like a teenager, it’s been a long time since he’s felt this way, a man like him was never into one nightstands, or hookups. the type to want to settle and marry, not please his neighbor. but this time, he just had to taste.

continuing to practically ride his face, having him on his knee’s for you. you were just so close, yanking him up by his hair, pretty pouty expression on your face, mixed with need. a tiny whine escaping, his mouth skillfully moving back to your clit, pressing opened mouth, down right filthy kisses to it. sucking and nibbling, tired, yet slightly adoring eye’s holding eye contact with you. it made your tummy flutter. that tingly sensation that felt oh’ so good building up. rolling your hip’s needily, —impatiently, into his face. mewls gradually building up and escaping from your plumped lips you had bitten previously, he was sucking on just the right spot before you felt that coil snap inside you, clenching around his tongue perfectly, squeezing him between your legs, a firm hold on your thighs to support you, and help you ride through your orgasm. lapping at your release like he was starved. veins in his hands and forearms straining, letting the fat of your thighs fill the gaps of his fingers.

merely a few minutes of catching his, and your breath. his hands were not so respectfully groping at your breasts. raspy, hot pant’s into your mouth, heaving. allowing you to taste yourself on the tip of his tongue, swirling, sucking, teasing as if he die if he’d pull away. he was given his chance, access to you and how addictive you tasted, and he needed to know how you felt. and he’d be damned if he didn’t take the chance. the guilt he had experienced had flew out the window ages ago, already too far gone now once he got a taste of you. he’d been eyeing you, just as you were eyeing him the ever since the day you moved in. to say he was pent up, was an understatement. you didn’t even need to be guided, your hand already tugging at his belt, maybe it was the need making you so eager to get him out of his pants, but you damn sure did. quick too. leaning his hips into your touch, just rubbing, grinding into your hand. muscles in his forearm flexing as he ran his firm hand down your breast, and to your thighs. you could feel just how badly he needed you, how he’s always been needing you. he couldn’t keep being pent up forever. pointer finger tugging at the waistband of his boxer’s, unclothing him, letting his painfully hard cock slap against his clothed abs, tip weeping with precum. fit for a man of his age, and you surely weren’t complaining. gliding the soft skin of your fingers over the head of his tip, smearing the little bead’s. you could feel him throbbing, his larger hand moving to hold yours, pulling you to the edge of the counter with his other, fitted firmly against your lower back. helping you guide him into your entrance, chewing on his bottom lip, and a filthy groan escape’s once he feels just how soaked you were for him, how soaked he made you. the combination of his spit and your slick was perfect. head rubbing and collecting the mixture, glossing his pink tip. teasing almost, before he sank into you.

smaller arm’s quickly moving to cling to his neck, and stuffed full of all his inches, plowing into you. no need for soft, slow strokes when you both knew what you wanted. you two were past the point of taking things slow. returning the pants against your mouth with needy, delicious mewls into his own. he was so filthy— for a man who’s at your every call and request. always so respectful toward’s you, in your cunt like it’s the last, and best sensation he’ll ever feel. maybe it would be. maybe he’d just have to look in getting to know you more after this.., oh—, he for sure would.

and to him, it was. with how good you felt, his mind was completely off of the not so appropriate age gape. purely focused solely on how good your cunts suckin him in, relieving his stress. but hell, he could ignore anything if it meant to feel you again. a man like him abandoning his own standards and critic, was rare if not impossible. but you just managed to do that for him.

you felt like he was hitting, stretching— drilling into every inch of you, every spot that might’ve been unreached before, stretched by him. his hips firm, not too slow, not too fast. perfect, just right, and all for you. you were close to melting right there, manicured nails digging into his shirt, bound to leave marks even with the layer of cloth shielding the pressure. with an adorable tremble, you held on as best as you could. and it only added to his pleasure, a small masochistic turn on, yet a praise for how well he was doing. a rough padded thumb tracing circles into your flesh, a distraction. to keep himself from finishing so quickly inside his pretty lil’ neighbor. already having had the ‘privilege’ of being in your snug cunt raw, he didn’t wanna push his luck…he thinks. but at this rate, it seemed maybe, just maybe this one slip up wouldn’t be all too bad. maybe you’re just too good…no,— you are too good. hands moving to your thighs, to your hip. gripping on the fat of your hip, dragging your hips back n fourth on his cock like a toy, his touch so different from his action’s. slicking the marble counter below, impossibly drilling himself deeper into you. you could feel everything, and it hurt so good. neatly trimmed happy trail brushing against your sensitive nub tantalizingly, rocking your hip’s just a little closer to him subcontiously, clenching and stuttering around him, provoking a low moan from his handsome bruised lips.

he was so focused, so mesmerized watching his length get sucked up perfectly by your cunt, taking every single inch. like how he imagined you would. furrowed blonde brow’s, little strand’s of hair glued to his forehead. pressed firmingly against yours. hot white pleasure shooting up both your bodies. “rright t-there— oh,” you whined prettily, dragging it out in ectasy. short’s and thong long fallen off to the ground, ankle rubbing and wrapping around his hip’s, feeling right up against his defined vline. and he grunted. pace faltering just a little, stuttering patheticly, even a small tease from you was just enough to make him feel like he couldn’t last. he wouldn’t. no matter what distraction he was seeking out, feeling you on his length, under his palms, in his mouth. it was enough to drive any man feral. leaving little crescents into your hip just as you were into his back. marks he’d wish last forever in this moment.

feeling your cunt squeezing, fitting and clenching around him so snug, it made him weak. leaning a bit of his weight into you, and it felt suffocatingly good, his broad frame blocking you from see anything but him above and infront of you, smelling a mix of his cologne and sweat was intoxicating. leaning back to support your own weight with one of your hands, grasping at him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. in a way he was— his dick was making you dumb. the only thing on your mind was him, breath stuttering, feeling that familiar coil tightening up in you, tipping your head back to get a glimpse of his face. twisted in pleasure, sweat sticking to his aged, handsome face. it did no justice to slow down your rapidly approaching orgasm, you were already trembling, a mess of noises uncontrollably slipping out, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. it was only so long before you were hit with what felt like lightening, a bolt of hot, intense pleasure, shooting through what seemed like every inch of your body, and struggling to catch your breath, hastily and needing pulling him closer. legs contracting and shaking, and a drawn out whine escaping from your lips as you felt the nonfamiliar wetness soak not only your thighs and the counter below, but his abs and waist. creamy white wring forming and smearing over, and over again on his cock. eyes focused and filled with something deeper than merely wanting sexual gradification, seeing the pleasure he brought you was enough, and feeling how tight you were spasming around him was much, much more than enough. both of your lips forming a small o, and a deep groan following. he could’ve sworn he felt his knees buckling. and the next second thick, warmth, his—warmth, was spilling inside you and trickling out, you could feel just how much he was pumping into you, fucking into you. making sure you had every drop of him. and you couldn’t resist trying to inch yourself closer to him—deeper. despite feeling utterly weak and overwhelmed yourself. the fact he was merely your neighbor was long forgotten, with the way he fucks you you’d think you were newly weds. but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when he had you like this. the two of you pressed and bonded together, hunched over your counter panting, trying to regain something to ground yourselves. rough padded fingers desperately clinging to your skin. a moment that felt too intimate for just ‘neighbors’. a moment of heavy breathing and rest, palms slowly stroking over your skin when he had came down from his high, resting his chin on your shoulder.

it was safe to say, you had your fill, and you’d have much more often than expected from now on. a man like him would surely—never, miss out on a woman like you. and all of a sudden, his pretty ‘lil neighbor was much closer than he remembered. but you on the other hand, just couldn’t wait to talk about your new..fiancé.

my masterlist for more .ᐟ

ⓘ all right’s reserved, do not republish, edit, or translate my work.

[edenesth]

TWTHH Bonus: Honeymoon Avenue

Pairing: general!Seonghwa x wife!reader

AU: arranged marriage au (Joseon era)

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Life has been hell ever since your mother's passing many years ago. Despite being from a prominent family, you've never received the privileges associated with it. It only got worse with the arrival of your stepmother and her daughters. When the intimidating General Park was in search of a wife, your father seized the opportunity to dispose of you, simultaneously securing a connection with the powerful general—killing two birds with one stone.

A/N: This picks up directly from the final part of TWTHH, and takes place before the events of Wooyoung's spinoff.

Fic Masterlist | Star of the Show

You let out a small groan as you woke up from your slumber, feeling a familiar pair of arms tightening their hold around you. Your heart skipped a beat as you remembered where you were, blinking a few times to clear your vision and take in the surroundings you recognised as Seonghwa's private quarters.

Warmth rushed to your cheeks as you felt your husband's steady breath against the bare skin of your shoulder from behind. Shyness washed over you when you realised you were both still completely bare beneath the fabric of his comforter.

Memories of the intimacy from the previous night flooded your mind, and you buried your face in the pillow. It was as if you could still feel every touch, every kiss, and every moment of pleasure he had given you. So, this was how it felt to be loved so passionately. You hoped for nothing more than for him to be your first and last.

"Good morning, my love. I see you're up," his deep voice greeted, sounding even deeper than usual as he had only just woken up. He leaned in to whisper sensually into your ear before planting a soft kiss on your cheek, "Did you sleep well?"

Turning to face him, you nodded meekly, biting your lip, "I did, Hwa. Good morning to you too," you replied, feeling your breath hitch as his gaze focused solely on your lips.

He nodded in response, "Good, so did I." Without hesitation, he cupped your cheek and pressed his lips firmly against yours.

Your eyes fluttered shut the moment his familiar lips met yours. Kissing him back as if it were second nature, you wished for this moment to last forever as his larger frame enveloped yours, the skin-to-skin contact creating an intimacy that made you feel closer than ever. His ability to make you feel vulnerable yet safe at the same time still filled you with wonder. At that moment, his presence was all-encompassing; he was all you could see and think of.

I can't believe this man is all mine.

Seonghwa, equally content, felt his heart swell with affection for you. Caressing your cheek, he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, struggling to control his breathing when you bravely reached up to run your fingers through his hair, gently tugging at it. Despite witnessing your growing boldness since his return from war, your reciprocation of his affections still stirred his heart.

I'm yours and only yours, my love.

As you finally broke the kiss to catch your breath, he grinned and murmured, "Damn, Lady Park, who would've thought you'd be such an excellent kisser." Despite the blush creeping up your cheeks, you scoffed playfully. Moving to lay your head on his chest, you traced patterns on his skin with your finger, "What do you know, General Park? You speak as though you've kissed anyone other than me."

His pride swelled as he nodded in defeat to your response. Day by day, you were increasingly embodying the essence of the general's wife with your newfound demeanour. It wasn't that you needed to change for him; rather, it was remarkable to witness your transformation into a confident woman who knew her worth, having shed the old shell crafted by your so-called family. Reflecting on his time away at war, he began to see it as a blessing in disguise. Perhaps it was necessary for you to undergo further personal growth.

Nestling into the curve of his neck, you pulled the comforter up higher to conceal your front. A shiver raced down your spine as his hand traced gentle patterns on your bare back beneath the fabric, making you feel slightly bashful at being so exposed to him. He smirked, placing a kiss on your neck and teasing, "Are you getting shy now, my wife? There's no need to cover up or hide from me; I've already seen everything."

"You can be so annoying, you know that?" Rolling your eyes, you playfully pushed at his chest, but he easily resisted, his strength overpowering your feeble attempts. With feather-light kisses dancing across your skin, he tickled you, eliciting a giggle. Chuckling, he remarked, "Oh, come on. I miss the bold Lady Park who took charge last night."

Blushing, you let out an embarrassed squeal, "Oh, quit it! Stop reminding me!" He chuckled, hugging you close against him, his voice teasing as he whispered in your ear, "Remember how badly you wanted me to undo your hanbok?"

"Shut up, Park Seonghwa, or else—"

"Or else what, my dear Lady Park?"

Your husband's smug grin only fueled your frustration. Summoning a surge of determination, you swiftly flipped him onto the bed, looming over him as you straddled his hips, "I'll make you regret it," you declared, a playful glare in your eyes.

His heart skipped a beat as he looked up at you, struck by your beauty with your long hair framing your face like a curtain.

"Go ahead, my love. Make me regret."

Unbeknownst to the two, Eunsook and the group of maids assigned to bathe the couple all exchanged sheepish glances. The head maid cleared her throat, shooting a stern look at the young maids to silence them for fear of alerting you both, ordering in a soft voice, "We'll come back later. It seems the master and mistress are not quite prepared to begin their day just yet."

Jongho was taken aback to see the elderly woman return with the maids she had brought along, supposedly to get the couple ready for the day, "Huh? Are you all finished already? That was fast."

Dismissing the maids, Eunsook offered the assistant a knowing smile, "It appears the master and mistress are, um... still occupied at the moment. We'll come back later to check on them. For now, please ensure no one disturbs them."

His ears turned red as he registered what she meant by that, nodding quickly, "Y-yes, of course! I'll make sure no one passes through."

As half a day slipped away, you and Seonghwa finally emerged from his quarters, ready to receive your baths. The maids couldn't contain their giggles as they noticed the new marks adorning your skin, evidence of the passionate night—and morning—you and the general had shared. These marks were different from your old scars—they spoke of love and affection rather than pain. You pouted at their laughter, but they only laughed harder, "Enough, you meanies."

Eunsook softened as she washed your hair, "We're just happy for you, mistress. You are happy, aren't you?"

You bit your lip, nodding, "I am happy. The happiest woman on earth, if possible."

"Then that's all that matters to us."

Their hearts warmed at the beautiful smile that graced your face, wishing for nothing more than for you to remain content for as long as possible. You, the miracle who had brought so much light into the once sombre halls of the general's estate, truly deserved all the happiness in the world.

On the other side of the room, while assisting his master with the final touches of his outfit for the day, Jongho couldn't help but notice Seonghwa's dreamy expression and the persistent little smile on his handsome face.

"You seem to be in a good mood, sir," the assistant remarked as he focused on fastening the ribbons on the general's attire. Your husband nodded, "I am. Who would've thought married life isn't half as bad as we initially believed. In fact, it's pretty damn amazing. You should try it too, Jongho."

Blinking rapidly, the younger man raised a brow, "Try what? Marriage? Sir, I have no time for that. I'd make a terrible husband."

Seonghwa sighed, "See, that's your problem. You're always too dedicated, never making time for yourself. As much as I value your dedication, I want you to find happiness too."

"I am content, sir."

"Oh, come on, that's not what I meant—"

"Your outfit is ready, sir. You're all set."

Shaking his head in resignation, the general rubbed his temples, "Wooyoung was right about you. You need to get a life."

"He said what? The audacity—"

Heaving a deep sigh, Seonghwa rubbed his eyes after going over all the reports Mingi had prepared detailing every aspect of the recent war with Ruhon—the strategies employed and areas for improvement. The documents required his stamp of approval before they were shipped off to be stored in the palace archives. The military strategist had provided such detailed explanations that they were now giving him a headache.

"Gosh, I can't decide whether I love or hate Officer Song for these long ass reports. They're thorough to the point of being exhausting," he said with a shake of his head, "Is that everything, Jongho?"

The assistant nodded, gathering the completed scrolls to be delivered to San for a final vetting, "Yes, sir. That was the last of it. You're finished for the day. If that is all, I should probably hand these over to Royal Secretary Choi immediately."

"Oh, thank god. Go ahead, Jongho."

With a respectful bow, the younger man did not waste another second making a beeline for the exit, his mind focused on nothing else but his task. The general stared after him with a defeated huff, wishing for his aide to be a little less uptight and to live a little, "I should probably find him a wife."

Speaking of wives, he was reminded of his own. Suddenly, all concerns for Jongho's love life were pushed to the back of his mind and forgotten. Excitedly rising from his seat, his heart raced with anticipation as he set off to find you. He felt bad for leaving you alone for most of the day due to his work, but now he couldn't wait to have you all to himself.

Oh, it would feel like paradise.

He frowned, his steps faltering when he found you nowhere in the House of Lotus. Hastening his pace, he headed to the garden, where you often spent time tending to the flowers with Eunsook and the maids, only to find it empty. As a last resort, he even checked Yunho's quarters, torn between relief at finding the physician alone and frustration at not finding you.

Could you be upset with him for not spending time with you all day? No, that didn't seem like you at all. You were literally the most understanding person he knew. So, where could you be hiding? The wildest scenarios began to creep into his mind when he couldn't find you. What if his enemies had somehow infiltrated the estate? What if you were kidnapped? What if—

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of you in the living hall, seated with Hongjoong and Wooyoung, seemingly engrossed in something. The two men watched you intently, particularly the investigator, who seemed more focused on your face than whatever you were doing. With a clearing of his throat, Seonghwa crossed his arms over his chest, "What are you three up to?"

Turning to glare at him, the dressmaker hushed him, "Keep it down, you doofus! She's trying to concentrate!"

Feeling offended, your husband narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to finally see what you had been up to; you were focused on learning embroidery. It dawned on him that Hongjoong must be teaching you a bit about his craft. He softened as he observed the deeply immersed look on your face, with your tongue poking out of the corner of your lips in concentration.

Good lord, she looks adorable.

In his attempt to move closer to you, he was met with yet another warning glare, causing annoyance to bubble within him. While he was grateful for the company Hongjoong and Wooyoung provided you in his absence, a part of him couldn't shake the irritation of seeing you accompanied by other men, even if they were his friends.

At that moment, he questioned why the guys were still around. The dressmaker, physician, and investigator had only been summoned while he was away at war to watch over you. Now that he was back home, he realised their presence was no longer necessary. It was then that he made a firm decision. From now on, he was determined to spend this time after your wedding alone with you.

The general wasted no time gathering his three friends that evening as soon as your embroidery lesson came to an end. With a polite yet firm tone, he explained his desire to have some alone time with you, dismissing them from the estate. Hongjoong and Yunho exchanged knowing glances, understanding the importance of the honeymoon period for passionate newlyweds like yourselves. Although Wooyoung was reluctant to go, he ultimately knew he had no choice but to comply with Seonghwa's request.

In a matter of days, the trio officially left the estate, returning to their own lives. This left you and your husband alone at last, ready to begin this new chapter of your lives together.

True to his expectations, the weeks that followed were pure bliss. He requested time off from work, and His Majesty was happy to oblige. He spent nearly every waking hour glued to you. By this point, everyone in the estate knew better than to interrupt when the master and mistress wanted privacy, ensuring the couple had all the intimate moments they needed. There were even jokes among the staff that a little Park might be on the way soon at this rate.

And perhaps their predictions weren't so far-fetched after all. It was on a fine day when you were spending another lovely afternoon in the House of Lotus practising embroidering, or at least tried to, with your husband seated behind you, his arms encircling your frame, that you began to show signs of sickness.

Leaving kisses all over your neck, he tickled you endlessly, causing you to giggle and push him away, "Hwa, please, I can't focus when you keep—" Before you could finish your sentence, a sudden wave of nausea hit you, and you let out a small gasp, pressing a hand to your chest to contain it.

Concerned, he immediately stopped and turned you around gently, "What is it, my love? Are you alright?"

"I-I'm fine... the feeling's gone, maybe it was something I ate," you reassured him when he suggested summoning the physician. Eventually, he relented and left you alone.

The second time occurred during dinner, with the kitchen having prepared one of your favourite dishes. Instead of savouring it as you normally would, you pressed a hand to your nose, "You okay, my wife?" you nodded and attempted to eat, only to end up retching from the smell of the dish.

Once again, you insisted you were fine and refused to see the doctor. He let you be, telling himself that if anything else were to happen, he wouldn't hesitate to call Yunho over. You convinced him that you must have caught the cold or something, seemingly fine after some rest.

The breaking point came during a leisurely stroll together in the garden. He tightened his hold on you when he noticed you swaying slightly. Smiling up at him, you reassured him, "I'm fine, Hwa. You worry too much." To ease his worries, you pressed your lips against his. For a moment, it worked, and he lost himself in the sweet kiss.

However, when you pulled back, seemingly out of breath, his heart lurched in his chest as your eyes rolled back, and he didn't waste a second catching your limp form in his arms.

"Jongho! Get Physician Jung here now!"

The sense of terror hit Seonghwa like a tidal wave as he found himself cradling you, unconscious, on his bed. Seeing you like this scared him more than any war ever could. Yunho rushed in shortly after, and the general reluctantly stepped aside to let the doctor examine you. Gently, he held your wrist, reading your pulse, after ensuring you were physically alright.

A few tense moments later, the taller man turned around with a smile, and your husband held his breath, "Congratulations, General Park. Your wife is with child."

Emotions surged within your husband as he released a sigh of relief, tears gathering in his eyes. The realisation dawned on him—of course, you were pregnant. How had he not considered that sooner? Slowly, the significance of it all began to sink in. The love of his life was carrying his child.

I'm going to be a father.

Y'all, I was sleep-deprived asf writing the second half part of this bonus part HAHA I hope it didn't seem rushed or anything.

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

Tag list (1/3): @huachengsbestie01 @evidive @weedforthoughtz @ssrnghwa @yunnieo @sunnyhokyu @lynnsqueendom @frobin4ever @chwesuh-imnida @thunderous-wolf @itstheghostofmypast @professormingisglasses @deltamoon666 @avantalem @famishalll @yungilia @soobiverse @joongified @scuzmunkie @http-gyu @mentoslol @atinyreads @angel-hyuckie @anxiousskylar @onedumbho3 @narashii @ddaeing @sansaurora9904 @sohnfile @scarfac3 @dreamingofyeo @puppyminnnie @tinyteezer @vantediary @satsuri3su @mismatchfluffysocks @aliona124754 @bts-army380 @lilactangerine @atinyniki @pay13 @1117promises @xoxkii @st4rhwa @hikarii02 @nescaffei @xdolls-crownx @ashrocker123 @skzline @minkiflwr @starssongs98 @baeksofty @skz1-4-3 @kawaiikels @madnpan @en-happiness @cheolliehugs @persnyako @startinystay @fatspecimen @christinerose380 @stfu-rina @kyukyustar @taytayy178 @appleschre @brielle-in-the-galaxy @laurenwidjaja @yangwonielvrs @n1k1mura @idkwgoh @loveateez @linosllvr @idfkeddieishot

All Rights Reserved © edenesth // DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR REPURPOSE.

[ladykailitha]

Spellbound Part 1

Normally I would post Caged Bird today, but this has a much larger backlog, sooo! Happy himbo witch time!

Summary: It's a quiet, idyllic life in the town of Hawkins. For everyone but Eddie Munson. You see, his look and cottage scream witch. The long, curly, dark curls, the black clothes, and dark and broody cottage all point to Eddie as a witch. But no. That title belongs to Steve Harrington down the way. In bright and cheery house, dressed in green and a sunny disposition. Things start turn in the town when Chrissy shows up on Eddie's doorstep thinking he's the witch.

~

Eddie Munson was everything one expected a witch to look like. He had long, curly, dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. He wore dark makeup and painted his nails black. In addition to the only color palette liked was reds and blacks, he wore lots of jewelry, including many things that people associated with witches like pentagrams, animal teeth, and beads.

The house he shared with his Uncle Wayne was light grey, ramshackle, little cottage with black roof, door, and trim. The front of the house was overgrown with vines and wild flowers.

So he really shouldn’t be surprised when people would knock on the door looking for a witch.

He opened the door with a sigh. “Can I help you?” he asked the stranger.

She was pretty thing, a little younger than him. She had bright green eyes and her strawberry blonde hair was neatly arranged on the top of her head. She wasn’t very tall, but her green dress gave her long lines.

“I need a love charm?” she asked with a blush. “I just want to know if the man my father wants me to marry is the right one, you know?” She twisted her handkerchief nervously in her hands.

Eddie sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The witch lives two houses down and across the street. Great big sign that reads: ‘Harrington Witchery, charms, curses, and wishes performed here’.”

She looked down the way at the bright yellow house surrounded by neat plants and the perfect ray of sunlight on the door and then back at him in confusion. The door opened and the witch stepped out. He had honey colored hair and hazel eyes. He wore bright blue robes today and had the sunniest smile.

Eddie could feel his face flush as the witch waved over at both of them.

“Here he comes,” he said with a pinch of dismay.

“Hi,” the witch said brightly. “Are you looking for the witch?”

The young woman looked back at Eddie and then at the witch. “Yes?”

“Fantastic!” he said beaming at her. “I’m Steve Harrington, witch extraordinaire. Please to meet you!”

“Chrissy Cunningham,” she said shyly. “I was wanting a love charm?”

“I’d be happy to help you with that,” he said putting his arm over her shoulder, “let’s leave the grumpy Gus to his music playing, shall we?”

Eddie huffed. “That’s Mr. Grumpy Gus to you!”

Someone smacked him on the back of the head. “Don’t you go antagonizing the man who makes my arthritis medicine, boy.”

Steve stopped and turned around. “When do you need a top off on that, by the way?”

“I’m running a bit low,” Wayne admitted. “It was bit rougher this week with that huge storm we had.”

Steve nodded. “I’ll be over with the packet after I’m done with Chrissy.”

“I’ll have the tea ready for you,” Wayne said with a fond smile.

~

Chrissy looked around the house as he led her through to the back of the house. It was neat and tidy with every clearly labeled in a neat cursive hand. There was something bubbling on the fire, but from the smell it was probably dinner and not a potion. She could smell the beef and vegetables.

There were two rooms off the one side and the privy to the other. It was everything the opposite you would expect of a witch’s house. The animals on the other hand fit. One was a raven sitting in the windowsill being fed by a beautiful woman dressed in a dark blue gown. The other was a Tortoiseshell cat with bright green eyes, who meowed at her and jumped away.

“Merlin!” Steve admonished. “Be nice.”

The cat stopped in its hasty retreat and meowed back at him.

“Well she can’t help that,” he answered as if he understood what the cat was saying. “Now, run along and actually catch the mouse that has been stealing your food.”

Merlin meowed again and was off.

“He’ll never catch that mouse,” the woman said.

The raven crowed, seemingly in agreement.

“Then you catch it, Circe,” Steve huffed, hands on hips. “I know you can and you complaining about Merlin’s abilities doesn’t catch the mouse any faster.”

The raven crowed and flew off, causing the woman to laugh. “She won’t catch it either.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed, “but with her it’ll be because she doesn’t like being told what to do and not because she can’t.”

Chrissy shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “So about that love charm?” she asked tentatively.

Steve jumped. “Oh! Oh my god! I got so wrapped up in familiar politics I nearly forgot you were there. Here, just let me...” he began gathering supplies.

Some twine, a bit of silk, some herbs and oddly a couple of flowers too. Ivy, lilac and pansy. He swiftly made them into a doll and handed it to her. “A lock of your hair, and snip of your petticoat will finish the job. Then whisper into its ear all the things you want in your true love. Then the next time you touch your betrothed, you will know if he is your true love.”

“That’s all?” Chrissy asked, staring down at the doll, no bigger than her palm.

“Yep!” he said brightly. “Robin will help you with the hair and petticoat. I’ll be in the front room preparing Wayne’s medicine.”

Chrissy blushed and nodded. Robin stood up and wandered over to the desk to grab the scissors.

“Are you a witch, too?” Chrissy asked as she held still for Robin to clip a bit of her petticoat.

Robin stood up with a smile. “Not yet, but I hope to be. Steve is teaching me. I’m still a little clumsy with the potions but I’m good with the herbs. Steve says that I could be a hedge witch!”

“Oh!” Chrissy cried. “I didn’t know there were different kinds of witch. What kind is Steve?”

“The tired kind!” Steve huffed from the front room.

Robin giggled. “Don’t make me laugh when I’m about to cut her hair!” she admonished.

Steve looked over his shoulder and gave her a completely unrepentant grin. Robin huffed and gently took a bit of curl from the base of her head near the neck. She took the doll back from Chrissy and tied both pieces to the doll.

“Now,” she said brightly, “just whisper all your wants and desires for a future soulmate. It’s actually good you’re doing it now. A lot of people do it as kids with childish hopes and dreams which isn’t great for adult relationships.”

Steve came into the room dusting his hands off on a towel. “That’s unfair,” he huffed. “It’s not childish, it’s childlike. And who knows love better than someone who hasn’t been taught to hate yet.”

Chrissy tilted her head to the side. “I think I’m with Steve on that one, Robin.”

“Yeah, well,” Robin said rolling her eyes and stepping back. “Doing it as a child hasn’t done Mr. Witch over here any good. He had his made by his mom when he was seven and fifteen years later, he still hasn’t found his true love.”

Steve threw the towel over one shoulder and put both hands on his hips. “I still maintain that it’s because I’m witch and can’t get out much that’s why I haven’t found them yet.”

“I still thi–” Robin began and then was cut off with a wave Steve hand. She glared at him.

“It won’t last very long,” Steve growled, “but long enough that Miss Cunningham won’t be here for that particular argument.”

“She thinks you’ve already met your true love?” Chrissy surmised.

Robin jumped up and down and nodded with a huge grin.

“Robin is operating under the delusion that the goth down the road is my soulmate,” Steve huffed putting his hands back on his hips. “Never mind, it’s a guy, he absolutely hates me because people keep mistaking my house for his.”

Chrissy blushed a deep red. “Yeah, sorry about that. But it’s the commonly held belief that witches are–”

Steve held up his hand. “I’m going to stop you there. I won’t gag you like I did Robin. But I don’t know where those ‘commonly held beliefs’ come from, but witches have never worn black or had black cats or flew on brooms. Hedge witches in particular favor nature’s colors of blues and greens and browns. But you’re all set to go.”

Chrissy recognized the dismissal that it was and turned to leave. She barely got a single step when she turned around.

“What about payment?” she asked, uncertain. “Surely you need something in payment.”

Steve’s eyes seemed to glow gold for a moment as he spoke. “There is no need to pay for a love charm, there being more love in the world is enough for the spell. And it is only spell that does so.”

“Your other charms and spells have payments?” she asked, now a little nervous.

“Most of them require a trade or a simple favor,” Steve said, seriously, “like running an errand for me. But if you ask for a potent charm, one would almost call a wish, that is all you will get from me. You’ll never be able to find my house ever again. You’ll see me around town and I can visit you. But you require some powerful magic, then that’s it. I will not be used to fix every problem you see fit.”

Chrissy gulped and nodded. She clutched the doll to her chest and ran off.

“Steve...” Robin said, darkly. “There was no need to frighten her.”

Steve leveled her with a glare. She backed off, hands in the air in surrender. He stomped back to his potion, the small cottage darkening with his foul mood. The raven flew into through the window and landed on his shoulder, rubbing her beak on his temple.

“I’m fine, Circe,” Steve mumbled, scratching the raven’s neck. “I think Merlin was right about her. She wasn’t here for a good reason. I think she just wanted to prove to everyone that Master Carver’s son isn’t her soulmate. I don’t think she’s actually interested in finding true love.”

The raven crowed and cawed.

“Of course you caught the mouse,” he huffed, gently shaking his head not to dislodge her from his shoulder. “What did you do with it?”

Circe cawed again and Steve laughed. “Of course you did. Merlin is probably pouting. He’ll play with its corpse once he’s done.”

The raven made a sound suspiciously like laughter and then flew away. Robin came up and put her hand on his shoulder and then pulled him into a hug.

“I heard what you told Circe,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “You’re right of course. Merlin, too. She was trying to hard to believe in your magic. She was just looking for an excuse not to marry dickface.”

“That’s Master Dickface to you,” Steve teased halfheartedly.

Robin snorted. “Yeah well. That’s probably the last we see of her. He’ll turn out to be her soulmate, she’ll be forced to marry him and she’ll live in the ivory tower the rest of her days.”

He let out a shuddering breath. “I’m heading over to visit Wayne to deliver his medicine. I’ll be back later.”

She grinned and jumped up and down. “Maybe the hottie gothy will be there and you’ll finally touch and it’ll be...” she clutched her hands together and batted her eyelashes, “true love!”

He pushed her off of him and wrapped up the blue packets of medicine. He paused for a moment and then took a jar of Mrs. Henderson’s homemade raspberry jam and added it to the basket.

Robin took a loaf of bread from the cooling rack and wrapped it up. “There you go, little yellow riding hood! Of to Wayne’s you go! Don’t let the big bad goth eat you!”

~

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

First, let me apologise for making people worry. I appreciate all those who reached out and I'm sorry that I couldn't get back to you all.

I have been through a very rough spiral. It was building for months, and I am still not fully okay.

For those who want context, it's under the cut.

I bought a house in May. It's expensive. I wasn't ready financially or in many ways for that step, but my partner convinced me. I told him as much but I was not heard. Alas, I have a mortgage, full time work, astudent loan, and an ongoing school program to contend with. It hasn't been easy and it caught up to me.

At the same time, a person who traumatised me and I have no way of fully extricating from my life, has moved closer. To keep the peace, I have to associate with him to a degree and he pretends that nothing ever happened. To him, it was nothing.

In June, I moved. It was hard and fast paced. I did most of the paperwork etc for the whole process and obv helped with the physical transition as well. I was responsible for deadlines and checklists for not just myself but my partner.

I was plugging holes in a sinking boat.

At the same time, I had obligations to my family. Every weekend if I wasn't dealing with the house and all that goes into it, I was running around to babysit or see family or whathave you.

In July, I pinched a nerve behind my tailbone. I missed a week of work bc my injury but it took longer for my to recover. I am still feeling it today. It was more than physical, but emotional.

I also got three periods that month. Hormonal can't begin to explain how fucked up I've been.

On top of all that, there are underlying issues associated with other trauma and discontent. I'm realising that I have been loyal and tolerant to the point of my own detriment.

I don't want to hurt people how I've been hurt, so I don't speak up. When people tell me something about myself, I let all the doubts planted in my mind from years of abuse convince me that they're right. I can admit my faults but often times I will think that proof of one flaw means everything about me is rotten.

People forget about me or just don't care. Both or either. They don't put the same effort in that I do. I find it hard to connect because years of disregard and neglect have told me that the other side just won't care.

But I'm not just hurt, I'm angry. I'm seeking therapy and trying to figure this out.

It all boiled over after my last post. Nothing I do is enough. For anyone. Not even when it's a hobby. I was frustrated bc the place I use for escape just made me feel like less than.

Obviously, I don't mean everyone or even the majority. I appreciate the discourse and fun and everything here! There are so many awesome people to interact with and I have missed you all, however, my headspace was bad. Very bad. I had thoughts I haven't dealt with in years.

I put my nose down and just went to work. I didn't wanna talk to anyone. I didn't wanna be in the world.

I did some reading, eventually some non-fandom writing, and sometimes, I just stayed alive.

I don't know if I'm really okay but I'm trying.

To those who have been so patient and supportive, you deserve everything. To those who are silent supporters, you do too. And even to those people who send me the most vile hate, you deserve to lift yourself out of the dark space you're stuck in. Hopefully, I can, too.

[taking-thyme]

🌅 Lucifer Deity Guide 🌅

Note: This is inspired by both my own experiences with Lucifer and the information I read on @scarletarosa's blog and her devotional guide to him. Please go read that one too!!

The divine rebel, Lucifer is the light of truth and divine wisdom; an ancient light which shines through the darkness, representing illumination. He is the driving force of innovation, liberation and transformation. According to Scarletarosa, who actively works with Lucifer and was told this by him, he was the first-born god of the Universe created by the supreme deity, the Source. He is so incredibly ancient and beautiful. Lilith was created to be his counterpart, the Queen of Heaven. However, Jehovah took the throne of heaven from Lucifer and cast him and his followers into hell. Most of them lost their connection to heaven and their energy became dark and intense. Jehovah claimed the throne of heaven and set himself up as the one true god, manipulating humans into betraying their original deities. Thus, Lucifer became the King of Hell and has been scorned by Christians for millenia. 

God of: Illumination, Light, Darkness, Change, Rebirth, Challenges, Innovation, Logic, Truth, Knowledge, Wisdom, Strategy, Persuasion, Revolution, Luxury, Pleasure, Freedom, The Arts and The Morning Star (“Morning Star” is another name for the planet Venus)

Symbols: Sigil of Lucifer, The Morning Star, Violins and Fiddles (instruments traditionally associated with him)

Plants and Trees: Rose, Belladonna, Mulberry, Patchouli, Myrrh, Min, Tobacco, Marigold, Lilies, Hyacinth, Sage

Crystals: Amethyst, Black Obsidian, Onyx, Garnet, Selenite, Rose Quartz

Animals: Black Animals in general, Dragons, Snakes, Owls, Eagles, Ravens, Crows, Rams, Foxes, Pigs,  Bats, Rats, Moths, Swans

Incense: Rose, Frankincense, Patchouli, Myrrh

Colors: Black, Red, Silver, Emerald Green, Gold

Tarot: The Devil

Planets: The Morning Star, Venus

Day: Monday and Friday

Consort: Lilith

Children: Naema, Aetherea and many others

How was he traditionally worshipped?

There is not much to say about how Lucifer was historically worshiped seeing as he wasn’t worshiped at all for a large chunk of human history. He seems to have been worked with in some capacity according to the Gesta Treverorum, written in 1231, which is where we first see the term Luciferian being used to refer to his worship. This was by a woman named Lucardis for a religious circle, who was said to lament to Lucifer in private and prayed to him. However, the term Luciferians was later applied to basically any groups Christians didn’t like and wanted to fight, as one might expect. However, the modern Luciferian movement also sheds light on how Lucifer is worshiped. For Luciferians, enlightenment is the ultimate goal. Their basic principles highlight truth, freedom of will and fulfilling one’s ultimate potential, and encourage the same in all of us. Traditional dogma is shunned because Luciferians believe that humans do not need deities or the threat of eternal punishment to know what is good and the right thing to do. All ideas are to be tested before being accepted, and even then one should remain critical because knowledge is fluid and ever-changing. Regardless of whether Luciferians view Lucifer as a deity or an archetype, he is a representation of ultimate illumination and exploration in the name of personal growth. 

Epithets

Phanes

The Morning Star

Light-bringer

The First-born

Prince of Darkness

Son of Morning

The Glory of Morning

Lord of the Lunar Sphere

The First Light

Offerings

Red Wine, Whiskey (especially Jack Daniels), Champagne, Pomegranate Juice, Black Tea (especially earl grey), Chocolate (especially dark chocolate), Cooked Goat Meat, Venison, Apples, Pomegranates, Honey, Good Quality Cigars, Tobacco, Daggers and Swords, Silver Rings, Emeralds and Emerald Jewelry, Goat Horns, Black Feathers, Seductive Colognes, Red Roses, Dead Roses, Crow Skulls, Bone Dice, Devotional Poetry and Artwork, Classical Music (especially violin)

Devotional Acts

Acts of self-improvement, spiritual awakening and evolution, knowledge-seeking and dedication to spirituality ; Shadow Work ; Working to overcome your ego to become wiser ; Defending those in need ; Working to better yourself without being too self critical ; Fighting against tyranny and bigotry whenever you encounter it

Altar Decorations

Black or Red Candles, Snake and Dragon Figurines, His sigil, Roses, Fancy Chess Boards and Playing Cards, Silver Jewlery and ornaments, Black feathers, Goat horns

Appearance

For me Lucifer usually appears as a tall light-skinned man with long fiery red hair (so red it looks like it’s been dyed), a sophisticated face with a killer jawline, passionate eyes and dressed in a fancy black suit. From all my experiences with him and what I’ve heard from other followers, it seems Lucifer and most demons dress in full suits and tuxedos. 

Personality

Lucifer is nothing if not charming. He’s a protector first and foremost - one that always works to help you better yourself, but a protector nonetheless. He feels like a protective older brother taking care of you while your parents are away. He is a very complex entity, deeply wise and eloquent. He is more serious than one might expect for a demon given their popular depictions in our culture as chaotic forces of evil, but Lucifer is full of courage and love. I often feel him with me even when I’m not doing things related to him. He is proud of his follower’s accomplishments and congratulates them on a job well done, though he also reminds them that the job is never truly over. Growth is constant. Lucifer is the epitome of growth, blunt and gentle at the same time, telling you what you need to do and giving you space to figure out how to do it. 

Lucifer values resilience, the pursuit of self-betterment, intellectualism, courage, open-mindedness and responsibility in individuals and wants to see his followers develop these qualities. He is constantly rooting for you to reach your full potential. He won’t hold your hand the entire way, but he will help you take steps in the right direction. Lucifer, like all deities, is different for everyone and will adjust his approach depending on your needs.

^ The Sigil of Lucifer

[verbenaa]

so that i may dream tonight

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:

It was a special torture to be unable to touch him, you decide. You want nothing more than to brush your fingers through his curls as you come, to caress the delicate point at the top of his ears, feel the smoothness of his skin on your fingertips.

It feels absolutely filthy, to be tied up like this, your pleasure left to Astarion’s will as you are powerless to simply lay in wait for whatever he has in store.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: Astarion/Reader

𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: smut, fluff, slice of life!

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 9.1k

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: body worship, massage, blow jobs, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, light bdsm, vampire bites, discussion of safe words, vaginal sex, vampire sex, multiple orgasms, orgasm denial, soft dom astarion, TAILOR ASTARION

𝑎/𝑛: I'm back with round 2 baby and somehow its 2k words longer lol. ANYWAYS, this is incredibly indulgent and warm and sexy and INTIMATE. I'm literally screaming. I truly don't know how this ended up so long but oH WELL. anyway, I hope you enjoy reading! below is the a03 link too if you'd prefer to read over there!

MDNI, 18+ CONTENT

ao3 here

masterlist

The water is warm against your skin as you lean back against the edge of the wooden tub, hair arranged in a loose pile barely contained with haphazardly placed gold pins as you recline, your eyes wandering up to greet the carved beams of the ceiling that sit resolutely above you. 

It had been a decidedly long day, working deep within the walls of the city beside Wyll, who it had been altogether wonderful to see again after such an extended period. You still weren’t entirely sure why the two of you had been summoned together to help manage Guild politics of all things, but you suppose that this was simply the nature of your semi-recent and highly publicized acts of heroism.

The tension had built up in your body throughout it all, leaving you more ready for the respite of your home than usual. It had been quite some time since you had spent so many hours in the daylight, the warmth of the sun on your skin never unwelcome, but a rarity you were no longer so familiar with. The deep, velvety blue that marked the night sky had long since become associated with your waking hours, the twinkling stars a welcome companion from their place high above your head.

Your mind wanders aimlessly through a myriad of thoughts, barely focusing on one before jumping quickly to the next faster than you can keep up with. With a deep sigh, you attempt to center yourself, though anything that even closely resembled the act of meditation wasn’t your strong suit. You manage to keep it up for a minute before giving up with a roll of your eyes as you instead move to stare blandly at a botanical tapestry hanging on the wall across from you, the calming greens of woven plants blending into one another.

You lose yourself to your musings once again, going over your day and what was to come, trying to make sense of it all, mind drifting from thought to thought as you luxuriate in the lavender scented water Astarion had so kindly readied for you.

Time passes, though you aren’t quite sure how long, the water losing its steam and the soothing heat finally subsiding, drawing you away from your imaginings and you reluctantly find yourself back in the present with a long-suffering sigh. Your head raises from its resting place on the side of the tub, the stretch of your spine drawing an appreciate groan from you as you sit upright.

“All that work for a hot bath and you’re already done?” You turn to glance over your shoulder at Astarion from where he rests indolently on the bed, clad only in a pair of loose silk pants and book held aloft in an elegant hand, looking for all the world a king presiding over an invisible court as the sheer canopy that surrounds the bed blows lightly in a breeze from the open window.

“Apologies to any sore muscles hurt in the act of carrying buckets of water.” You flash him a wink as you roll your head from side to side, stiff muscles protesting the motions.

“Shall I try a more…aggressive approach towards reheating, love?” He holds a hand up, ready to set spark with the inherent elven magic that runs through his veins, a incredibly familiar devious smile on his lips. It was terribly easy to forget he had such skills sometimes, when those hands seemed so much more well-suited for tasks of a more cunning nature.

“I’d rather you not accidentally turn our only tub to cinders, if you don’t mind.” Your raise a brow and fix a look back at him, daring him to try such an act.

“Suit yourself, darling.” He sends a smirk your direction as you turn back to face forward in the bath, his eyes never straying from your form as he watches stray droplets of water make trails down the exposed skin of your neck.

In a last ditch effort to prolong your bath, you push your body under the water until only your head remains above, intent to grasp at the last vestiges of warmth the water will offer before you move to stand.

The water sluices off your form as you emerge, dripping over the fullness of your breasts and rushing down your belly in smooth rivulets that fall back into the swirling bath below. Steam rolls off your limbs as your body meets the coolness of the air, skin still tender from the heat as you make to step out of the tub and onto a small stool, grabbing at a folded towel left nearby. Limb by limb, you make to gently pat at the wetness clinging to you, the tiny beads of water like little crystals decorating your skin, before settling the towel to rest over the top of the partition screen. 

You make your way over herringbone floors on raised toes, trying to avoid any stray drops from falling onto the wood beneath your feet. Only a moment passes before you finally feel the soft weave of a rug against your feet as you find yourself at your destination.

The shared dressing table sits in front of the bed, wood worn with years of use as a collection of multicolored jars and vials of oils rest on a painted tray strategically placed to hide the worst of the wear. A silver hairbrush rests beside the tray, carefully maintained with no sign of tarnish on the intricate design of the handle, clearly well loved through the years.

The air is refreshing against the your warmed skin as you reach for a small glass vial at random, the viscous amber of the oil inside swishing from side to side as you bring it to your hand. You uncork it with familiar motions and pour the scented oil into the palm of your hand, careful not to spill any onto the patterned rug beneath your feet.

With small, sweeping motions you rub the oil into your skin, mindful to try to reach every inch you can, the scent of bergamot and jasmine (one of Astarion’s curations, surely) filling the room with an easy and familiar warmth. You pay no mind to anything other than your self-care, allowing your focus to settle wholly on the act and nothing more.

Astarion is near silent as he rises from the bed behind you, moving with ethereal grace towards your naked form. You don’t take notice of his presence until he is upon you, the feeling of his cool, muscular arms wrapping around your waist from behind causing a noise of surprise to tumble from your lips. 

The feeling of his cool skin against the warmth of your own makes you jump, nipples hardening and gooseflesh rising on your arms as his hands brush against your belly in affection. His angular jaw comes to rest on your shoulder, nose skimming the elegant column of your neck as he presses in close.

“Need any help, darling?” The words brush against the shell of your ear, his lips touching your skin with every word uttered as the hands wrapped around your waist tighten to bring you even closer to his own form.

“Well, if you’re offering, how could I say no?” You relax into the embrace of your lover, his hands sweeping up and down the flesh of your stomach before finding their way to your tense shoulders.

His hands are a balm on your skin as he rubs the remaining oil into your skin in soothing circles, fingers lightly massaging at your sore muscles. Your head falls back to rest on his shoulder as your eyes close at the sensation of his hands on you, reveling in his attentions with a contented hum.

“Why such a bad day, dearest?” Astarion’s question is genuine as he glances up from your skin to glimpse your expression as he waits for your reply. 

“Hm, not quite so bad as long. I think I’m out of practice at this whole hero thing.” Your words are a sigh as his hands work at the muscles of your shoulders, thumbs digging in to release the tension sitting heavily there. 

“I don’t blame you. A day with Wyll’s tireless chivalry would push me to my limits as well.” You snort in response at his supposed honestly, though frankly you are inclined to think he might actually like Wyll for his eternal kindness, but you know he’d never admit such a thing out loud.

Astarion gathers more oil in the center of his palms before his hands continue, moving from your shoulders to your arms and onward, to the curve of your lower back and around the circle of your hips; careful to never press hard enough to cause pain but with enough pressure to relieve your tired body. His thumbs press into the muscles with precision, you body becoming more lax with every pass of his hands.

Astarion lowers to his knees behind you when he is satisfied with his progress, hands skating over your rear as they make their way down your legs, nothing less than reverence in the motions as he smooths his hands down and then back up the skin of your thighs and calves, intent to touch every inch of skin available to him. 

The movement of his hands on your legs, brushing high on your thighs brings a subtle heat alighting inside you, barely a flicker, but just enough for the feeling of arousal to start deep inside much to your slight embarrassment for hoping such innocent touches would turn into more.

There’s a sudden shift in his touches, you realize, Astarion’s motions transitioning from methodical to subtle teasing with every pass, daring to go a little higher on every turn up your thighs before darting back down again to more neutral territory. You shift slightly at the feeling, wishing for more but refusing to acknowledge the urge to push your thighs together to ease the slow growing ache.

Astarion must take notice, you think, so close to the warm center of your body, must be able to smell the soft embers marking the start of your arousal. His hands finally stop their ministrations, moving instead to grasp around the bones of your hips as he presses a single kiss to the base of your spine, before pressing another right above it. Slowly he begins to rise, kiss by kiss, as he follows the line of your spine from your hips upwards; lips moving to touch the back of your waist, the space between your shoulder blades, the base of your neck. 

His lips are as cold as winter air yet they feel like a brand with every press against the column of your spine, stoking the fire deep inside your core with startling ease. 

He raises back up to his full height, his hands draped around your waist once more as he leans in to press a kiss against your cheek, drawing hypnotic patterns against your lower belly knowingly. You lean back into his kiss, head tilting, and rest your body back against his own. As you put your weight into his safe embrace, you feel a familiar hardness pressing lightly against the bare skin of your ass, covered by the same luxurious silk as the pants he wears low on his hips.

Your lips curl, victorious at your discovery and you bring your hands to cover his own where they rest on your stomach before drawing one up along the sinew of his arm to instead press against to the solid expanse of his abs. 

Daringly, you move the hand lower, fingers dancing over the dip of his hips to brush against the subtle erection pressing against his silken pants. Astarion’s body bucks into your own at your touch, the hands around your waist suddenly gripping harder as you continue your exploration.

“If those hands of yours keep wandering, you’ll leave me no choice but to tie them up, darling.” His words are teasing, a gleam of affection in his claret eyes as his head moves low to nip playfully at your throat.

You quirk your brow at such a delicious idea, and with a purposeful motion your hand presses harder against him, finger tracing the curve of his cock with mock innocence. 

“If that’s supposed to be a threat, it’s a very poor one.” You lean your head to the side, giving more room for his lips to move against.

Astarion lets out a disappointed sigh, one hand sliding up from your stomach to palm at your breast, squeezing lightly as he runs a thumb over the nipple in response to your shameless disobedience. His other hand travels lower, fingers brushing past your stomach to reach between your legs and glide through the wetness he finds there as he lets out an audible tsk, the beginnings of your arousal decorating his fingers as a low moan escapes your lips.

“You just never learn, do you?” You gasp at glide of the oil on his fingers against your skin as Astarion weighs your breast in his palm with one hand, the other pressing lightly against your clit, your back arching at the sensation. Your pleasure lasts but a moment, Astarion’s hands moving back to hold at your waist once more, and you whimper at the loss.

He walks the few short steps backwards towards the bed, pulling you in tow until his knees meet the soft edge of the mattress and he lets himself fall backward, taking you with him.

Your bodies land to rest upon the blankets with a soft bounce, Astarion’s arms still around you as a small laugh bubbles up from your throat. It only takes a second for you to quickly turn in his arms, pressing your naked breasts against his bare chest as your eyes meet his own in mirth.

His hands never leave your waist, fingers dancing up the curve of your spine as your legs find their place on either side of his hips. You let your body melt into his own, quick to begin to press kisses into the expanse of his chest below you. Your lips make their way towards his neck as you push yourself up to straddle him, his hands falling to rest on your thighs where they bracket his hips.

The growing wet of your core presses against his lower stomach and the feeling of your arousal on his skin does not escape his notice. With a feline smile, the hands on your thighs make their way back to your waist and with the lightest of pressure, Astarion encourages you to move your hips. 

Your breath catches at the feeling as you move to work with him, his hands guiding you back and forth to grind yourself against his chiseled stomach as the hands on his chest steady your movements. Astarion’s eyes meet your own as he helps you along, each slow brush of your clit against his skin has your pleasure building, your lips falling open as your desire multiplies. 

Astarion moves a hand up your body as your hips find their cadence against him, only stopping when he reaches the curve of your breast, brushing a finger lightly along the full bottom of it as your hips undulate against him.

“You’re so very beautiful like this.” His eyes are molten with mounting desire as he watches you move back and forth on his body, your nipples pebbling under his touch and your wetness growing with every pass along him.  

“I could say the same to you,” You hips move with seductive grace, gliding across him. “It’s quite a treat to have such a beautiful man like yourself beneath me.”

Astarion brings his wandering hand back to your empty hip before drawing it farther down to press against the place where your slick glistens against his pale skin. He draws a finger through the dew he finds on his abdomen, gathering it on a fingertip before pressing it into his mouth to lick at your arousal. 

“Delicious, as always.” His eyes are the deepest of garnet, sensuous as they meet your own.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight, empty core clenching with want as an idea forms in your mind, one that promises certain pleasure to you both. Swiftly, you lift yourself off his chest to slide lower, your dripping folds brushing against the silk covering his cock, darkening the fabric before you continue down until your knees touch the ground before the bed. Your sudden change of position has Astarion leaning up onto his elbows, watching you intently as your hands run up and down his covered thighs.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” You meet his eyes, a coquettish smile on your lips as your hands move higher, brushing dangerously close to his hardness. You lean your head in and lick lightly against a slight dampness you see on the silk, eyes never leaving his as Astarion’s hips jump and a sigh breaks from his lips.

“Do you want me to?” Your question is genuine as you move your head away from his erection, giving him space to answer as your eyes gaze at his elegant features, waiting for his blessing.

“Do your worst, darling.” His lips take on their trademark roguish grin in response to the sly one now decorating your own. The sight of you on your knees before him is always a welcome one, and he would be remiss to deny such a gift of pleasure from you.

Astarion moves to sit, intent on not missing a single moment as he helps you free his hardened cock from the silk of his pants in a flurry of movement before they are discarded onto the floor, soon to be forgotten entirely.

“It would be my honor.” The words leave your lips moments before they press against his newly uncovered heat, searing kisses moving against the vein running from the crown to the base of him. You lick greedily at the precome leaking from the tip before laving your tongue along the head of his cock, a hand coming to brush lightly against the base before your fist closes around him.

You feel his hands in your hair, nimble fingers finding the golden pins barely holding your hair up before throwing them to the side with surprising accuracy, until they’ve all but disappeared under furniture never to be found again. Your hair falls in a messy curtain around your face, Astarion quick to brush through the errant locks as your mouth works him. 

Astarion lets you move at your own pace, basking in the feel of your soft lips and clever tongue working around his cock in fluid motions as the moans that fall from his lips spur you on, urging you to take him deeper, to love him harder. Your hand helps your actions, making sure to keep contact where your mouth cannot easily reach, eager to bring him to the brink.

You hollow your cheeks as you suck at his cock, his eyes closing in pleasure as the hands in your hair tighten in time with his moans. You break off his length with a pop, taking in a lungful of air before you lavish his erection with your tongue, the same hand still massaging him at the base. 

There were few things better than this, you can’t help but think as your tongue flicks at the head of his cock again, the feeling of bringing Astarion to the brink of pleasure with your mouth as he loses himself to the feeling nothing less than exhilarating.

You lips wrap around him once more, taking him as deep inside your mouth as you can manage, the tip of cock near the entrance to your throat as you gag slightly, eyes watering in response. Your head moves back and forth as you take him as deep as you can manage, intent on tasting his come, until you feel the hand in your hair moving. 

Fingers caress your cheek, brushing against the tears staining your skin as you hear Astarion speaking, your mouth slowing to a stop.

“Enough, darling,” his words are strained with effort, Astarion barely managing to hold back from coming on your tongue as he speaks them.

You break away from him the minute you hear the words, a string of saliva connecting your lips and his cock remaining as you bring your eyes to look up at him in question. Astarion groans at the sight, breathing heavily.

You feel his hand come to rest around your upper arm, curling around the lithe muscle there as he gently pulls you up to stand in front of his seated form. Astarion’s breathing is heavy as he looks you up and down before pulling you into his lap, your knees resting on either side of his own as his hands touch everywhere they can, your own coming up to cup his cheeks.

“Are you alright?” Your fingers brush against the planes of his face as it rests in your warm hands.

“Oh, I’ve never been better darling,” he leans into a palm, head tilting with the motion. “I’m just not ready to be done with you yet.”

His admission has heat surging in your belly with anticipation, a smile on your lips as you lean in to press them to his own. Astarion responds in kind, the hands on your body pulling you closer, deepening the kiss, as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip in a bid of entry.

You open your mouth to him, his tongue caressing your own as your lips move against each other’s, the kiss passionate as you pour you love and desire into it. Astarion breaks the kiss first, hands squeezing at your hips as he gestures with his chin towards the plush pillows sitting at the head of the bed. 

“Up you go, my sweet.”

You are quick to react, getting out of his lap and moving your body up the bed as his eyes follow you, your oiled skin brushing against the linens as you make to lay your head upon a pillow resting there, the crochet trim tickling at your nape. You arrange yourself with ease, hoping to look as though you were the picture of obeisance as you wait for him to follow.

Astarion gets up from his place at the foot of the bed and pauses, his gaze running over your body as you lay there in wait for him, perfectly poised in the middle of your shared bed. Your skin glows with the leftover hint of oil still remaining, the shine of it reflecting in the moonlight that dances in through the intricately paneled windows, tracery-like shapes reflected onto the floor the same color silver as his hair.

With that thought Astarion moves away, footsteps taking him instead to his bedside table, pulling open the carved wood front to search for something within. You resist the urge to peek, content instead to wait for him to show you whatever it is he searches so intently for. Finally, Astarion seems to find the item of his fancy and he rises to his full height with the treasure in hand.

It’s a length of delicate pink satiny ribbon; clearly brought here from his studio,  perhaps the leftover from some long-finished project. But maybe, maybe, he had been waiting for a very specific opportunity to arise, and the idea that he had envisioned such a thing brings a fresh wave of heat to your center. You can only hope he is willing to make good on his earlier threat and use such a beautiful material.

“Do you trust me?” The thick ribbon dangles in curls from his elegant fingers, the candlelight illuminating the highlights of the satin a luminous hue.

“With my life.” Your response is quick, slipping from your lips with ease as you gaze at the figure he cuts, moonlight coming in the window in silvered beams illuminating the lines of his body.

Your move your arms up to rest around your head where it lays on the pillow, wrists delicately crossed above your hair like a halo as you follow Astarion’s form as he moves toward where you lay waiting.

The bed dips down where he kneels upon it as he swings a leg over you, his body hovering over your hips as he leans forward to grasp at your wrists. Astarion works quickly, clever fingers moving faster than you can follow. You don’t take your eyes off his face, intent to watch the thoughts as they cross his features. Within moments, he has finished as fast as he started, moving off of you to stand instead at the foot of the bed to watch as you test the bindings. There is give in the ribbon, naturally, you know Astarion would never bind you so tightly you couldn’t truly move or escape unless you were to ask for such a thing. The lack of motion, the ability to truly be unable to do much of anything with your hands or arms is a sensation that feels as strange as it does alluring.

Astarion looks down at you, examining his work as his eyes move to take in every inch of you, from the sight of your hands bound together with that demure pink satin tied in a neat, tidy bow and thoroughly secured to one of the carved freesias that decorate the wooden headboard to the way your body lays waiting for him in loving submission. You are a vision for his eyes only, the sheer image of you like this is sure to be burned into his mind for eternity, something he will see in his dreams for a millennia to come.

“Now, what ever am I to do with such a pretty, lovely thing like yourself?” The way Astarion’s eyes travel over your form makes your thighs rub together on instinct, his heated gaze ratcheting up your arousal as you force yourself to let your legs fall open for him to see the evidence of your anticipation.

He moves to kneel on the bed at your feet, eyes glued to the sight of the damp clinging to your center. Gingerly, you reach out a bare foot and rest it against the center of his chest, toes daintily pressing into the bare skin there, eager for any connection with him you can get. 

Astarion eyes move to glance at your offering and he wastes no time, a hand coming to grab at the foot resting on his sternum, fingers quick to trace the delicate arch with a light touch. He leans his head to press a kiss to the top of your foot before moving further up your leg, pressing kisses to your ankle, your calf, the space behind you knee. 

“You look terribly lovely like this, darling, all tied up and at my mercy.”

His kisses continue their exploration, light brushes of his lips touching your thigh, the gentle softness of your stomach, the valley between your breasts before ending their journey against your neck. Astarion’s body rests between your open thighs as his lips caress the skin of your neck, his cock hot against your lower stomach. Your arms shake against their bonds, aching for the ability to touch him where he lays against you.

“Did you come up with your word, darling?” His voice is a whisper against your neck, his tongue licking at the places where his fangs have left scars as you recall words from a prior conversation. An exchange of words, he had said, to let each other know our comfort level. 

You nod your head, wrists flexing slightly against the ribbons as you try to hide a teasing smile, unable to resist such an opportunity to fluster him with your answer despite the headiness you feel. “Blingdenstone Blush.”

Astarion scoffs at your choice, head coming up from your neck to shoot a look your way, noticing your poorly hidden smile with the raise of a brow. 

“Could you pick anything more terrible?”

“Well, initially I was going to go with Bullywug Trumpet but it doesn’t quite roll of the tongue, now does it?” Astarion rolls his eyes at this, mouth curling up with distaste as he mutters something along the lines of unbelievable or is normalcy truly so much to ask for? under his breath.

“I am very open to discussing other word choices though, if you so desire. After all, there are so many mushrooms we could choose from.” Your smile is sly as you raise your eyebrows in amusement.

“Is a discussion on mycological nomenclature really what you want to be talking about while I have you all trussed up and ready to be devoured, darling?” Astarion’s hips grind into your own, driving home his point with little delicacy.

“Fine, you make a fair argument. Please do continue your previous exploits, sir.” A brief look flits over Astarion’s face at your use of such a word, gone as fast as it comes. The slight twitch of his cock against your skin, however, is far more telling.

“Hmm? Sir? Should I be looking to expand my vocabulary or—“ You move against your bonds to roll your hips back against your own in response, though Astarion is quick to cut you off when his mouth lowers to your breast, tongue circling the nipple, silencing any further conversation from you.

“That’s enough out of that clever mouth of yours for now, sweetest.” He rests his head against your breast, nipple damp as his eyes find your own.

“Sunmelon,” The word is a sigh on your lips. “We can go with that.”

“Consider it sorted, my love,” He presses a light peck at the swell he lays his head on before continuing. “Now, forget about your day, darling, and let me make you feel good.” 

Astarion seals his words with a kiss to the space where your heart beats in your chest before moving to capture the nipple resting below, his tongue circling the peak with precision. 

The motion has your back arching, pressing closer into his waiting mouth, and Astarion does not relent as he alternates between flicks of his tongue and closing his lips around to suck. Your hips jump at the sensation, fresh heat rushing to fill the space between your thighs.

Astarion moves his attentions to your neglected breast, as thorough in his ministrations with it as he was its twin as a hand comes up to brush against the damp nipple recently abandoned. He is resolute in his actions, paying no mind to your rolling hips searching for stimulation.

The feeling of his cock resting against the skin of your stomach is maddening when you want its heat so badly to fill you, Astarion’s motions against your breasts driving you higher and higher with every pass of his tongue. His hands trace down the contours of your body reverently as his mouth continues its exploration at your chest, hands moving to wrap around your arched back to grab at the flesh of your rear. 

He aligns his hips with your own as his hand squeeze at your ass, his cock pressing against your folds as he grinds at your center, drawing a ragged moan from both your lips. The dual stimulation of his lips on your breasts and his hardness against your weeping cunt feels euphoric, breathy whimpers escaping with every brush of him.

With a pop, Astarion breaks away from your nipple, his lips making their way north towards to mouth at the column of your throat. He kisses everywhere he can, his lips tracing the red of the blood in your veins as his hips continue their slow roll. 

He licks a stripe up a vein to press his lips against your ear, tickling the lobe with his tongue, the eroticism of the touch bringing a shiver to your naked form. 

“You’re absolutely perfect.” Astarion’s words are reverent, lips pressing soft kisses to the spot behind your ear as you whimper at the sheer adoration in his voice. Your hands writhe against their bonds, aching to touch him, to run fingers across the lines of shoulders and to bury them in his silver curls. 

His hands leave the skin of your rear, fingertips pressing in as he drags them up the expanse of your back before settling them to rest on your hips as his tongue licks down your neck before changing course to press kisses down to your chest. 

Slowly, Astarion makes his way down your body, kissing as he goes, every touch alighting your body with fire. His lips trace the skin below your belly button as his hands move to spread your thighs apart, settling his body between your open legs.

Astarion mimics your earlier action, pillowing his head innocently on the plushness of your thigh as he glances up at you from his place between your spread legs, a finger running up and down the skin there absentmindedly as he takes in the sight of you from this new angle; your dewy folds, the softness and warmth of your body, the light pink of the ribbon wrapped around your wrists practically iridescent in the dim light.

“As pretty as a painting.” Astarion sighs, adoration spilling from his lips, as the finger drawing lines makes its way up to run through your wetness in a barely there caress, collecting the arousal on a fingertip before moving to press lightly against your entrance. His finger brushes light circles, tracing the ring of muscles before dipping inside your heat. The warmth of your body draws a hiss from Astarion as he pushes that finger deeper, meeting no resistance as it sinks in to the knuckle, your moans filling the room.

He watches, entranced, as his finger disappears inside you before he draws it back out, bringing a second finger to join as they plunge back in. Your entrance weeps with the movement of his fingers, the coolness of the skin against the heat of your body only serving to contrast the feeling more. Your legs fall open farther the deeper Astarion’s fingers go, the dive of them in and out driving you closer to your orgasm. 

Your moans are pure sin as they fall from your lips, the sight of Astarion between your legs, as he watches his fingers slowly disappear inside your body with such intent drive you higher towards your completion. 

It was a special torture to be unable to touch him, you decide. You want nothing more than to brush your fingers through his curls as you come, to caress the delicate point at the top of his ears, feel the smoothness of his skin on your fingertips.

It feels absolutely filthy, to be tied up like this, your pleasure left to Astarion’s will as you are powerless to simply lay in wait for whatever he has in store. The feeling is intoxicating, more than any wine could ever hope to be. You certainly never expected that being denied the ability to touch would put your other senses on high alert, the scent of your own arousal evident in the air of the room, the sound of your wetness loud to your ears with every movement of his fingers. 

Astarion’s eyes flash to yours in the same instant his fingers start move faster, beginning to piston in and out of you faster. With every plunge in, Astarion crooks his fingers just so, perfectly placed every time to brush against that sweet spot deep inside. Your cunt clenches around him, intent to draw him in, to keep him there, as your orgasm draws nearer and nearer. 

The precipice of your orgasm is right in front of you, the warmth coursing through your veins in its nearness and you begin to let yourself fall into the feeling of it, Astarion driving you closer and closer towards your high until you feel the sudden emptiness of his fingers leaving you, ripping away the pleasure that was so closely awaiting you and your orgasm disappearing into the ether. Your mouth falls open in a cry, head tilting up from its place on the pillow to look down upon him in utter surprise as he rests between your legs.

“You know, I never did repay you from the other day in the studio. Surely you remember denying me my orgasm, hm?” The words are sly, brimming with confidence as you whine at the loss of his ministrations.

Astarion’s fingers press into your waiting body once more when he is confident your orgasm has disappeared, your sensitive cunt still weeping, curling inside to press against your g-spot. His fingers don’t leave your body this time, instead staying seated firmly inside you where he can manipulate them to curl into the area over and over again. Your pleasure ratchets back up faster than you can follow, your head thrown back against the pillow in ecstasy, eyes closed as your lashes dust against your flushed cheeks. 

Astarion leans his head in towards your waiting core, pressing soft kisses to the area around your clit, careful to never touch it all the while he remains intent on  breaking you apart on his fingers. 

He never stops the motions deep inside, curling with ruthless efficacy to leave you hanging on the precipice as his lips begin to work their way back up your body until they meet your lips. 

Your eyes open as he presses his mouth to yours, blinking through the slow haze of pleasure building as his forehead comes to rest against your own. 

“Word, darling?” Astarion fingers never slow, but his eyes are clear as they gaze into your own.

“I’m alright, I promise.” Your words put him at ease as you raise your head slightly to press a kiss to his cheek, your hips rolling against his hand. Astarion returns the gesture, kissing at the high point of your face before moving down the softness of your cheek to your neck, finally stopping to rest his head against your collarbone. 

“Good, because I’m not done yet.” He punctuates his words by stopping his fingers, keeping them warm deep inside your body but no longer allowing them motion, cutting off the burning pleasure you were once again so close to. You keen at the loss, bucking your hips in an attempt to regain it, willing to fuck yourself on his fingers if that was what it took. Astarion doesn’t give you the chance, pulling his fingers from your body to press them against your clit instead.

Your breath comes in shaky moans, body desperate for the chance to finally come. Astarion doesn’t relent in his quest though as he brings you to the peak once more with his fingers moving against your clit, giving your poor core a break as his lips press against your bare skin anywhere they can. He licks at your nipples, nips at the dip of your waist with his fangs, kisses the juncture where hip meets thigh. Always so good, beyond good, but never enough to bring you careening over the edge as his fingers diligently press at the pearl between your thighs, Astarion careful to halt when he notices you moving too close to your orgasm.

Your breath comes in uneven moans, your mind delirious with pleasure, both given and denied, when at long last Astarion’s lips and hands leave your body, their absence stark.

With elegant movements, Astarion moves back from your body, intent to simply watch you from his place near your feet, his pale skin like carved marble as he settles back to rest on his heels against the soft plush mattress as he watches you, his gaze considering. 

Your skin is flushed, a light sheen of sweat setting your skin aglow along every dip and curve of your body with a beautiful softness only echoed by that rosy pink ribbon still lovingly tied around your wrists. Your body writhes under his observation, the way he takes in every inch of your form in its fucked-out state with the otherworldly crimson of his eyes making your breath catch in your lungs.

His cock bobs between his thighs, tip weeping with precome as his eyes continue their perusal. He brings the hand that had been inside you so many times now up to wrap around his shaft as he pumps himself, spreading the leaking wetness down his length as his fist works himself up and down in slow motions.

Your body shakes with pent-up pleasure, skin flushed with being brought to the brink but denied your release time and time again.

“Now, my dear, I want you to tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

Pink tinges your cheeks at having to say the words you know he wants to hear, your body writhing with incompletion as you rub your thighs together while you think of how to possibly voice your desires out loud.

“Use your words, darling.” Astarion urges you with a glance as his hands move to spread your legs once more, pushing them wide as he looks at the glistening mess between your thighs, poised like a cat ready to pounce on its prey. 

“I…I want you to make me come. Please.” You lick your lips and pull slightly against the ribbons around your wrists, breathing deep.

“You’ll have to give me more than that, sweet thing.” His smile is wicked as his thumbs rub circles on the skin of your thighs.

“I want you to lick my cunt. Fuck me with your fingers, a-and your cock. Drink from me.” Your words rush out on an exhale as you grant him the information he so dearly wants, the blood rushing through your body coloring the skin of your cheeks and chest even darker as the admission pours from your lips, hips rolling in a desperate bid for release.

Astarion’s hold on your thighs tightens at your words, more beads of precome decorating his cock as it bobs in response to your request.

“Good things come to those who ask for them.” And with those words, Astarion lowers his head towards your waiting body, licking a stripe from your aching core to your clit. 

His mouth laves at your folds, tongue running through from your entrance to your clit over and over again, never focusing on any particular place for long, your pleasure ticking up with every brush.

Your body is so sensitive like this, the prior denial of your pleasure making every movement of his mouth seem more intense than usual, the sheer touch of his tongue on your most intimate areas making your hips jump. He laps at your clit with broad stokes, tongue flattened against the small bead before moving down to lick around your entrance before dipping inside to taste. 

Astarion continues like this, pressing his tongue deep with practiced motions, whorling against your walls before exiting again to ring around the area, your moans spurring on his attentions.  

He moves up to work your clit with precise flicks of his tongue, never breaking his rhythm as he replaces his tongue with two of his fingers, sliding in with ease. Astarion pumps his fingers, once, twice, before curling them to press against your g-spot once more. You teeter on the edge, Astarion masterful as he conducts your pleasure with mouth and fingers.

Astarion’s tongue darts down from your clit to run against the place where his fingers enter you, the sensation of both his tongue and fingers on your entrance drawing a harsh cry from your lips as he laps eagerly. Your arms jerk against the ribbon as your thighs begin to shake, every lick and push of his fingers making up for any pleasure previously denied. 

“That’s it, darling. Come for me.” His words are adoring as he speaks them against your center before returning to lick, your eyes rolling back at the vibrations of his mouth against you as his words make you clench harder around him.

He separates his fingers inside of you as his tongue continues to lick, scissoring them wide, as he stretches the walls of your cunt as your eyes squeeze shut in ecstasy. The burn of the stretch is minute, any discomfort replaced by the addition of his tongue pushing in deep in the space made by his spread fingers. His tongue thrusts in time with his fingers, and you are powerless but to follow your body as you finally crest over the edge, his words ringing in your ears as you come on his fingers and tongue. 

Your orgasm washes over you with a rarely felt intensity, your body spasming with pleasure as Astarion works you through it, not relenting in his mission. White-hot heat rolls over you, body and mind, as you cry out, the pleasure denied to you coming back tenfold as you ride the wave of your orgasm.

Body shaking, you slowly come back to yourself, taking in lungfuls of air as your body finally relaxes, arms falling to rest on the pillow as your eyes open blearily. 

“Dear Gods, Astarion.” You breathe out the words on a laugh as you look down at Astarion between your legs, fingers still massaging inside you softly as his head moves to press kisses to the skin of your thigh.

“We still have a few more requests to cross off your list, darling.” He licks at the flesh of your inner thigh, nose nuzzling the spot as his eyes meet your own.

“By all means, please drink your fill.” Your let the tension leave your legs as you open them wider for Astarion as he searches for a place to feed. 

His fangs pierce the skin of your upper thigh, so close to the sensitive junction where your leg meets your hip. The pain is a familiar hot prick as his fangs enter your flesh, but the satisfaction you feel from the pull of his lips sucking erases any thoughts of pain that cross your mind. He drinks at your lifeblood, intent to get his fill and enjoy sating his hunger. 

He hums against your skin as he drinks, the sound setting you ablaze with need once more as you watch him from his place between your thighs, the red of the blood on the white of skin stark and beautiful. 

Astarion takes one last pull, dragging the last bit of blood into his mouth before he retracts his fangs, moving to lick at the bloody wounds left there on your leg. He swallows the remaining blood as it enters his mouth before propping himself up on his elbows to glance up at you, tongue moving to lick at a stray drop of your blood making its way down from his lip.

He is beyond beautiful, the sight of his tongue licking at the stripe of your blood on his face driving pleasure straight to your empty cunt and you feel tired of waiting for it to be filled once more. You roll your hips slightly at the thought.

“Will you fuck me? Please?” You lick at your lips, asking as kindly as you know how, pulling at the binds on your wrists.

Astarion doesn’t answer you, instead leaning in once to lick at your slit, gathering your leftover cum to blend with your blood on his tongue as you whimper, skin still sensitive. The taste is intoxicating, Astarion moaning into your cunt at the piquancy of your essences.

Astarion’s mouth leaves your center as he moves to sit, grabbing at your legs as you wrap them around his hips, drawing him closer. Taking his cock in hand, he lines himself up with your core before beginning to push in.

He teases at first, short thrusts that never bury anything more than the head of his cock in your entrance, your slick coating him. 

“Gods, you’re soaked.” He throws his head back as he finally relents to his desire, pushing the rest of his hardness inside your waiting body, moving further and further until he bottoms out, dragging moans from both of your lips at the feeling. He sits like this for a moment, letting you adjust to the fullness of him before he rocks with slow, deep motions, the head of his cock brushing against your walls feels like bliss as you move your hips in a rhythm to match his own.

A hand on your hip makes its way down the skin of your thigh, Astarion lifting your leg to prop it up over his forearm as he begins to pump in and out of you with smooth thrusts, your thighs opening up to him. 

Your lower back lifts to accommodate the change of balance with your leg now being held, Astarion’s other hand anchoring itself to your other as it wraps around his hip. He moves to his knees, his thrusts speeding up as you are content to let him set the tempo.

Astarion moves fast and hard, his cock hitting your g-spot with every thrust. Your moans mix together as they fill the room with their sweetness, the sound of your lovemaking only adding to the pleasure building inside both you as you move towards your mutual releases.  

“Astarion, please, I need to touch you,” the words are a desperate whine as they leave your lips and Astarion is quick to acquiesce to your request, arm letting your leg fall as he leans over your body to pull at the bow adorning your wrists to free them from their binding. Without wasting a second, your hands find their way around his neck and your lips meet his in a passionate kiss, his thrusts never stopping their cadence as you run your freed fingers through the curls at the base of his neck. Your hips move to meet his own in frenzied thrusts, trying to match his pace with every press of his cock deep inside you. 

Without warning he flips you both and you suddenly find yourself sitting on his cock, the new position drawing a surprised moan from you lips as Astarion lays beneath you, curls splayed against the plush quilt. 

“Are you sure, love?” You gasp out the words as his hands find your hips again and he begins dragging you up and down his cock in smooth movements. His cock is deep like this, hitting places inside you with an intensity that drags you both closer. It had been some time since you had the opportunity to ride his cock like this, to watch him laying below your hips as you work him from above.

“Yes, gods please,” Astarion begs, the words only serving to ratchet your pleasure higher at the fever of his words, willing to do practically anything for him when he asks like that. His hips piston up in you, faster now, as you move your own up and down, body easily matching his like this as you settle your hands on his chest to help you balance.

Astarion’s pupils are practically blown out, your own mirroring his as you ride his cock, the slap of skin on skin with each thrust absolutely sinful. His thrusts are fast, quick and hard, his rhythm difficult to follow as he loses himself in the feeling of your body, the sight of you on top of him, breasts bouncing with every thrust and your head thrown back with your hair cascading around you. 

His hands grasp at your hips, fingertips pressing hard enough to bruise as his own orgasm approaches, your own not far behind as you both give yourself over to the feeling and let your bodies dictate their own pleasure. Every thrust has his cock driving cries from your lips, breathy moans falling from his own as you finally feel Astarion lose control beneath you, his cock pulsing as his eyes close, spilling his come deep inside your cunt. 

His frantic thrusts have him pressing against your spot relentlessly, and the sight of him as his orgasm washes over him, the feel of his come filling you sends you over the edge with him, grinding down on his cock as you ride the wave of your own completion, vision practically whiting out as a mixture of come leaks from where you are joined onto his skin. 

Astarion’s body slowly relaxes below yours, grip on your hips softening as he helps you ride him as you come. He watches you as you finish, and while he’s never been the religious sort, Astarion is certain the vision of you working his cock as you orgasm is nothing short of divinity at work. Finally, your hips slow their motions, your body practically collapsing against his own as you work on regaining your breath in between pressing kisses to his chest. 

“Well. That was quite the ride, wasn’t it?” His expression is open, contentment obvious on his features as his fingers draw up and down your sides. His cock softens inside you as you smile against his skin, pushing up slightly to roll off of his chest and settle into the cool skin of his side. Your combined spend leaks onto the linens below you but you pay it no mind as Astarion reaches for your wrists, checking for any possible injury before pressing kisses to the slightly reddened skin where the ribbon had lay.

“It’s certainly my favorite one, at the very least.” You relax into his touch at his chuckle, your head cushioned on a muscled shoulder as you let him pepper your wrists with kisses. The two of you delight in the moment, happily basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking, neither making to leave the bed.

You’re the first to break the moment, sitting up beside Astarion as you stretch, pressing your shoulders back to stretch along your spine. You turn to look at him with a smile on your face, crossing your legs in front of you as your head tilts to the side, observing him.

“You know, if this is going to be the response I get every time I happen to have a ‘bad’ day, I will gladly arrange for more of them.” Your smile turns mischievous, reaching out to walk your fingers up his chest.

“Greedy thing, aren’t you?” Astarion gasps in mock shock, reaching to grab at the fingers on his chest, bringing them to his lips to nip at the tip of one.

“What can I say? I did learn from the best, after all.” You shrug, leaning forward as his tongue licks at your fingers, squirming slightly as he reaches out to grab you around the waist. Astarion pulls you back into his arms, rolling the two of you playfully as he kisses your lips, threads of your joined laughter echoing out into the night.

[shinysobi]

pretty u

summary: when joshua, your best friend gets engaged, you can't help but feel as though you're missing out on something important. jihoon, your other best friend, kindly offers to set you up with one of his many friends. chaos ensues, seungkwan is an observer who knows everything, and unfortunately, mingyu is a hapless victim.

pairing: woozi x fem!reader

genre: crack, fluff, angst

word count: 10k~ish

warnings: alcohol consumption, general warnings apply

a/n: this time we're bringing the trauma folks, im not sorry at all hehe >.< also this is dedicated to vaish and gigi, truly my biggest cheerleaders.

a/n 2: reblogs and comments are much appreciated! please tell me if you're liking this lmao

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3

Chapter 2

Someone yells as soon as I enter the restaurant, and I almost turn back on my heels and walk out of there. The culture desk is huddled around a large table, and judging from the empty bottles, half of them were well on their way to drunkenness already. I can spot Seungkwan at the end of the table, being the newbie, he must have been plied with alcohol by the rest of us. His entire face is slowly going red, and if I hadn’t been consumed with hatred over Jihoon being a weirdo, I would feel sorry for him too. But, he’s Jihoon’s friend, and any friend of Jihoon is an enemy of mine.

“The Associate Editor is here!” someone shouts, and I look on, horrified, as my editor, the boring, staid old man who wears the same style of suits five days in a row, waves and giggles at me, holding up a new glass of soju, “my, I thought you would never arrive. We’re all having a party without you!”

“Yes, I can see that,” I accept the offered glass, “sorry, the interview went on for much longer than I expected it to be, and the bus was stuck in traffic for a long time.”

“Just say that you didn’t want to come hang out with us,” the Assistant Editor, a woman in her forties, giggles, “we missed you so much!”

My breath is almost knocked out by the way she hugs me right after that statement, “no, I can assure you I wanted to come here. If not nothing, then just to congratulate the maknae on joining.”

“Huh?” the Editor blinks around, “oh yes, there’s Seungkwan!”

“Haven’t you given him too much to drink?” I ask, standing up to pour Seungkwan another glass, “Seungkwan, have fun in this department, okay?”

Seungkwan, drunk as he is, only mumbles something unintelligible, by way of a reply. Still, he accepts the drink and knocks it back, while the person next to him, Haewon, smiles drunkenly at me, “sunbae,” she says, “won’t you give me a drink?”

Haewon, unfortunately, has the habit of getting cutesy when she drinks, so I wordlessly extend the bottle to pour her another one. The Editor and the Assistant Editor are boisterous, singing a drinking song off-key.

“Can I get another bottle of soju here?” I call, and the surly-looking part-timer slams a bottle. He doesn’t even offer me a smile. Jerk.

“Drink up, drink up,” the Editor smiles happily, addressing the whole table, “did you know, she’s the only one who Mr Hong does an interview with?”

“Really?” Seungkwan perks up at that, “isn’t he famous for not giving any interviews?”

“He is, but she’s the only person who can get an interview with him.”

“Whoa, sunbae,” Seungkwan is all starry-eyed, which means he is definitely drunk, “I’ve always heard praises about you from the hyungs, but it’s all true! You’re legit.” And to drive home the point of my legitimacy, he hugs me, planting a huge, wet kiss on my cheek, “you’re my inspiration, sunbae.”

“Seungkwan, maybe the inspiration is a bit too much,” I reply, pouring myself a tall glass, “but I’ll accept it either way.”

“Wait, wait,” the Editor is suddenly interested in whatever Seungkwan is saying, “who are these people you’re talking about?”

“Oh, the hyungs?” Seungkwan is talkative even when he is not drunk, but alcohol has made him into one of the most loose-lipped people I’ve ever seen, “Jihoon-hyung, and Joshua-hyung. They’ve been friends since university, you know. They still hang out together.”

“Really?” Haewon looks interested, “are any of them the person you had lunch with this afternoon?”

“You had lunch with Joshua-hyung?”

“No, it was Jihoon,” I correct Seungkwan even though I don’t really need to, but it’s the alcohol, “Joshua doesn’t like the same things that I do.”

“Oh, is he your boyfriend?” Haewon giggles, and I sputter, “was that why he walked you to the company door?”

“No, Haewon, he isn’t my boyfriend, please drink some water.”

“No, no, I’m interested,” it’s a testament to how jobless we all are at the culture desk, because the Editor suddenly turns to Seungkwan with barely hidden glee in his eyes, “Jihoon, that’s his name?”

“Yes,” Seungkwan, who normally is the most tight-lipped out of all my acquaintances, is surprisingly talkative when drunk, “yes, Lee Jihoon. He’s the closest with her, out of all his friends. They even hang out all the time.”

I pour out some soju in a shot glass, then rethink it, drinking the rest of the bottle in one go. If this dinner goes on for any moment longer, they’re going to start speculating on my dating life. And based on what I’ve seen from the diner owner this afternoon, they’re going to assume that Jihoon and I are dating.

“Ah, so he’s the man you used to skip company dinners for,” the Associate editor says, “bring him around sometime! We’d all have fun!”

I’d rather stick my head in a vat of boiling acid than bring Jihoon to any place even remotely associated with my work, so I just nod and smile. Seungkwan, however, perks right up at this, saying, “do you want to see a picture of them?”

Enthusiastic cheers follow, from everyone at the table. I drink another half-bottle of soju.

“There you go!” does Seungkwan have all these pictures at the ready, or was he planning to make my life hell before participating in this dinner? Because the photo he’s pulled up is from the final year of university, when Jihoon and I were working on both our senior theses, and we’d spend a fair amount of that time huddled in between the stacks at the library, or over at each other’s apartments. The picture Seungkwan is brandishing around is from one of those days, and I would die before I admitted it to Jihoon, but I had a printout of it stuck on my wall. It’s a simple picture: Jihoon and I have our arms around each other, wide smiles on our faces, something that comes only after successfully finishing a gruelling paper, or from consuming too many snacks. Our cheeks are touching, and my free hand is thrown up in a victory sign.

“Ah, so you guys dated,” Haewon nods sagely, “that’s not a picture one takes with their friend.”

“No, this is—this is a very friendly picture,” I sputter, drinking more alcohol in an effort to dull the embarrassment that’s running through my veins, “we’re just friends.”

“I’ve seen couples who have less skinship than this.” The Assistant Editor says, “you both look very cute, I must say.”

On and on it goes, until both my ears have gone red, and still they go on, fuelled entirely by Seungkwan, who’s apparently a savant when it comes to remembering embarrassing incidents from university. Seungkwan. I’m gripped by a desire to commit murder, and it plainly shows on my face, but he goes on, unfazed by the looks I’m giving him, “they used to be practically inseparable during their university days! You could never see her without Jihoon-hyung, and if she wasn’t around, he would be irritable and angry all the time.”

“He’s still irritable and angry,” I murmur, senses highly dulled by the copious amounts of alcohol I’ve consumed. What’s my limit? One? Two bottles? I’ve drunk far more than that. My vision is swimming in front of my eyes, and everyone else’s words are coming slowly to my ears, as though filtered through sand. Is this how it feels to hear underwater? “he’s never—he’s never once been nice to me, you know that?”

“Really? He always takes care of you, though.” Seungkwan isn’t one to back down from an argument when its beginning, “I’ve always seen hyung take such good care of you.”

“Well, he doesn’t anymore!” I say, waving for another bottle, “He’s a little shit nowadays, have I told you that?”

“No, you haven’t. you don’t talk a lot.”

“That’s true.”

The third bottle (or is this the fourth) goes down far easier than the rest, and before I know, I’m stumbling out of the restaurant with the others, bundling the Editor into his car and the Assistant Editor into a taxi.

“Do all of you have money to go back home?” I ask the rest of them, but they’re already making plans to go on to the next spot. My watch says its midnight, but for people younger than me, it must be easier.

“Sunbae, do you want me to call you a taxi?” Seungkwan asks, but he’s tottering on unsteady feet, and I can see the longing looks he’s throwing the group of people who’ve started to move on without him.

“Go on, Seungkwan, I’m going to be fine by myself.” I wave a hand across my face, “it takes me ten minutes to walk back home, I’ll manage.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Seungkwan doesn’t need much convincing, and trots off to his colleagues. I sit there on the sidewalk for a long while, as the night sky swirls around me. I want to ask myself, why do I have to put myself through these situations? Why couldn’t I, like every other person, be normal about finding love and romance and relationships, and have a perfectly average life?

I dial the first number that comes on my screen, and a few moments later, Jihoon’s scratchy voice comes through, “you’re calling awfully late.”

“I’m bored.” I say, settling back onto the sidewalk, “Seungkwan and the others went for round two of the company dinner.”

“And they left you all alone?” Jihoon sounds irritated, “shit, he should have at least called you a cab.”

“I’m old enough to get home on my own, Lee Jihoon, and besides, I’m also sensible enough to not come in between the affairs of my juniors.”

“You’re slurring, I bet you can’t even stand up properly.” Jihoon says, “hey, give me your address.”

“I can stand up!” I protest, “why would I give you, my address?”

“So that, I can go pick you up.”

“Why are you suddenly doing this? It isn’t as though I’ve never gone home drunk from a dinner before.”

“Yes, but you’ve also never called me before, so, I’m going to pick you up.” I can hear other people talking in the background, “hey, wait there, I got the location from Seungkwan. I’m coming to pick you up.”

“Seriously, Jihoon, you don’t have to.”

“Well, thank goodness I don’t listen to you very much.”

And he’s gone. All at once, I feel terribly alone. Why didn’t I go along with Seungkwan and the others? Why did I have to be a good senior and leave the youngsters alone? All that I can do now, is to sit alone, and contemplate.

When I was in school, and studying for the college entrance exams, all I could think about was how to get into university. When I got into university, all I could think about was how to get a job. Now that I have a job, all I can think about are the banal, everyday details of my everyday life, what to eat for dinner, what clothes to wear, whether I’m getting a promotion or not.

“You look like a drowned cat.”

I look up. Jihoon is dressed for the studio, wearing a comfortable jacket over comfortable pants and plush slippers on his feet. Its evident he’s rushed over here from the company. I want to feel sorry for him, but all I can think about is how much he looks like a steamed dumpling, all cozied up in his studio clothes.

“I look nice.” I say feebly, looking at my clothes. I’m wearing a shirt and trousers, and a coat that I haphazardly threw on before leaving my home; he’s right.

“Get up.”

“No.”

Jihoon doesn’t waste any time, he leans down, forcing me to stand. “The car is right there,” he says, hauling me towards the direction of his new car, “if you vomit, I’m seriously going to kill you.”

“I don’t vomit after I drink. That’s on you.”

“That was once,” he sighs, as though he’s some long-suffering saint, “please wear your seatbelt. I’m not about to get a ticket because of you.”

“Hey, Jihoon?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we have a sleepover?”

He stares at me, halfway through fixing my seatbelt. Its funny, how pretty his features are. If I could extend my fingers just a little bit, I could touch him, feel exactly how many lashes he has, see if his skin is as smooth as it seems to be. My hands remain firmly at my sides. “What do you mean a sleepover?”

“I don’t want to bring you to my house,” I reply, settling into the seat, “it’s a mess.”

“Because you can’t keep a house.”

“No, I’m moving.”

“I thought you had time?”

“I’m being evicted, Jihoon,” I yawn, “Kim’s hiked the rent again.”

Jihoon sighs, before getting into the driver’s seat, “I’ll get you some of my clothes.”

“Hey, Jihoon,” I ask, as soon as the car begins to run, “why are we stuck?”

“Stuck?” he seems confused, “I thought I was the one who was stuck, not you.”

“I’m stuck too, just that I haven’t told anyone.”

“You’re not making any sense, you know.”

I sigh, “I’ve been running my entire life, you know. When I was younger, I’d constantly worry about what kind of university I would get into, what course I’d get to study. I was so busy with my studies that I didn’t notice that my school life was slipping past me.”

“When I came to university in Seoul, I thought I had achieved something, but everything I did, my sister had already done it before me; for my parents, I was just following the footsteps of my sister. In university, I thought so much about my grades and how to get a good job right out of university, that I forgot to enjoy the fleeting moments of my youth. Even now, even when I’m worrying about how to get ahead in life and how to get ahead in my workplace, I don’t think I’ve ever stopped for a single moment to think, am I doing this correctly? Is this how I want to live my life?”

“Did you waste your youth? Is that how you think about it?” Jihoon asks, “really, truly, is that how you think you spent your university life?”

“I worried about grades, I worried about how to pay my university fees, I worried about so many things. I just didn’t tell anyone.”

“Is that why you didn’t join the others?”

“I’m jealous.” I admit. Its easier now, when one has said the words that have been bothering them, “I’m jealous of their youth. No, I’m jealous of how carefree they are.”

“Everything I do, I think twice, thrice, and four times, before I settle on it, and even then, something always goes wrong.”

“What if you could do it all over again?” Jihoon asks, and I’ve never seen him this serious outside of the studio, “what if you could do it all over again. High school, university, meeting us. Would you have done it differently?”

I shake my head, “Its not that I’ve never thought about it, everyone has. But honestly? If I could do it all over again, I’d do the same. Perhaps a little more honestly, but I’d still be the same person I was in university. I’d still like to meet you and Joshua and the others, even if I can’t get as close to them as they want me to.”

“They’re very respectful of the face that you’re an introvert, just by the way.” Jihoon parks his car, “I think Jeonghan-hyung would commit some serious crimes if you asked him to.”

“He’d commit them either way. He likes the chaos.”

Jihoon’s apartment building is far larger than mine, and he holds my hand to stabilise me as we walk to the elevator. I’ve been here before, it’s a building populated entirely by old people who like to take walks at six in the morning, and young married couples who like to stroll with their children at night. His hand is warm, perhaps from the car.

The elevator is empty as we walk in, and Jihoon punches in the number for his floor, “do you need anything? A hangover cure?”

“I’m fine.”

His apartment is much bigger than mine, with a separate room for his recording equipment, and I’ve been here many times before. I know the couch has a  spot where the spring digs into your skin, I know the perfect spot from where the television hurts less on your eyes, I’ve spent hours in here divvying up the banchan his mother had sent from Busan, arguing with him about what movies we would watch. Everything is the same, and at the same time, different.

Jihoon is standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking in his refrigerator for something to eat. I make myself comfortable in one of the chairs, looking at him work. Jihoon looks strange in this light, a change that I can’t put my finger on. He’s dressed in a white shirt, and from here, he looks lonely. Lonely like someone who has lost all sense of their being, like someone who’s barely hanging on. Do I look the same, from behind? I want to ask him, how I look when I walk away.

“Would you really not change anything? If you went back?”

“What do you mean?”

He pauses, still with his back turned to me, then continues, “I guess we were all immature in our university days. If I could go back, I would change some things at least.”

“Not take that sociology class?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I’d still take it; even though it gave you an irrational fear of surveyors, I’d still take it. for me, that sociology class was one of the brightest moments of my university life.”

He turns to me, and under the bright lights of the kitchen, he looks strange, as though he has been restraining himself from doing something, “would you have changed anything?”

“I’d still take the sociology class,” I admit, “I met you and Joshua in that class after all.”

“And?”

“And it’s one of the brightest moments of my youth,” I say, “that class, it was the brightest spot in my university life.”

“Because of me, or because of Joshua?”

I scoff, “that’s a weird question, Lee Jihoon.”

“Answer the question.”

“I can’t choose.”

Jihoon sighs, before holding out a glass of water. “Its lemon water, drink up,” he says, “you can’t drink honey water.”

“You remembered?”

“I remember everything about you, you idiot,” Jihoon points towards the bedroom, “you’re going to hurt your back if you sleep on the couch, so take the bed.”

The bedroom seems inviting. So’s the bed, if I’m being honest. White sheets with an embarrassingly high thread count, with Jihoon’s books all arranged neatly in a bookshelf. There are pictures too, of us, hung up on a corkboard, half of them from university when we were too out of it to remember anything.

“This one is my favourite,” I say, pointing to a polaroid shot of the two of us, in one of Seungkwan’s birthday parties, me with my arms around Jihoon and Jihoon pulling a face, as though the last thing he wanted to do was take a picture with me, “we look so cute.”

“You and your ideas about cuteness.” Jihoon scoffs, throwing a pile of clothes onto the bed, “get changed. Or don’t, I’m going to be washing these sheets anyway.”

“You didn’t tell me which one’s your favourite,” I say, taking off my shirt and putting on Jihoon’s, “where do you even buy these shirts from? They’re so comfortable.”

“What do you mean?” Jihoon, who had been walking out of the door into the living room, walks back, “What the fuck! Don’t change your clothes anywhere, you idiot?”

I frown, “I’m changing in front of you because I trust you enough to not take advantage of me, is that not obvious? And besides, don’t act as though we haven’t changed in front of each other before.”

“There were circumstances, not you stripping in the middle of the bedroom like this.”

“Excuses,” I say, slipping on a pair of his shorts. They’re at least two sizes too big for me, “you still didn’t tell me which picture is your favourite.”

“You’re going to get killed one day, mark my words,” Jihoon mutters, pointing to a picture on the corkboard, “there, that’s my favourite picture of us. Happy?”

I lean forward, observing the picture. It’s a printout of a picture taken on the Jihoon went to the military, his head hidden under a flat cap that I had gifted after watching Peaky Blinders, and although Jihoon had hated it, he wore it all the same. It’s a simple picture, him with a bored expression on his face, and me, beside him, putting on a smile for the world to see.

“This was on the day of your entrance ceremony, right?”

“Hmm. You were the first to come. The others almost couldn’t make it.”

I look at Jihoon out of the corner of my eye. He has a strange, wistful expression on his face. I’ve never seen this expression on his face. Jihoon seems smaller than he is, vulnerable. The military wasn’t a great experience for him, I know that, but perhaps talking about it is too much.

“Hey, do you have any other pictures from university around?” I ask, looking at the corkboard, “or have you put up some of our new pictures?”

“I was happy in there, you know.”

I look at him. Jihoon’s serious, “I mean, it was difficult, but I got through it. I had my friends, and I had you.”

“Pfft. I wasn’t even in the military.”

“You used to come visit me every month or something.”

“And I remember you used to get annoyed by me.”

“I lied.”

“What?” now its my turn to be surprised, because all I remember is Jihoon getting angry with me over jajangmyeon, “You used to get pissed off all the time!”

“I lied,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, “truth be told, those visits were one of the bright sports in my military service. You and I, fighting over food, like we were back in university again. It made me feel, ah, I can tolerate this. I can get over this.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Is this what they say ‘lost for words?’ Jihoon shakes his head, “hey, go to bed. Its late enough that you’ll need to take a leave of absence tomorrow. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Hey, Jihoon?” I call behind him.

“What now?”

Maybe it’s the alcohol. I’m not as drunk as I was before, but I’m still drunk, right? Or maybe it’s the way Jihoon looks from behind, sad and lonely, someone struggling to hold onto his sanity, in a world that continually squeezes every last drop of humanity from us. Or maybe its both.

“Do you want to sleep here with me?”

Jihoon stares at me for a moment. “You’re still drunk.”

“I’m not! The couch is very uncomfortable, and I’d hate for you to sleep badly because of me.”

“Dude, I’m used to this.”

“Is it because ‘you’re a guy’? Jihoon, you have thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets. You’re clearly going to be more uncomfortable.”

Jihoon sighs, then climbs into the bed, “don’t try anything funny.”

I laugh, “shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

“I don’t trust you.”

I laugh, before climbing into bed beside Jihoon. Its awkward, but that’s simply because we haven’t done this in so long. Jihoon is warm beside me, his body heat permeating the thin fabric of the bedsheets. This is why I should not make decisions when blind drunk.

“Don’t think too much about it.”

“Hm?” I turn my head to see Jihoon, his eyes closed, “you’re thinking about it too hard. Don’t think so much. This is fine. We’re friends. Friends can do this once in a while.”

I nod my head. We’re friends, right. Friends do these kind of things, friends come over to each other’s homes, friends comfort each other when drunk. Its what friends do.

“Hey, have I told you something?”

“I’m trying to sleep here,” Jihoon groans, “go on.”

“Have I ever told you that my dream was to be a writer?”

“Not really. It was?”

“Yes. When I was a child, I’d write stories all the time, and I’d read them out to my parents. They were really encouraging when I was younger, but as I grew older, I had other things to think about, and I suppose I lost that dream somewhere along the way.”

Jihoon says nothing, so I continue, “it makes me jealous sometimes, when I see people following their dreams. I keep thinking to myself, ah, if only I had more courage, if only I could stick to my dreams, I would have been able to fulfil them; and then I look at my parents, the people who have stuck beside me and supported me, and I think to myself, would I have been able to support them as well as I do now, if I had followed my dreams?”

“Even me?”

I pause, “Especially you.”

Jihoon sighs, and for five minutes, all I can hear is his breathing, steady and slow. Did he fall asleep? I want to ask him what he thinks, but before I can open my mouth, he begins, “You still have that dream, you know.”

I look at him. Jihoon’s eyes are closed, but he’s speaking, softly, as though he’s scared that if he raises his voice, all this would disappear, “you can take a break. Its okay to take a break. But your dream is your own. It’ll always be there for you.”

“And what if I decide to give up?”

“Then that’s okay too. Just because you gave up on it doesn’t mean it didn’t give you happiness for a time.”

I fall silent, because really, what else is there for me to say after this? In the dark room, the moonlight filters in through the curtains, and Jihoon is there, beside me, his presence solid as a rock. In between us, my dreams lie, scattered and broken, a space that neither of us can cross. We’d always be on opposite sides of the river, me and Jihoon, despite how close we are. I’ll always resent him for being brave enough to follow his dreams, and he’ll always fail to understand who I am. Its better this way. Better to be far apart and resentful than be close and drift apart anyway. I’ll take this emotional distance over a physical one.

—

I wake up in the morning to find Jihoon gone, and a cooked breakfast waiting for me on the table with an attached note: don’t think too much about it.

“He’s the one who needs to think less,” I mutter, settling down to finish the omurice he’s made, (the onions were raw and the egg was rubbery) but it has been a long time since I’ve had anyone make me a meal, and I finish the entire dish, washing up in return. It’s fine if he doesn’t want to see me, its fine if he doesn’t even want to talk to me after I said that I was jealous of him; its common nature to avoid the other person if they are jealous of you, or if they are envious of you. “Still, he could have said good morning.” I murmur, putting on my shoes.

 For all Jihoon’s posturing about how much he loves his private space and how much he hates the chaos the rest of the boys bring, he still lives in the same building as Mingyu, whose door I tiptoe past on the way to the elevator. Wait, why am I ashamed? I’ve spent a lot of time in Jihoon’s apartment, and he’s spent an equal amount of time in mine. Then why am I treating this as a walk of shame?

I press the button to the elevator, and Mingyu’s door opens. Oh shit, now he’s going to see me—wait, I thought we were going to be normal about this? Before I can hide in the stairs, Mingyu’s walking over to the elevator, dressed for the day, his face lighting up when he sees me, “hi, noona. Crashed at Jihoon-hyung’s house?”

“Ah. Ah, yes, yes, I did. I simply slept over. Nothing else.” I manage to say, stumbling through my words. Great, now he’s going to think Jihoon and I had sex.

Fortunately for me, Mingyu doesn’t seem like the sort of person to take things to heart. “I didn’t imply anything else,” he says equally brightly, showing no signs of being awkward, “Seungkwan told me you all got wasted on a Monday night. Do you want me to give you a lift?”

“Yeah, that would be really nice, thank you. Also, blame our editor and assistant editor,” I reply, “they seem to have no sense of how to host company dinners. At least this time I didn’t have to pay out of my own pocket.”

“You had to pay out of your own pocket?” Mingyu looks aghast, as though my loss of funds is a personal slight, “that would never fly in my company.”

“Yeah, that tracks. Minghao always hated large get-togethers.”

“No, he didn’t.”

I roll my eyes, “he didn’t hate them when it was you guys. He absolutely hated them when he was forced together with a group of people he didn’t like.”

“Oh, you’re talking about that. He’s much better now, I can assure you.” Mingyu says, as the elevator dings to a stop, “noona, did you get the new clothes from the autumn collection? I sent you the women’s collection. I didn’t know what size you were, so I asked Jihoon-hyung for help. Did they fit well?”

“Kim Mingyu, if you give me new clothes from every collection, then how the hell are you going to  make any profit?” I ask, and he just laughs, “you’ve been sending me all these clothes when I don’t even post on Instagram! Minghao would have your head if he knew about this.”

“That’s his idea,” Mingyu replies, walking ahead of me to the parking lot, “you spent so much on us during university, then when M.M launched, you wrote a good review of us too.”

“I’m going to be accused of biased reporting, you jerk, I only said the truth. And besides, I left the job at the fashion magazine.”

“Still, you helped us a lot. And besides,” he opens the door to his car for me, “step in.”

“And besides?” I ask, putting on the seatbelt.

“Besides,” Mingyu gets into the car, “I like you a lot, noona.”

I smack him on the back of his head.

—

The office is empty when I walk in, which means I get to have five minutes of peace before the Editor walks in and demands all the articles of the week laid out in front of him, because of course, who else would take on all the jobs of the culture desk if its not for me, the Associate editor, the one who’s supposed to be happy to be included? Every week, the culture desk does a special feature, and usually, the assistant editor is in charge of it, unless, they decided to tack it onto my ever-growing list of things that need to be done.

“Sunbae,” I swivel around my chair to find a haggard-looking Seungkwan, “you’re here already?”

“Yes, I am, Seungkwan,” I tease, “are you feeling better?”

“Ugh, my brain feels as though it’s about to leak out of my ears.” Seungkwan mutters, sliding into his desk, “and we have the weekly meeting too, unless the editor isn’t feeling well enough to come in.”

“He’s got an iron stomach,” I wave, “he once came in after being blackout drunk, this isn’t even a big deal.”

Seungkwan groans, then opens his mouth to say something, stopping abruptly at the sight of my clothes. “Sunbae,” he says, “did you borrow those clothes from Jihoon-hyung?”

“What? I’m wearing my own clothes—” I look down at my shirt. Sure enough, its Jihoon’s shirt, the one he made to give as presents to give out to famous people who visited his studio. I can’t even lie and say that it’s from a former boyfriend. Fuck. “Yes, I crashed at Jihoon’s place last night. Was too drunk to take a cab, and he let me stay over at his place.”

“That makes a lot of sense.”

“Yes, yes it does. wait, why am I even explaining it to you? You were the one who ditched me to go for a second round at the karaoke bar.”

At the mention of the karaoke bar, Seungkwan presses two fingers to his temple, “don’t even start me on that. The people here drink so much, its sickening.”

“Who drinks a lot?” it’s the editor, with a pained smile on his face, “remind me never to host company dinners on Monday evenings.”

“I could have told you this before, sir, except you didn’t really listen to me.”

He shakes a finger, “then remind me to listen to you on matters of company dinners. God, my head hurts so much.”

Soon enough, people start filtering into the office; Haewon comes in with dark circles underneath her eyes that are barely hidden by makeup, the assistant editor walks in soon after that, nursing a bottle of hangover cure. The seven of us pile into the meeting room, where the editor looks as though he wants to be anywhere but here.

“The bosses have asked me to start a new column,” he says, after the larger part of the meeting is over, “just a general column, but new ideas will be appreciated.”

“A column on new books?” Haneul asks, “we could have a dedicated column on books.”

“We review every new book when it comes out, there’s no need to have a dedicated column for book releases.”

“Relationship advice?” Changmin raises his hand, “we could have readers send in their concerns, and one of us could write about them.”

“This isn’t Sex and The City, Changmin,” Haewon says, “stop trying to be Carrie Bradshaw.”

Changmin deflates, looking exactly like the stock photo of a blobfish, and Seungkwan decides to step in, “what if we did a comparative study of cultures across Korea? We could talk about provinces that aren’t really explored in media.”

An excellent idea, I think to myself, but too research-heavy for Seungkwan to do it himself. And sure enough, the editor shoots it down, saying, “we can’t spare two people going around Korea to find out about traditional villages. We don’t have the money, nor the manpower for it.”

Everyone sighs, and the editor looks at me, “any ideas?”

[Here we take a small break from our regular programming to tell readers that the following stunts were performed by a professional, under medical supervision, and must not be replicated in real-life situations.]

“What about—dreams?” I say, scrunching up my face and hoping the editor doesn’t notice my lack of preparation for this meeting, “what if, we had a weekly column where we talked about our dreams. Whether we have managed to achieve them, or whether we have only gone further away from it; like a confessional. One of us could write it, or we could have readers send in their entries. Like Hong Seung-Hee’s Suicide Diaries.”

The editor ponders over it for a minute, then looks to the assistant editor, who nods appreciatively. Great, I think, I’ve managed to save my ass. If there was anyone being reprimanded at this meeting it would not be me.

“You do it.” the editor says.

“Huh?”

“The column on dreams, you do it, since its your idea.” The assistant editor smiles encouragingly at me, “I think it’ll be something really good.”

“No, but,” I sputter, even as the rest of them shuffle out of the meeting room, “Editor! Why can’t you just take credit for my work like the rest of bosses?”

The editor looks at me, “why would you want me to do that?”

“I don’t know, it’s what others do!”

“Look,” the editor says, voice gentle, as though he’s speaking to a fragile toddler, which I can’t even blame him for, “if the workload is getting too much, you can always offload some of it onto us.”

“No, I can do it.”

Back at my desk, I groan, before almost smacking my head open on it. Seungkwan offers me a smile, before setting down a coffee. Bless that boy. I knew pulling something out of my ass would get me into trouble. If I hadn’t spoken up, they would still be considering Seungkwan’s idea of going around the countryside. At least that would mean a vacation on office time and office money, this just means I have to work twice as hard.

And why the fuck did I talk about dreams? I could have talked about esoteric theatrical performances, or trends in trot music, or even the different kinds of marinated crabs they sell around the company building (there are seven different restaurants that offer it), why, why, did I have to go and open my mouth to talk about dreams? Out of all the people here, I’m perhaps the least qualified to talk about my dreams, given how spectacularly I’ve managed to fail at following them, and the deadline is in three days.

“What are you thinking about, sunbae?” Haewon asks, depositing another can of coffee on my desk around lunchtime, “you’ve been working like a maniac all morning, aren’t you going to take lunch?”

“Can’t, Haewon, still have to put finishing edits on the three articles that are supposed to release this afternoon. Then I have to start working on the column, because I know its going to take me a long time to finish it.”

“Wow, you sure work hard,” Haewon grimaces, “well, if you need me to pick up something for you at the convenience store, make sure to text me.”

“Hey, Haewon,” I call after her retreating back, “where’s the article on the new movie?”

“Its in your inbox, I just sent it to you,” she calls out, “should I get you a lunch set?”

“Thanks!”

My eyes are itching. Perhaps from having stared at the computer screen for too long, but I take out my contacts in the washroom, instead of putting in lubricating drops. While on the toilet seat, I make a mental note of all the things I’m supposed to do, just in this week. Edit articles as they come by. Write a review of the play I went to. Write a new column, get it approved by the editor. Make amends with Jihoon. Look for a new apartment that doesn’t bleed me dry.

I moan as I press my hands to my temples, “there’s no way I can get this done in a week.”

My phone pings, and it is embarrassing how quickly I reach for it, hoping it to be a text from Jihoon. Its not. Instead, its Mingyu, texting me about my health.

Gyu: noona, you didn’t seem well in the morning. Should I get some medicine for your hangover?

I crack a smile. Having Kim Mingyu show up on the doorstep of my company would imply him being accosted by thirty people at least, and have his photo taken without his consent. It’s bad enough I took his car to come to the office this morning.

big dick (canon): no, Mingyu, please don’t put yourself in harm’s way by bringing me medicine.

Gyu: Minghao can do it too

Gyu: he hasn’t seen you in a while so he said he was missing you

Gyu: should I send him?

big dick (canon): no, I’m fine, Seungkwan brought me a hangover drink from the convenience store.

This is a lie, but I figure Seungkwan doesn’t really have anything to lose by featuring as the Good Samaritan in my story.

Gyu: tell me if there’s something I can do for you

Gyu: you know that we’re all there for you, right?

Ah, this cursed statement, ‘being there for you’. In my experience, people who say this, are rarely there for others. Everyone says it with such sincerity, but when it comes to the actual thing, they are rarely anywhere to be found.

big dick (canon): thanks for the offer, but I’m fine. Just a bit frazzled from all the apartment-hunting I’ve been doing over the weekends.

Gyu: no luck yet? I heard from Joshua-hyung that your lease was up

big dick (canon): he’s told all of you?

Gyu: no, just the guys

big dick (canon): so, everyone.

Gyu: well, unfortunately,  everyone’s aware. Sorry, noona.

big dick (canon): well, what else can I do about it.

Gyu: I can ask the other guys to not ask you about it

big dick (canon): no, no, if they can help, I’m going to be grateful

gyu: so, do you want me to help?

big dick (canon): yeah, what the fuck,  it's not as though I'm going to lose something by asking for help. 

Gyu: I'll ask my contacts if they have an affordable apartment around

big dick (canon): While this is a blow to my pride, I’d still be grateful if I can manage to get a good place that doesn't cost me an arm and a leg

gyu: on it, noona.

Back at my desk,  I trawl through the columns submitted by the reporters, adding edits to them to be published. One of the few perks of my job is the freedom I get while editing articles, because the editor and the assistant editor are both busy with administrative works to be bothered about the day-to-day works of the desk. To be fair, the new column should have been one of their duties, but now that it's my work,  I need to do my best.  Or at least,  not fuck up in a way that ends up with me being fired. 

Haewon, the absolute angel,  has brought a lunch set for me from the convenience store, with fried chicken and green salad. The chicken is rubbery, and the salad is stale, but to my groaning stomach,  it's all delicious. I pull up the word file sent by Seungkwan, and I'm not even two minutes into editing it,  when my phone pings again. I check it, hoping for a text from Mingyu, but instead, it's a text from Jihoon, who is apparently not ignoring me any longer. 

hoon: are you asking Mingyu of all people for help with your apartment search?

big dick (canon): he offered to help me, and I am not going to turn down help offered by anyone

hoon: you could have just asked me

big dick (canon): you left abruptly this morning,  so I thought you were ignoring me. Hence, I didn't want to bother you

hoon: get this concept clearly,  okay?

big dick (canon): what concept

hoon: you're my friend. Friends are allowed to help each other, even if the other person is a weirdo

hoon: how long do you have on the lease?

big dick (canon): not much,  but I can’t find an apartment that fits my needs. They are either out of the way, or too expensive, or just straight up bad

big dick (canon): I don’t want to spend an hour on my commute that’s going to eat into my free time

big dick (canon): and I don’t want to spend too much on a flat when I’m clearly going to be renting

big dick (canon): you know, usual demands

hoon: the flat next to mine is empty

big dick (canon): doesn’t someone live there?

hoon: you’re in luck, no one does

big dick (canon): keep feeling like there’s a catch that I’m missing

hoon: about that, well

hoon: the reason why its empty and people don’t get it is because an old lady died in there

hoon: so, you might be haunted by ghosts

big dick (canon): that’s an extremely stupid reasoning

big dick (canon): do you know the realtor

hoon: I don’t, since she’s new, but

hoon: I’ll call her and say that you want to see the apartment

big dick (canon): you’d do that omg thank u

hoon: in return

hoon: please cook for me

big dick (canon):KNEW THERE WAS A CATCH

hoon: I’m lazy and I don’t like to cook

hoon: too much prep too much clutter

hoon: I could use that time to make music instead

big dick (canon):ah yes, the great Woozi makes his appearance

big dick (canon): can I see the apartment this week

hoon: yeah, I’m done with this song, so I have a bit of free time before preparation for Soonyoung’s new album begins

big dick (canon): Hoshi is coming out with an album omg this is INSIDER SCOOP

hoon: are you for real? The company announced it in the beginning of the financial year

big dick (canon): right, I keep forgetting

big dick (canon): I totally remembered btw

hoon: I’ll pick you up at 5 if that’s okay

big dick (canon): yeah, that works

—

The realtor is a fifty-year old woman with an extravagant puff on her head, who glosses over the supposed ghosts living in the apartment and goes entirely too hard on trying to sell me the apartment. And she didn’t even need to, because I would have taken it anyway.  It’s less of an apartment meant for a singular person and more for newlyweds, with two rooms, a large enough living room, and on top of it all, a kitchen with plenty enough light for me to grow my own plants. The bedroom faces south, and there’s enough space in the living room for me to host my friends (two of them) when they come over. I can just tell Mr Kim I’m leaving the apartment tomorrow. He’s probably been itching to find another naïve university student to fleece.

“This is great,” I say, after the tour is over, “I’ll take it.”

“Great! This will be just perfect for the two of you.” The old woman titters, “I love selling newlywed houses!”

What?

I look at Jihoon, who seems just as surprised as I am, “uh, ma’am, we aren’t married.”

Now its her turn to look surprised, “what do you mean you’re not married? You guys look exactly like a married couple!”

“No, ma’am,” Jihoon says, “she’s my best friend. I’m only helping her get an apartment at a good price.”

“Ah yes, friends, is it?” there’s a twinkle in the old woman’s eye that I can’t quite place, “we’ll see about that, eh?”

“Uh, no, no one is seeing anything about it, because we aren’t dating, nor are we married.”

—

“There is only one perk to living in a hovel like a broke university student for six years after university, and that is the amount of money one saves in their bank account.” I say, taking a sip out of the shared kimchi jjigae pot, “I don’t even have to get a big loan out of the bank to pay for the deposit.”

“Are you that happy?” Jihoon asks, “you’ve been smiling non-stop since signing the agreement. You know, you could have seen more apartments, right?”

“No, this one is the best,” I say, “the kitchen has space for plants, there’s a veranda, the bedrooms are big, but not too big, you know? Just the perfect size.”

“The perfect size?”

“Yes, you know, the perfect size, not too small that it feels suffocating, not too big that it feels depressing. Just the right amount of cozy.”

“You’re crazy.” Jihoon says, “that’s some crazy-person logic right there.”

“I’m not!” I protest, but there’s no real spite in Jihoon’s words, and its almost as though he’s bickering with me to continue to keep things normal, or at least, as normal as they come.

“About the other night,” he begins, “you don’t have to feel envious of me that way.”

“I’m sorry about the other night. Admittedly, I was drunk.”

Jihoon stares at me. “Really? Are you going to pull the ‘I was so drunk I forgot’ trick? On me?”

“Uh, obviously, no.”

“So, you were.”

I grimace, and Jihoon sighs, “look, if you want to forget about this, you can, and I’ll pretend as though nothing happened that night, and you said nothing, we’ll move past it as we always do. but envy, jealousy, these are all important emotions, and I think you should at least try to talk to someone about it.”

“I’m talking to you.”

“Not me, I mean an impartial party.”

“Like a therapist?” I narrow my eyes, “Are you calling me insane?”

“What? No! I’m not saying that you’re crazy, I’m just saying that you might need to talk to someone outside of me and Joshua once in a while.”

“I talk to Eunseo. And Seungkwan. And the people at the newsdesk.”

“None of these people are impartial listeners, and besides, you don’t even go out much!”

“I’m out with you right now!”

Jihoon sighs, “yeah, I get it, going to therapy sounds difficult. But I really think you need to—”

“And since when are you the arbiter of my needs and wants?” my voice comes out sharper than I intended, and Jihoon just stares at me with a mix of shock and awe and something I can’t quite explain, “you can come and sit here and tell me that you think I should go to therapy, but have you ever paused to take a moment to understand what I need? I don’t need someone to tell me what I need to do, I already know that! I just need someone to be there for me, even when I sound stupid and petty and foolish.”

“Do you always need to take things this far?”

“This far? Why is it always me taking things ‘this far’ with you, Jihoon? Why can’t you stop for a moment, and try to look at things from my perspective for once?” I pause for a moment, chest heaving, “this won’t do, I can’t bear to sit down and eat a meal with you right now.”

With this, I storm out of the restaurant, Jihoon running behind me, “hey, look, we can just talk it—”

“I don’t want to talk things out with you!” there are people staring at me, but I just cannot bring myself to care right now, “you’ve kept pushing the idea of me sleeping with people ever since you found out about my feelings. Have you ever stopped to ask if that’s something I really want?”

“Then tell me!” Jihoon’s yelling too, the two of us on a busy street in a late autumn evening, screaming at each other, “you never tell anyone anything! I’ve been friends with you for six years, and I still don’t know anything about you! What is it that you actually want? Why won’t you let me help you?”

“Because I’m scared!”

Jihoon stops, stunned. Terrified. There’s no other way to explain the expression on his face. I continue, “because I’m terrified that I’ll do something wrong. All my life, I’ve lived in the fear of doing something wrong, of letting people down. What happens when I take a step forward? Will it be the right decision? Will I do something wrong again? I’ve always thought that, and now, when you keep telling me to take a step, I’m terrified, Jihoon. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

There. Now I’ve said it. “I think we should stop talking to each other for a while, Jihoon,” I say, walking away from him, “with you, I’ll always think of the ‘what if’s’ and I’ll be stuck anyway, but this time, I’ll be terrified, and I’ll fail. I don’t want that for myself, and you deserve better than a friend who’s like me.”

—

What are dreams? Are they something that your inner child holds on to, in the hopes of a better future, or are they something that the adult of now, works toward? I’ve always thought about what dreams meant to me, and I’ve always come up short.

The psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud interpreted dreams as the manifestation of our subconscious mind, a look into our unfulfilled wishes. But this is the scientific interpretation. what does it actually mean, to be able to dream?

When I was younger, I dreamt of a happier existence. An existence where I was fulfilled, or better yet, my desires were fulfilled. I kept dreaming, and dreaming, and dreaming, until one day I woke up and felt myself in a foreign land where dreams held little meaning.

In truth, that is our reality. A foreign land where we are forced to give up on our childhood dreams, and become grown-up adults. The definition of a dream changes too, from the manifestation of our inner desires, to mere scientific fact, neurological phenomenon whereby we can ascertain the quality of our sleep. Is this what we are doomed to become? To go on with our lives from day to day, doomed to repeat the cycle until we die one day?

When I was young, I dreamt of being a writer. I wanted to weave worlds with my words, perfect the craft of storytelling until my words brought comfort to people. I wanted to be someone whose words could be someone’s comfort, someone’s pillar to lean on when distressed. But that was when I was a child. As I grew up, I realised, ah, this is the real world, a place where my words of comfort held no meaning for anyone. I struggled against it, because I could not accept my reality. I failed. The world was too big, too cruel for me to hold on to the foolish dreams of a five-year old, and I woke up to my reality. Now, my words bring no comfort to anyone, because they are no longer my own. My words don’t belong to me, and neither does my dream. It is something I’ve kept locked in a box, hidden amidst my childhood belongings.

I am an adult. I envy people, I get jealous of people, I hold petty grudges. It’s who I am. I envy people who have achieved their dream, I envy people who are working towards their dream, because it reminds me of a five-year old child, whose dreams I allowed the world to crush. And they didn’t deserve that. None of us do.

So, for all of you who are working towards your dreams, may they be fulfilled someday. And for those who have given up on our dreams. It will be okay. Even if we gave up on it, even if it is distant from us now, it doesn’t mean we weren’t happy once.

—

“That’s the last of it,” Joshua pants as he hauls up a flowerpot into my kitchen, “why do you have so many plants?”

“So that I can save on groceries.”

“Wow, noona, you’re really sensible,” Mingyu says, “should I keep a plant in my home as well?”

“You can barely keep a rock alive, Mingyu, and that’s me being nice.” Joshua mutters, laid out on the sofa, “this is not how I imagined my day off to be going.”

“I enjoyed today,” Mingyu jumps up form his seat on the floor, “do you want jajangmyeon?”

“I just ordered it,” I say, settling down in a chair, “wow, this is nice.”

The flat is piled high with furniture, but the majority of it had been done by movers the previous day. My landlord, who hated the sight of me, even patted me on the back and said he was sorry to see me go. Weird. But, now that I’m in my own room, with enough sunlight and air and a new place to start over again, I can feel myself growing happier. Is it something related to places? Can they really affect mental statuses? “I should host a housewarming party later on, when I’m all settled in?”

“Really?” Mingyu perks up at the idea of a party, “you’ll invite all the others too?”

“Yes, I’ll invite everyone.”

“Great!” he’s already on his phone, “Jeonghan-hyung will be so happy to see you again.”

“I haven’t seen him in months,” I muse, “god, I don’t think I’ve seen all thirteen of you together in months, now. Or has it been a year?”

“Probably a year,” Joshua groans, “the last time we met up was at Chan’s welcome back party. Ugh, my back is killing me.”

“Old man,” Mingyu laughs, “shouldn’t you be at home with your fiancée?”

“Eunseo asked me to help out since she couldn’t come.” Joshua clarifies, “she was the one who was asked initially.”

“Makes sense.” Mingyu nods sagely, then jumps up at the sound of the doorbell, “food’s here!”

This is how it should be. Life. Surrounded by friends, surrounded by people who make you laugh. If this is how I can live here, then I’ll be happy, I think. But happiness is a difficult construct, and an ephemeral state of being for me, always slipping out of my grasp.

“Noona, where is Jihoon—” Mingyu gets a swift kick to the ass for that sentence from Joshua, and my smile dies away on my face.

True, no one has commented on it, not at the office, nor between friends, but I can practically feel Seungkwan’s curiosity burning every time I take lunch by myself, or I go out to meet people out of office, and come back alone. I haven’t been attending Sunday morning brunch with Joshua and Jihoon either, and both Joshua and Eunseo have kept quiet about it, but sooner or later, someone would have to speak up. Its unusual, having Jihoon away from me, without his voice being a constant presence in my life. Now, even with him living next door to me, I can’t reach out. The metaphorical rift has now become real.

“He’s busy,” I say, trying to change the subject, “I think he’s busy with Hoshi’s new project.”

That gets Mingyu’s attention, and he starts talking about how his and Minghao’s company is the one who’s dressing Soonyoung for his comeback, and how Soonyoung keeps wanting custom tiger-print stuff, until I can comfortably lean back and just laugh along at his words, trying not to think too much about Jihoon.

Later that night, as I’m climbing into bed, exhausted, the doorbell rings again. I’m dressed in pyjamas, with a pair of fluffy slippers on my feet, and the sound of the bell makes me wary. Who could it be, at—eleven at night? All of a sudden, I’m gripped with all the things I’ve heard on true crime podcasts, about the perils of single women living alone.

Wait, you’re thinking too much. It’s probably Mingyu, dropping something off. Right, that’s it. it could be Mingyu.

I open the door a little, “Mingyu, could you come back in the morning? I’m tired—”

“Do I look like Mingyu to you?”

In my shock, the door swings wide open. Its Jihoon, dressed like he’s come home running from work, the tip of his nose pink. He’s dressed casually again, in a white jacket over a black t-shirt. In comparison, I look and feel horribly underdressed.

“Look,” Jihoon begins, “am I too late?”

“For?”

“Is there nothing I can do to repair this friendship? Am I too late?” he grabs my hands, “I’m sorry, I’ll apologise a thousand times if you want. I stayed away from you because you wanted me to, but I can’t. I can’t give you up as a friend. I need you in my life.”

“Jihoon,” I open my mouth to say something, but my heart starts beating erratically. Is this normal? I look at Jihoon again, wide-eyed, evidence of tears on his cheeks, and I can’t do anything but nod my head.

Fuck. I’m screwed.

[charliemwrites]

Making this a separate post because the idea has evolved a bit:

(Was talking about this in the discord if it looks familiar)

I’m thinking less of a 1 to 1 Greek god au. I’m thinking it’s more of a theme to their dynamic and in parts of their story.

Johnny is a reincarnation of some ancient, nameless (or many-named) god, associated with dark forces. He’s not evil incarnate. But he is something of a representation of “darker” human nature. Anger, bloodlust, impatience, selfishness.

Persephone!reader, by comparison, is sort of a personification of gentler human nature. Patience, mercy, altruism, gentleness. She is less “awakened” so to speak because her mother has been a major limiting factor in her life. Like, helicopter parent to the extreme.

Persephone!reader goes to her aunt Laswell as a sort of compromise. See the world, the real world, in a controlled sort of way with her aunt watching carefully over her shoulder.

Problem is, no one is expecting the dreams to start as soon as she gets to base. Dreams of a man that scares her as much as tempts her, and encouraging the worst and most selfish of her impulses. She doesn’t tell anyone - why would she? They’re just dreams.

Captain MacTavish scares intimidates her, even though she insists that he doesn’t, looking him in the eye with her chin tilted up defiantly. When he’s on base he finds all sorts of ways to cross her path, sometimes teasing her into an indignant fluster, other times telling her off for “distracting recruits”. Always, always has an eye on her, even if it’s not his own.

Once things come to a head (I haven’t figured out how yet) Persephone!reader insists it isn’t fair. And just because they’ve been something in the past doesn’t mean they have to now.

Johnny, of course, is utterly amused. She’s barely got any idea what’s going on, but sure, she’s going to deny forces beyond life and death.

They strike a deal. When he’s away (for months at a time… a season’s length, even) she can run and hide and do whatever she wants to “escape” him. If he cant find her within a week of coming back, then he’ll leave her be and she’s “free”.

(She scoffs that he’s going to cheat, using her aunt and all of her connections but he just scoffs. As if Laswell would help him over her own niece. And as if he needs the help.)

He always finds her within a day of coming back from a mission. No matter where she is or what her name is. No matter how well she covers her tracks (even with Laswell’s help). He comes to her with gifts.

At first it would be sweet if not for the smirk on his face and the realization that she’s “lost” again. He brings flowers of all kinds, and green plants in little pots. Then it’s a new sweater, a nice coat, a piece of jewelry.

And then… and then they get worse. A bullet is the first sign. It’s just a whole bullet, her name engraved in its side. Then it’s a casing, the bullet clearly having been shot. He tells her it went right between someone’s eyes. The “gifts” become patches from enemy jackets, pretty stones splattered with dried blood, a human tooth.

It’s awful. She hates it. She can’t ever make herself say it (or believe it). And when he’s gone, she physically can’t make herself throw them away. Shes tried and tried, and the last time she put a real effort into it, she ended up on the floor having a panic attack, sobbing and calling Johnny.

(He purrs at her through the phone, gunfire background noise while he soothes her back inside. His voice keeps her company while she makes a tea, readies a bath. Tuts at her to call him again when she’s tucking into bed. She refuses to acknowledge that she does.)

Similarly, she finds herself getting or making things for him. For his inevitable return. Cigars and his favorite whiskey. Making patches for his uniform. A leather bracelet with her initials on a silver charm. A ring with an inlay the color of her eyes. Doesn’t even realize what she’s doing until she’s home or the thing is done. She’ll hide them away for months with no plans of giving them to Johnny. He inevitable finds them within his first week home anyway.

(There’s the one time she bakes for him, humming as she measures and mixes ingredients. Lets him steal tastes from the bowl and lick flour off her cheek. Only realizes what she’s done in a domestic haze when he’s eaten the sweet treat and thanked her for it.)

And when he’s home…

The deal is that when he’s home, he gets to treat her like his. Climbs into her bed, grumbling about pillows being a poor substitute for him. Steps into her shower midway through, ducking his head so she can shampoo and condition his hair with her gentle hands. Dresses her in his clothes, in his dog tags. Always has a hand on her, even in her (their) home.

And he delights in yanking her into his lap - especially in public. When his team comes to visit (and they always do) he lounges with her on his thigh. He’s also kind of a dick. Like he’s courteous to servers (mainly female ones because chances are they won’t flirt with his girl) but pretty much any stranger talking to him or his Persephone is met with smarmy asshole behavior.

It’s to the point that she just fusses at him to let her talk to people. And he’s happy to do so, amused by the way she charms people. He only intervenes when someone is rude or a little too friendly with her. She’s had to break up bar fights before because god knows his men won’t try to stop their captain.

She is literally the only being in all of history that can tell him no and stop and he’ll listen regardless of the situation. She has to actively remind herself that it’s not healthy and she should not be a little flattered about it. And she’s not. (She is.)

[ineffable-suffering]

The Jane Austen Ball and why it was never about Nina and Maggie

Otherwise known as (*takes a deep breath*): A completely inflated close-up look at various dialogues and events of Season 2 that prove that the Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeeper's Association Meeting Cotillion Ball was supposed to be Aziraphale's confession to Crowley

Look, the point's been made before but that's never kept me from making it myself again, still. In fact, even I made it before, at the end of one of my other metas. But I feel like it's absolutely worthy enough to get its own soppy, way-too-long post. And I do love it so very much to write ridiculously long essays on something that could easily be condensed into a short paragraph.

So, here we go! Snuggle up, get cozy, settle in and, most importantly:

(Word count: 3.177 | Reading time: ~13 minutes)

As I already said above, I laid out a similar case in my meta about why Aziraphale is somewhat of an unreliable narrator. I'll try and recycle it here briefly, so I can further make my point.

When Aziraphale arrives back in London from his Edinburgh journey, he seems oddly happy and giddy for the fact that he just had a rather odd and threatening encounter with Shax. I explain in my other meta that this is because he just spent the last hours of his drive reminiscing on the thrilling and romantic magic show adventure of 1941 and also the fact that he just found out that Crowley has been replaced by Shax and no longer works for Hell.

Ergo: We have a hopelessly lovesick Principality at our hands, who's practically swooning over his serpent who saved him, his books and his magic show all those years ago.

Ergo:

✨This✨

Realistically, Aziraphale should probably be a tad worried about the eery encounter with Shax, in which she definitely had the upper hand on him. But well, if you spend many-a hours driving across the serene countryside (Edinburgh is about an 8-hour drive from London), pondering on one of the craziest, sticky-sweet romantic adventures of your not-life life, well ... things tend to turn a little rosy around the edges. Head in the clouds and all that. Light shades of grey!

Alright, onwards: Once the angel, filled to the very brim with fond memories and butterflies, gets out of the Bentley, he's kindly met with a face full of verdant plants and a very in-character-grumpy Crowley.

Fhwack! Way to burst the rosy bubble.

Seriously, the absolute lightning speed with which Crowley storms out to vacate the bookshop the very second Aziraphale arrives makes me giggle every time.

Let's make a first small (who am I kidding) diversion into analysing the following conversation in unnecessary detail ...

... simply because I enjoy quoting dialogue as an accurate reference in my metas. I'll also highlight certain passages I want to comment on in individual colours so I can back up my thoughts with them below. Alright, their little chinwag goes as follows:

Crowley: "They you are! I was worried something might have happened to you." Aziraphale: "No, nothing happened to me. Very uneventful journey indeed. No strange things at all." Crowley: "Good. That's what we wanna hear." Aziraphale: "Um .. everything okay with- ah.." *nods to the bookshop* Crowley: "Oh, yeah, fine. He's singing to himself. I think he must have been asleep. I heard snoring coming from his bedroom–" Crowley, to the Bentley: "Did you miss me? I bet you did." Aziraphale: "... I'm sure it did." Crowley: "So, any more clues from the mystery of the missing archangel?" Aziraphale: "Not exactly. Or, if there are, I haven't yet cracked the case. But I'm certainly hot on the trail of something." Crowley: "I'm sure you are. Oh, by the way, the whole sudden rain and awning thing was a complete washout." Aziraphale: "Sorry?" Crowley: "You know, project making Nina fall in love with Maggie. I failed, it's your go." Aziraphale: "I see. Well then, Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeeper's Association Monthly Meeting, here we come!" Crowley: "You're really hosting the meeting?" Aziraphale: "Absolutely! And I can guarantee you, it will be a night to remember."

At first glance, this has little to do with the plot of this meta but actually, it folds into my point very nicely! However, it's not time for that yet, so we'll just state the facts as they are for now and then bring them back 'round later when we need them. That being said: For the love of Someone, will these two ever manage to simply tell each other the truth of what happened instead of thinking they can protect each other by lying about it all the time? Hrmpf. As a big fan of open communication myself, I'm close to developing a stomach ulcer with the amount of false truths being spewed here. (Then again – and yes, that is another, way larger meta I'm currently cooking up – it plays so very perfectly into the whole Jane-Austen-Pride-and-Prejudice tragic miscommunication theme that this entire Season has, so I understand the point of it.)

Very uneventful journey indeed, Aziraphale, except for the fact that you were ambushed by a demon who told you she was Crowley's successor, knows about the rumors of the two of you being an item as well as what went down in 1941 (that almost had both of you exposed) and also seems to have figured out where you and your demon boyfriend are hiding Gabriel, all in the span of about a minute. No strange things at all, nooo!

And Crowley's "Oh yeah, fine" is a total lie too. Again, we see him make an absolute run for it before Aziraphale can even enter the bookshop. After all, he just once again witnessed Jim have a Gabriel-flashback, speaking of the Second Coming, while Crowley was alone with him. As fumingly angry he is with the amnesiac archangel – he's also absolutely terrified of what might happen (to him and Aziraphale) should Jim regain his memories. So, no wonder he's quick to vacate the premises after witnessing Jim's rather eery memory flashback (and was, just like Aziraphale, threatened by Shax mere moments later, lol).

But no, nothing out of the ordinary happened to either of them. Tip-top. Absolutely tickety-fucking-boo.

Alright, let's get back on track with the actual topic of this meta. Certainly hot on the trail of something, hm? At first glance, it might seem like Aziraphale is talking about the fact that Gabriel was in company of someone whenever he went to the Resurrectionist Pub. (The clue!) However, I don't actually think he is talking about that. Why? Because, and this slipped my mind too at first, he never actually follows any of this information up, does he? Yes, sure, he went to Edinburgh, found the capital-c Clue and then returned to London. But what does he do with it? Nothing. He doesn't keep investigating this hot trail because that's not the important thing he realized during his journey. No, the more important clue Aziraphale found during his trip, is that Crowley no longer works for Hell and that he is also very much irrevocably in love with him and must confess this at the earliest given chance. (The latter part isn't necessarily a new discovery for Aziraphale, but it surely is fuelled by the fact that he just realized Crowley's out of a Hellish job and simply hasn't told him yet.)

This exchange just the perfect indicator for the fact that Aziraphale, at no point during his drive back, was thinking about the Maggie and Nina mission. He has no idea what Crowley is talking about once he mentions it and seems surprised, even, that he would. Even though they just talked about it on the phone when Aziraphale was still at the graveyard. Which is another important piece of evidence because it means that the last status update Aziraphale got of Mission Lovebirds, was that Crowley had sensed an opportunity to make them fall in love – and had then hung up on him. Why is this important? Because it means that until that very point of their conversation, Aziraphale did not know that Crowley's attempt had failed! There would have been just as much of a chance of Crowley's weather miracle actually working out and Maggie and Nina already having skipped into the sunset happily ever after.

So, riddle me this:

Why would Aziraphale spend the entire ride back from Edinburgh plotting "a night to remember" (because clearly, he already had the entire Ball planned out down to a T in his head since he goes into action right away after arriving) if he didn't even know yet that Crowley's attempt had failed?

To be very clear here: We're not talking about Aziraphale driving on the M1 to London, having a silly little idea for putting on some good music, miracle-ing Nina and Maggie to dance to it and watch them confess their love–

No.

He planned an entire actual Cotillion Ball with very particular location design that involves re-arranging the entire bookshop, specifically designed individual outfits for (almost) every single attendee, topped off with a live band, hors-d'œuvre, drinks and an actual choreographed group dance.

During one car ride.

Where's the party planner Aziraphale AU? I'm waiting!

Now, sure, we know that it's still quite important for Aziraphale to convince Heaven of the faux-reason they gave for their accidental ✨25-Lazarii miracle✨. But if we're all honest, this all seems to be a tad much just to make two random humans fall in love, even for that.

Glittery ball gowns and suits? Red and gold wall curtains? A modified language filter? Bloody vol-au-vents?

Talk about over the top ...

Once we start S2E5, Crowley is still surprised at the mere fact that Aziraphale is actually planning to organize the Monthly Meeting – and he doesn't even know yet that it's gonna be the most extravagant ball-boogaloo that the Whickber Street Community has ever seen! Aziraphale wanting to organize the meeting alone, is enough to render Crowley incredulous, because Aziraphale never mingles with the other shopkeepers. He usually actively avoids them and any sort of social encounters as much as he can because he doesn't care about the bloody Christmas lights, alright?

These things seem mundane and uninteresting to him, obviously, since all he really cares about is hoarding his book collection in peace like the little hedonist he is and drawing as little attention as possible to his none-business business.

Oh, right, speaking of books:

Let's take another unnecessarily detailed look at the whole Whickber Street invitation scene:

Aziraphale realizes very quickly that he's not the only one who's quite unenthusiastic about the blessed Chritsmas lights. And despite his very persuasive methods of temptation ...

... he has to take some more drastic measurements. And those are?

That's right: Giving away his books.

I'll repeat it again, slowly: Aziraphale is willingly (!) giving away or lending his books to pretty much complete strangers to, allegedly, make two other humans strangers fall in love.

Seriously, who is that angel and what has he done with our prim, fussy, hedonistic Aziraphale that protects his books with the vice grip of an eagle carrying his precious prey?

Believe in the importance of Mission Lovebirds as much as you will, but we're talking about Mr. A.Z. Fell here who, over the past millennia, has pretty much spent every day actively working out methods to stop people from purchasing as much as a single paperback from his holy shelves.

And yet: the 1965 September Dr. Who Annual? Given away. The first edition of Expert at the Card Table that was S. W. Erdnase's personal copy? Lent away to grubby human hands to fondle around with.

Let's do another coloured dialogue diversion (don't worry, it's not as extensive as the last one):

Crowley: "You just did what I think you did?" Aziraphale: "I'm not prepared to talk about it." Crowley: "You gave away a book." Aziraphale: "I had to! Maggie and Nina are depending on me. They just don't know it yet."

Crowley backs up my point: This is a huge deal. Aziraphale does not sell his books – let alone give them away for free. We're all shocked! Flabbergasted!

And the explanation Crowley and us get just ... doesn't satisfy. Something and someone sure is depending on this Ball and doesn't know it yet. But it's most definitely not Maggie and Nina, folks.

You know for whom Aziraphale would give away his books in the blink of an eye, though?

Mhm, that's right.

This pretty old serpent.

I want to take a minute to show you the reaction again that Aziraphale has upon entering the very same magic shop him and Crowley went to in 1941 to acquire the Bullet Catch:

You ... you need a minute there, angel? You're sure looking a little ... affected.

And I mean, well, no wonder. He reminisced about that very memory four hours last night. To him, this shop is where the most turbulent, ecstatic, adrenaline-fuelled and romantic night of his life began. And it shows.

I've made my point in my other meta series about how Aziraphale is an incredibly nostalgic character. He romanticizes so many things in his memories – especially the parts that feature Crowley. So, it doesn't surprise me in the slightest that he's once again willing to loosen the tight grip he has on his book collection to get the successor of Will Goldstone's Magic Shop, the shop that started it all for him, to come to his fancy Ball.

As we watch Aziraphale and his little lap dog demon pat around Soho, I'd like to take another second to point out that he goes to seven or more establishments before he even invites Nina.

... and he only does so because she starts talking to them on the street. Almost like he'd forgotten about it. Why not ask her at the very beginning? To establish whether or not he'd have to book-blackmail her too?

"Perfectly ordinary invitation with no hidden agenda of any kind", except that he's using you and Maggie as a pretence to resolve his own clusterfuck of a relationship-miscommunication Jane-Austen-style so that he can then hopefully confess his undying love to his demon not-boyfriend boyfriend.

Marvellous!

You'll forgive me another short diversion but my God, the whole exchange at the Marguerite's restaurant with Crowley literally cat-call-whistling Aziraphale over to him (and Aziraphale checking if he meant someone else first, I–)? I am weak. So, so weak and

However, this is also when we get a snippet of Crowley finally revealing the truth in place of his "Oh, he's fine"-lie earlier and telling Aziraphale that he's actually pretty scared Jim might turn back into Gabriel and smite him altogether. And Aziraphale's response is, in a cosmic sense, (remember the pink paragraph now) so hilarious:

"Have you thought of just talking to him?"

Yeah, have you? Have any of the two of you? Just thought about talking? To each other? About anything?

'pparently not. But hey, it's all good because remember what the ultimate remedy for star-crossed lovers simply misunderstanding each other is?

Bish, bash, bosh, problem solved!

Back at the ballroom bookshop, Aziraphale sends Crowley to invite Maggie in order to, in my opinion, not spoil the Ball-y surprise for him. (Inviting Maggie only now?! Wouldn't she be one of the only two guests who really should attend? Why the short notice? If she's really that important for the Ball you're planning, hm?)

On top of this, we see Nina almost not attending the Ball meeting after her partner broke up with her and Crowley being the one who coincidentally runs into her and ushers her into the bookshop before Shax and her "legion" of demons start creeping up on them. Again, if this hadn't happened by pure coincidence, Nina would have left to go home and this whole Ball would have taken place without her, rendering the apparent sole purpose of making her fall in love with Maggie useless.

Why doesn't Aziraphale care more for both of them to attend and be there? Why is he instead busy fussing over everything looking perfect and wonderful and doesn't even seem to notice that both Nina and Maggie are really late to the meeting?

Well. Well.

The answer's in the title, babes.

Alas, Crowley safely gets Maggie and Nina to join them, Mr. Brown is the only one who doesn't get a miracled outfit (fussy, petty angel, you just don't like him, do you?), Jimbriel stuns with glamour and flirt (and whatever sexually suggestive thing he does with his cheeks) and the Whickber Street Ball is a-go!

Sorry, I just had to chuck this in again because Crowley's face here absolutely kills me every time. He looks so confused, I am hollering.

And the heart eyes Aziraphale is making at Nina and Maggie now that they're actually here?

Oh, bless it, angel.

He's all like "Oh look, it's working! Jane was right! It's all going to be resolved, all the misunderstanding and quarrels! Crowley, where's Crowley–"

Ah yes, there he is.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is an angel who is not listening to a single word being said right now. No, in his head, Aziraphale is already down on one knee, pouring his heart out to Crowley after they just danced the night away.

Oh, yes, right. The dancing.

Parallel much?

But well, as marvellous and beautifully romantic as her stories tend to be, it turns out that Jane Austen isn't always right after all. Because before we know it, the perfect night shatters into many-a tiny pieces (literally).

And once again, fhwack:

... the rosy bubble bursts.

Let's take one more deep breath so I can make my final point:

In S2E2, Aziraphale explains to us very exactly what Jane's Balls (hrhr) used to be about: Solving miscommunication and confessing love to one another.

During his car journey back from Edinburgh, Aziraphale:

doesn't know Crowley's Mission Lovebirds had failed

remembers 1941 and just how badly he's in love with Crowley

and also realizes that they seem to have been wildly miscommunicating for quite some time now. (Crowley didn't even tell him he basically got let go!)

So, what does maddeningly strong love plus a want to resolve all the miscommunication equal? That's right: A night to remember! A Ball to change it all! A dance, a vol-au-vent, a confession. And, ideally, a happy ever after. Because:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man angel in possession of a good fortune Jane Austen collection, must be in want of a wife demon husband.”

The Ball was never for Nina and Maggie. As a byproduct, maybe, yes. But the whole rest of the glimmer and glamour, the careful, romantic planning and set up of it all, the book-bating the other shopkeepers– that was for Crowley and Crowley only.

And oh, if only it were as easy as in the books.

*whispers* I'm sorry, I had to.

***

Your honour, the tinfoil-hat crackpot defence rests. Feel free to share thoughts (and prayers) if you want to!

Au revoir! 💗

[strawberrystepmom]

NSFW - MDNI. cw: dacryphilia. self ship coded. gojo x f!reader. reader is a crier (couldn't be me....*looks away from camera insecurely*) gojo loves a crier he's sadist this isn't a new agenda but im still pushing it... | divider by cafekitsune, wc 1.3k

“And you know what he said to me? ‘You need to try harder.’ He actually told me, to my face, that I need to do more.”

Whatever was discussed today has clearly upset her, Satoru thinks to himself while laying on his back next to you on the floor of your bedroom, his hands folded beneath his head. Any criticism of you is rare and depending on how harsh it is, you react poorly. This is something he has learned many times over, coming to see you more than once to find you pouting about being less than perfection in someone else’s eyes thanks to the high standards you hold yourself to. 

If he’s honest though, his mind is barely focused on the comforting part of his “sometimes boyfriend” duties. He’s more interested in how you look right now, his head turned to see your chest heave with little petulant sobs and your palms pressed against your warm cheeks. The physical manifestations of your frustration look like glitter trailing down your face in the evening light, leaving the tips of your fingers glistening and wet while you wipe them away. Without thinking, he reaches across your body and moves your hands, wiping away what you couldn’t get with his thumb.

“I could trap him in the void if that would make you feel better?”

A giggle followed by another sob bubbles out of you and Gojo feels pinned to the ground, the weight of his own desire for you in this vulnerable state borderline frustrating. Seeing your girlfriend cry and sob and whine should not make you hard yet here he is, tip of his dick begging to press against the seam of his sweatpants. 

“No, it’s okay. I’m just being a baby.”

You are, but you’re his baby and he will not stand for you crying over someone or something else. He’ll just have to give you something to cry about instead, unable to hold back any longer, simmering desire turning into something bubbling over.

“Hey, look at me”

Rolling from his back onto all fours, his knees touch the carpeted floor and his palms are planted on either side of your head, framing your pretty face from his perspective. A shimmering tear trails over your cheek that leaves a wet trail behind it, your skin damp and dewy. The tip of your nose shines, your eyes are red rimmed, but Satoru finds it irresistible and always has. The reasons why aren’t a mystery to him, given how badly he wants you regularly but the blood rushes from his cheeks downward to his cock more quickly than he anticipated when he’s faced with you like this - needy and ripe for his picking. He’s half-hard thanks to nothing but the sight of your teary eyes. What an effect to have on someone who could bring the world to its knees if he were to wake up one morning and choose to do so.

“You look so good like this,” he croons and you squirm beneath him, a poor attempt to free yourself from the weight of his gaze. There’s nowhere for you to run or hide. You can’t play off his desire as a show when it’s just the two of you and he moves his knee to wedge it between your barely parted thighs. 

Your palms press against his chest, legs kicking out pathetically around him. All it takes is a bend of his elbows and your chests are practically pressed together. Is it difficult to breathe because he’s so close or because you want him so badly? The tips of your noses touch and he dips his face, making you pucker in anticipation of his lips coming to claim a kiss from yours. 

“Satoru,” you whine, mouth still half puckered in preparation for a kiss that doesn’t appear to be coming. “What are you doing?”

This draws a laugh from him, his tongue darting out of his mouth to brush against your cheek and the side of your mouth. The tear that left at trail is gone, a salty taste across his tongue, his mind associating that taste with nothing but you. His cock jumps in response.

“It’s always Satoru this, Satoru that, ohhhhh Satoru!” He mocks you lightheartedly, tone jumping into something nasally in his best impression of your higher pitched voice, the one he hears when his fingers are pressing deep inside of you. “Can’t I make you feel better like this too?”

Another tear falls from your eyes, following the same path as the one before it, settling in the cradle of your lips. Gojo leans down and kisses you on the mouth, tongue pressing against the seam of your lips to soak up every bit of the tear that remains. Your saliva mixes with his, your tears, the viscosities mixing into something more erotic than you could have imagined. Thin and sticky, just like the nectar that seeps from your cunt and drenches the cotton gusset of your panties that is wedged between your folds while you kiss him.

“Just let me…” he breathes between your lips, tongue slipping against yours. Even his voice is higher than usual, laced with desire and need you do not understand and are not about to question. “Let me do this.”

You hope he realizes that you aren’t “letting” him do anything, mind spinning in dizzying circles with every tear that runs down your cheek and hits your lips that he’s quick to take for himself. This is just as enjoyable for you as it is for him, one of his hands moving from the side of your head downward to your hip, playing with the waistband of your shorts. Your hips cant upward and he smiles against your mouth, your neediness more obvious than ever while reaching to grasp the back of his neck and hold him against you. He stops you, the palm on your hip pressing your ass back down to the ground. 

“Have any more for me?” Satoru’s chest heaves when he asks, breath leaving him in warm puffs that live and die against your mouth. “You’re so pretty when you cry, baby, can you blame me?”

His tongue darts out again and he licks up anything that may have been neglected in his haste, the muscle running over the seam of your lips and the plushness of both lower and top. A moan, wet and breathy, leaves you and another round of fresh tears follow the path of the others before them. You want to argue with him, well aware of how you look with puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks, but your pussy aches and clit throbs in response to him. The words you want to say wouldn’t make themselves appear even if you tried harder to find them than you are now.

“Come on baby, gimme some more.” His encouragement makes you sniffle and his hand sinks below the waistband of your shorts and panties, fingertips trailing downward until they press against the sticky cleft of your pussy. “Just a little more and then I’ll make it better, okay?”

Nodding, you glance up at him and the shine of unshed tears makes him growl low in his throat. His fingers spread your folds open beneath your clothing and wetness soaks his fingers, tongue searching your face for wetness that can match what he is feeling right now. The mix of tears and saliva and your arousal are too much and he cannot wait any longer, pressing his knee against your clothed mound.

“Don’t stop crying for me,” he begs and you nod again, acquiescing to all of his requests as usual. You grind into the hardness of his knee and he chuckles, glad he followed his instincts to keep you here and like this, the kind of girl who will gladly cry and grind against a thigh if it means she feels better. 

“I’ll make you feel better,” he assures with a chant against your lips, words interrupted with the sounds of how insatiable for one another the two of you are, smacking and sliding and pants and moans. 

As if you don’t already.

[princessoflalaland]

Everybody Knows That I'm a Good Girl

content: slight smut, masturbation, good girl reader x guts

a/n: lana del Rey's 'playing dangerous' was in mind as well as all the inspo provided to me by my girl dv

good girl reader who always turns in her work on time and arrives to work on time. punctuality is her middle name.

good girl reader who does as she told without question. she puts emphasis on being a good girl.

good girl reader who is an overachiever. what—no, who—would she be if everyone around her didn't know how hard she worked?

good girl reader who wouldn't so much as ever look at porn. what does she look like, a pervert?

good girl reader who doesn't and will never associate with the likes of her roommate, Guts. why would she? a ruffian like him that has a reputation with all kinds of women at the university. he'd only serve to tarnish her meticulously built reputation, and she doesn't need that.

good girl reader who would never partake in something so obscene as to bringing someone into the dorms and screwing them next door. Guts does that enough for the both of them. it's not her fault that the walls are thin and she can hear the...mean things he says.

"takin this dick so good, ya fuckin slut. finna nut all in this nasty pussy, mhm, gonna make a mess outta you..."

good girl reader who swears she'd never want someone to talk to her like that. her panties were already that wet to begin with, before she could hear his vulgar vocabulary partnered with those deep, sexy moans...

good girl reader who can't help but notice the scratches those girls leave on his neck and back when she passes him in the dorm halls. what an exaggeration. it, he, can't be that good, right?

good girl reader who finds it hard to think when that damned Guts teases her in front of his friends whenever he can. she'll glare and ignore the second pulse between her legs.

good girl reader who is unfortunate enough to find one of guts shirts in the dorm laundry room. it must've slipped out of basket and never made it to the washer because it still smells like him.

good girl reader who swears its pure curiosity, rationalizing that humans are naturally curious. she only wants to understand what it may have felt like. so she finds herself alone on her bed with her fingers plunged deep in her weeping cunt, eyes closed, and guts shirt on her much smaller frame. with her labored breaths, images of guts flickers across her mind.

good girl reader who muffles her moans by biting down on the collar of the shirt, soaking it with her saliva. she cries his name when her strongest orgasm to date descends upon her.

good girl reader who can't help but smirk knowingly when she overhears guts complaining about his missing shirt.

"it was my favorite damn shirt too. if I find somebody wearin that shit I swear..."

good girl reader who lets, by far, the most devious machination plant itself in her mind.

good girl reader who sneaks into guts dorm when she knows he's out at one of the many block parties happening over the weekend. she's wearing that shirt he misses, sitting on his bed, heart racing and inner thighs warm and wet, as she watches the door knob turn.

good girl reader who may not be as good as everyone thinks.

[microwavesaferat]

Okay, I never post on Tumblr but I just got hit with such a violent hyperfixation that I forcibly had to put into words so, this is long one.

Life Series SMP as the Magnus Archives

So I had an idea for a Life Series AU where all the players are an avatar of one of the fears from tma. Warning that I haven't seen all Cc's povs so I'm mainly going off of vibes and moments I remember. I also tried to have at least 1 member in each fear.

Bdubs - The Dark

This is for obvious reasons with his association with sleeping and clocks. My hc is that, cause he can't sleep the night away, he kind of became an avatar of the dark. I like the idea of him just kind of hiding in shadowy corners, the only way to know he's there is by the sound of the clock letting you know that it's night now and you should not be out at this time.

BigB - The Spiral

This is mainly based on the whole thing with secret life and the weird corridors he had. I like the idea of that every time you look at him, you're not sure what emotion he is feeling. Is he happy? Annoyed? Angry? Who's to say. And where does that corridor lead anyway? Oh, wait, he says there are no corridors, but you just saw one didn't you? Oh, it's gone now, where did it go? Where did it's contents go?

Cleo - The Flesh

This was an obvious one. As much as I think she could also fit into other categories like the desolation, it's too hard to ignore the obvious aesthetical choice of making them a Flesh avatar. I mean, come on. I think as a fully realised avatar, she would have too many limbs. There are at least 7 leg warmers and sweatbands, not all on legs or arms. She had to work hard at jazzercise to get legs like that. And I mean it, the original owner was still using them.

Etho - The Stranger

This was a tough one, but I kind of like where I ended up. In almost every season, he has had more than one alliance, usually a main team and a back up one. Especially in Wild Life, where he was teamed with pretty much everyone. I think he, as a full stranger avatar, is always your friend, but also always your enemy but he's also the enemy of your enemy so he's your friend? At this point you're not sure how loyal he is to you or anyone for that matter. I also think that everyone has seen under the mask, but it's all different things. "I saw Etho's face, he had a huge mustache" "What? No, he doesn't have a mouth" "I saw that he had 2 mouths under there" "I saw every possible outcome of every universe happening simultaneously and in all of them, humanity perishes" "this is why we don't talk to you."

Gem - The Corruption

So this is mainly to do with the whole zombie thing in Secret Life. I was toying with the idea of Bdubs being the Corruption as well due to the Boogieman kills. I'm still not entirely sure of my decision. I want the Corruption ideas to lean into how people draw Gem as some form of woodland creature or druid. I like the idea of the Corruption being like plant life/small bugs. As a full avatar, she would look like how she is commonly drawn, but it's not entirely clear if that's skin, fur or bark. There's bugs in it regardless. Are her eyes glowing? Is it the fireflies around her or is it actually coming from her eyes? I think she'd appear almost like the Creaking, where you turn away and suddenly greenery and bugs start swarming from the ground, consuming you.

Grian - The Eye

I'm really in-between fears for this. As much as the Watcher symbolism works well for the Eye, I wasn't sure if I wanted both him and Martyn to be avatars of the Eye. I eventually decided, given he sets up the games and runs them, Knowing slightly more info than other participants, it does really tend towards the Beholding. I like the idea of an unwilling avatar like Jon is, but his abilities grow more and more over the seasons before it gets to Wild Life where someone is like "I wonder what the wildcard is today" and Grian is just suddenly flashbanged with the image of:

🐌

Impulse - The End

I haven't really watched Impulse POVs so I wasn't really sure what to do. I have a vague memory of him always doing quite well and getting in the last few a lot. I also know that previous teams have banked on Impulse being the member that could actually win. Regardless, he always dies just before he can win. I think he's a new, unwilling avatar, not fully coming to terms with his new identity, he always gets so close, only for death to sweep him away and he is forced to try again. I think that he, as an avatar, would be themed around wasting time, the concept that everything ends in death so the time spent before is pointless and wasted, this especially applies after his death in limited life.

Jimmy - The End

I mean, come on. The Canary Curse? Need I say more? I will add though that I think he's slowly becoming a fully realised avatar, hence why, in recent seasons he's not been out first, able to harness and manipulate his curse. Jimmy's always the first out, so we're all safe until he goes.... Right?

Joel - The Desolation

So this is about the whole "the ship burns, everything burns". I feel like, near the end of every series, he slowly gets more and more angry and violent. He usually starts acting almost desperate, think of his desperation in Last Life with his faulty traps. He is angry, volatile, and will do anything to burn everything you cherish to the ground. If the ship burns, everything burns.

Lizzie - The Buried

I've never really watched Lizzie's POV and I also didn't have anyone for the Buried. I couldn't think of anyone else that would work, so this is based on how, whenever she dies, someone seems to try and sell her bones to Joel. It's a weirdly common thing. I was gonna do the vast cause of her ending in Secret Life, but she did go down, not up, so I prefer the idea that she got stuck underground. It may look like the night sky, but it's the lack of air slowly choking her, unable to claw her way out, suffocating in silence deep under the ground.

Martyn - The Hunt

So I was also gonna put Martyn with the Eye because of the whole Watcher/Listener thing, but I think the Hunt fits better. I like the arc of his transformation over the course of the Life Series. In 3rd Life, he's essentially a soldier for the Red Army. Then, after realising the bloodlust and red haze, he becomes a relatively peaceful Southlander. But eventually, he kills his soulmate, unable to contain the need to kill and hunt. It reaches its peak in limited life where he just snaps, kind of like Daisy at the end of season 4. He then spent Secret Life as a dog before going back to his Red King as his hand in Wild Life. Ren may be an actual dog, but Martyn is his bloodhound.

Mumbo - The Web

Okay, hear me out: Mumbo as a very new avatar of the web who, due to the machinations of mother spider, is not aware of his avatar status, the avatar status of his pears, nor the existence of the fears at all. Think about it, every time Mumbo has gone out of the series, it has been his own fault. He attacks Grian unprepared, completely forgetting the ramifications of his actions. Gets stuck on a fence he placed then killed by a Warden. Gets stuck in his own spider's web of tnt minecart tracks. He also never goes for kills with basic PvP, it's always some elaborate scheme; making end crystals from a ghast farm, making a complex system of tracks for launching tnt, digging out a pit under a base and waiting for sooooooo long for someone to conveniently walk over the hole (also the web fucked that up for him with the fireworks in the background). I also really like the idea of the webs being like lines of redstone. I cannot draw, but can fully imagine the fanart in my head.

Pearl - The Hunt/Lonely

So Pearl is a double avatar. I couldn't decide between them. I hc her as the concept of looking out on the moors to see the silhouette of a lone hunter, on a horse with only the company of her hunting dogs. I think she embodies the solitude and the quiet of hunting by yourself. The only company she has is snarling hunting dogs, there to help stalk and tear at her prey. The only issue is, this hunter isn't looking for game.

Ren - The Slaughter

Ren does also fit with the hunt, but given his whole King persona, he lends more to the idea of a war waged by leaders in distant lands with a large toll amounting of nameless soldiers fighting for ideals their King tells them to believe in. I think his whole Red King character is pretty much a Slaughter avatar as is, so not much needs to change. I'm not entirely sure how I mix this with other seasons, but I do believe that Ren's most iconic character is the Red King, so fight me I guess. Red Winter is coming.

Scar - The Lonely

So Scar always focused on his connection (or lack there of) with Grian. He died, leaving his partner alone. Then he lived in recluse on a mountain, unable to bring back what he had. Even when forced to partner up, he is still alone. It takes him till Secret Life to finally embrace his avatar identity of being alone. Rumour has it that, on the Secret Life world, you can hear faint humming. No idea where the source is though, it's hard to find anything in the vast sunflower field.

Scott - The Vast

Scott was also hard to place, but I can't fight his whole spacey vibe. I also like the idea that, by refusing to succumb to the Boogieman curse, he defied the Watchers, these enormous, all powerful deities. I like the imagery of Scott, an ant in the face of these gods, being the bigger man.

Skizz - The Lonely

So Skizz is normally one of the first out in his team. He's also prone to sacrificing himself for the sake of the team. I think that is a lonely existence. I believe that Skizz, after giving his life to allow his team to move on, is forced to sit and watch. Unable to talk to his former teammates and stuck in isolation watching them go on without him.

Tango - The Desolation

Tbf, I think the way people draw Tango as a blaze has skewed my perception a bit. But I do believe the volatile anger he has works well with the idea of the desolation. As well as that, he has also had everything he loves destroyed. His ranch, his trust, etc. he's experienced so much desolation, he has simply become the burning fire of grief that laps at his feet.

Anyway, thanks for reading this far. Please let me know if you have any suggestions or changes I should make.

[roseykat]

TITLE: Barb Wired Brat

WC: 7.1k

MASTERLIST

PAIRING: Minho x female reader

WARNING: minors DNI, I post NSFW SKZ related content and I know I won’t be able to regulate/monitor every single potential interaction with those posts so please do not engage with my work or page whatsoever. 

TAGS: BDSM, impact play, mean!Minho, pet names, spreader bars, restraints, degradation, edging, ruined orgasm, multiple orgasms, crying, swearing, unprotected sex, subspace, use of the word ‘slut’, use of a vibrator. 

SUMMARY: misbehaving and being a brat doesn’t get you anywhere with Minho. So he lets you know what the consequences are...

The conviction of telling someone what to do, bullying them in bed, or manhandling them, is a challenging aspect. Being hesitant or unsure is not a road Minho has or will ever walk down when it comes to BDSM. He's a soft yet relentless inflictor of pain. Not many people are able to walk the fine line between both. Most are either too soft or too harsh.

Minho was the pot of gold you found at the end of the rainbow in terms of a romantic partner and a decent dom. Someone who knows his stuff.

Establishing roles was always important. Ideally, Minho associates himself as a somewhat dominant person. However, that doesn’t waive the occasions where he’s allowed you to take control in vanilla situations. Every now and then, he would let you handcuff him to the bed and ride him until you forget your own name.

But that’s almost as far as it goes because when it comes to BDSM, you let him take the reins. Whilst you have a fair bit of knowledge about it thanks to experience and research, Minho’s experience is more reputable.

“Edging is just teasing, no?” You asked him one day - long before either of you began to incorporate any kinks or special play into the relationship.

Minho pondered for a second, “not necessarily. They’re both the same in the sense of it being deliberate, but edging requires a lot of control on the sub's behalf. It’s not easy.”

“Hmm.”

“Why do you ask?” Minho questioned back. “Did you want to try it?”

With a nod and firm yes, edging became one of the first, recurring activities in the bedroom alongside most aspects of BDSM. It was such an effective way for Minho to assert control whenever you were consensually willing to give that to him.

But there were some days when he would need to earn that control as a result of you simply just being an absolute brat.

Your methods of acting up in bed were intentional and deliberate. In those vanilla instances, Minho could have you ride him. However, not even a minute into being on top, you would start to complain about being too tired or that your knees were getting sore.

You would then just lie on top of his body with his cock still stuffed in you until he decided to start doing all the work. In the moment, it would drive him nuts to have to flip you over and rail you into oblivion himself.

However, Minho doesn’t hold it against you because he loves you so much, but there’s only so much of your bratty behaviour that Minho can absorb. After that, he is brutal and unforgiving, which is exactly what you’re reminded of the next time you and Minho are in bed together.  

With the usual pre-discussion before any scene, Minho listened to any aspects that you wanted him to cover and not to cover.

“Whatever you feel like,” you said to him.

Those words left him with a decent amount of space to incorporate what he desired, tying it in with the element of surprise.

The alignment was perfect given the fact that he wanted to put you in your place - to tune you up a bit and to remind you what happens when you decide to act up.

From there on, he wasn’t going to hold back.

“Clothes off,” Minho first instructs.

The act of stripping you himself is too personal and sensual for what he’s going for. Even before he starts to touch you, he wants to plant the idea in your head that this is a punishment and not a reward.

You know he enjoys removing each item of clothing from your body, whether it’s slow and gentle or frantically ripping them off like he’s going to die if he doesn’t fuck you.

Either way, you understood his stance even more when he didn’t bother to look at you as you undressed.

You discard your clothes onto the chair in the corner of the room then sit on the end of the bed, waiting for his next instructions.

Minho shakes his head, “on the floor.”

“The floor?” You question back in disbelief.

“Did I stutter?” He asks you.

Looking at Minho now, you can tell that he’s pissed and the scene hasn’t even started. But you can’t help but absorb how hot he looks when he gets like this in the bedroom.

“No,” you reply sheepishly. “I just thought we were on the bed because that’s where we usually do scenes.”

“No,” Minho puts it sternly once more. “What’s your colour?”

“Green,” you answer.

“Then why aren’t you on the floor already?”

Giving Minho full permission to order you around or use you as he pleases is an exciting aspect of not knowing what’s about to happen. It intensifies his natural streak of unpredictability.

Following his instruction, you hop off of the bed and kneel before him on the ground while he retrieves a couple of items he had hidden beside the bed.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with these by now,” he says, holding up two spreader bars, one in each hand.

‘Familiar’ doesn’t even come close to how well you know what they are. It was a certain type of loathing mixed with a sick enjoyment. The whole purpose of the bars is to simply keep your legs spread for the man who intends to fuck between them.

“It might be better if you lie on your stomach first so I can work my way up.”

You try to contain your questions and heed his order. A hiss leaves your mouth when the front of your body flattens over the cold, hard wooden floor with your arms slightly propping you up. Usually, scenes between you and Minho take place on a surface that provides at least the slightest amount of cushion like a bed, chair, or couch.

For you to be on the floor is almost a disregard for any source of comfort. You know it’ll probably end up hurting, but not to the point where you would have to safe word your way out of it.

Minho takes the first spreader bar and fits it just above your ankles using the pre-attached cuffs. Each one is secured tightly so that the bar now takes the ability away for you to try and bring your feet together.

The second spreader bar is fixed just below your knees. Minho doesn’t want them right over the bone of your kneecaps because it would create an unnecessary risk of injury.

At that stage, anywhere below your hips are practically immovable. There’s no chance of you being able to close your legs at any stage, but you’re still able to sit back on your heels.

“Right, now sit up for me,” Minho instructs, patting you on the arm with the back of his hand. “Might be easier that way to get into the position, otherwise it’ll hurt trying to move with these on.”

“What do you mean?” You look back at him.

“I want you face down, ass up so I can cuff your hands to the other cuffs on the spreader bar.”

Oh. It was that sort of position.

You peel yourself off the ground, propping up to walk your hands back until you’re kneeling. In the midst of preparing two other items, Minho’s gaze drops down to your tits. Your nipples had hardened stiff from resting on the cold floor.

“Cute,” he comments with a coy smile, making your face flush entirely with red. “Alright, face down, hands at your sides.”

The position feels objectively embarrassing, especially when your legs are spread and your ass is in the air. Although, that doesn’t stop you from moving for Minho, knowing he’s not in the mood for resistance.

“Good,” he says, readying the next set of restraints.

This time, he’s using individual leather cuffs with clips attached, one for each of your wrists. Your hands rest at your sides once Minho secured them. He then clips each of the wrist restraints to the outsides of the spreader bar cuffs below your knees. This way, your arms were bound to your legs, now limiting any movement from your upper body.  

Once the restraints are complete, Minho moves away to get a good look at you. He watches as you test the cuffs by trying to pull away from the sides of your knees. You don’t even bother to move your legs knowing full well that it’s impossible.

Suddenly, the tips of Minho’s fingers trail over your spine. It’s ticklish, but a subtle attempt to soothe you.

“You should be feeling some discomfort, but is there any unnecessary pinching around the restraints?” He questions.

“No,” you reply clearly.

“Okay. Colour?”

“Green.”

“Right, let’s start,” Minho replies and begins to unbuckle his belt.

At first, you thought he was getting ready to fuck you, but it was far too early in the scene. There hasn’t been any foreplay or prep. It wasn’t until he folded the belt in half to use as a makeshift impact toy that you understood the message.

The black leather band wasn’t entirely that thick in width which meant it was going to sting rather than feel like a ‘thud’. Out of both sensations that you’ve experienced, the stinging can sometimes hurt to a point where it’s blinding.

Unfortunately for you, when it comes to impact play, Minho doesn’t hold back and shows very little remorse. He manages to demonstrate that with the first whip of his belt which came out of nowhere. You gasp at the sudden contact, already embracing the emulsifying heat that the first sting brings.

The next hit came from his hand, smacking hard and fast that your body involuntarily jolts.

“Fuck,” you swallow, bracing yourself for more hits.

Minho never mentioned how many you were going to take which he omitted just to torture you. If he had given you a specific number, it would eliminate the anticipation of the activity ending. To an extent, he wants you to suffer - to not know what’s coming next.

Over the same area where his hand slapped came the belt, forcing a set of curse words out of you. Heat spreads like wildfire throughout your lower half while your brain is confused by how much the impact hurts and how much you adorn it. The dilemma arises every time a hit lands hard on your ass.

With each whack or spank comes a fresh sting and a new handprint. It almost feels as if your skin is burning.

“Mhmm, fuck!” You scream out, attempting to kick your legs.

Minho clicks his tongue, “I should’ve gagged you.”

There’s nowhere for the pain to disburse except the isolated area Minho’s hand keeps making contact with. All of a sudden, he gropes one cheek and squeezes ruthlessly.

“Minho! Fuck, please, please, please!” You cry out desperately, your hands bunching into fists at your sides.

He glares down at you while you try to squirm under his grip, “what are you saying ‘please’ for? What do you want?”

“It…it hurts a lot,” you sob and groan. “I can’t…”

“Colour?”

Your brain stalls at his question. Minho trusts that if you’re uncomfortable at any stage throughout the scene, you would say either ‘yellow’ to slow down or ‘red’ to stop completely.

“Colour?” He repeats.

“I…g-green,” you convey clearly to him.

Even though you don’t see it, he’s smirking. Amidst all the pain he’s inflicting, no matter how much it hurts, deep down, you love it. Minho knows it too.

He lets out a haughty chuckle, “what a pain slut.”

His hand finally releases from your cheek and whilst you think you have time to breathe, Minho’s fingers glide between your wet folds. Up and down, he gathers your juices, deliberately teasing your pussy.

“You know how I can tell that you like it so much?” Minho asks in a soft tone.

His hand retracts, fingers slick and gleaming. He then proceeds to show just how wet you are by holding his hand up so that you can see from the angle you’re in.

That’s when you realise what the answer is…

“Because it makes you this wet. Doesn’t it?”

Too flustered and embarrassed to answer, all you could do was hum as a response. Unsatisfied with your lack of a proper answer, Minho goes back to squeezing one of your ass cheeks again making you yelp and shake.

“I didn’t catch that,” he taunts.

“Y-Yes!” You cry out, tremoring hopelessly under his grip.

“I thought as much,” he hisses and removes his hand, leaving you with more dull and dense pain to absorb. “You’ll take some more hits and if you take them well, maybe I’ll consider letting you come.”  

‘Maybe’ is never a promising word, but Minho always follows through with his convictions if you behave. Today he just doesn’t seem like he wants to put up with any disobedience.

To yank you out of your thoughts, Minho's hand pelts down hard once. Even though you’re expecting each hit, your body can’t help but jolt on every single one. By the unknown number of hits you start taking, the pain is there but it’s also not.

This effect has happened before. It’s not mostly that you know when it occurs during a scene, but it’s almost always during impact play.

Minho takes advantage of the infernal masochist in you, giving you so many hits to take that it makes your brain slip. It’s his ultimate catalyst to send you flying into subspace. But he doesn’t want you there just yet.

“Oi,” he warns, narrowing his eyes down at you to take in your distant expression. “Don’t start floating now, I want you to feel everything I’m about to do to you.”

The final set of impacts was the hardest you’ve had to take. Your ass is sore, stained red and tinged purple. There’s a twisted part of Minho’s brain that relishes in looking at the work he’s made out of it.

Seeing his reddish handprints over your ass makes his cock twitch. He then blinks down to the tent in his pants and sighs. At the moment, being hard was an inconvenience.

Then again, this was all his own doing. Allowing himself to be affected by the way you react to his actions drives him insane. You take it so well that there’s no need for him to be mean.

Deep down, he wants you to act up, not listen, or be disobedient. If that were the case, it’d give him even more of an excuse to be hard and fuck you dizzy.

Regardless, he’ll still do it.

Minho folds into irrationality, “you drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

You can barely look back at him but you can hear what’s going on behind you when his zipper comes down. Minho gets a hand around his dick once it’s finally free. He glides the tip between your wet folds, causing your entire body to shudder.

The thickness and length of his dick filling you out causes your brain to short circuit - so much that all you can do is hiss and moan.

“That’s it,” Minho breathes out, eyes watching his cock gradually disappear right in you. “Fucking take it all.”

With a couple of slow and steady strokes, he deliberately takes his time pushing in and dragging out, forcing you to feel every inch he gives. It’s tortuously slow but gives you some time to adjust to his length.

To test the waters a bit, Minho snaps his hips forward, driving an emphatic moan out of you. He pulls back then thrusts in again, harder, as a precursor to establish that at a consistent pace.

“Feel’s so fucking good,” Minho says through gritted teeth.

The satisfaction of it alone is enough for him to use both his hands to grope your ass. He kneads the flesh like he’s massaging it, then will suddenly squeeze so hard that it has you screaming and whining until tears prick your eyes.

His hand would relentlessly smack down on your ass every once in a while just to feel you involuntarily clench around him with each hit.

“Right…right there, yes fuck!” You cry out, fingernails digging into your palms.

Minho scoffs and rams his hips forward again in the hopes you’ll shut your mouth. The intention was clear to you, but you can’t help it when he gives it to you so well.

It’s exciting and eventful, especially when you feel like you’re about to go over the edge of an orgasm.

In that instance, Minho will usually use your face as an indicator of when you’re about to start coming. He’s used to seeing your eyes roll back or see your mouth part open even when no sound comes out. Even though your face is not in his view, he can still physically tell.

Since he’s stuffed you full with his cock, you’ve progressively gotten wetter over the minutes. Then having gone from moaning and calling out his name, you’re starting to go quiet on him.

As the knot tightening in the pit of your tummy begins to unravel, your eyes flash wide open. You suck in a large gasp of air just before you’re about to come, which is when Minho pulls out immediately.

There’s nothing for you to squeeze around as your body involuntarily convulses with zero pleasure. It slips through your fingers as you try to chase that earth-shattering feeling.  

“No…no, no, wait!” You sob while your hands shake.

From behind, Minho chuckles meanly and doesn’t say a word. He slides his cock into you once more, filling you back out with very little satisfaction coupled with it. The eye rolling sensation when he’s stuffed you to the hilt is absent. Every ounce of pleasure has escaped.

Minho thrusts into you once, twice, several times before he speaks again, “that was for talking back to me earlier and thinking you could get away with it.”

Tears slowly roll down the side of your face and onto the floor. Despite this, there wasn’t a second that went by where you thought about stopping.

Crying isn’t uncommon in the bedroom. For you, it stems from being so viciously overwhelmed by pain and pleasure that your body doesn’t know how to react to the intensity. Not to mention the frustration of having a sterling orgasm ruined in a matter of seconds.

Determined to be good for Minho, you continue to let him use you until his hips start to jump out of rhythm. It’s torture for him to hold back when all he wants is to bust a hot load inside of you. He knows it’s something you ask for at any given moment the two of you start fucking.  

However, Minho didn’t want to stray away from the purpose of the scene; putting you in your place. He’s not going to give you what you want until he’s satisfied that you genuinely deserve it.

As Minho rides the verge of an orgasm, he pulls out at the last second and comes over your ass with a few grunts and some swear words. It doesn’t feel nearly as good as coming inside you, but this wasn’t all about him.

For now, at least, he can admire the gorgeous mess he’s made on your skin - how it’s marked up as patches of deep red, and strings of glossy white.

“I’m going to help move you so that you’re kneeling okay?”

When Minho’s mind clears, he tucks himself back into his pants and helps lift you up with a bit of momentum. Once you’re upright and kneeling back on your heels, Minho spots your tears.

He crouches down to your level too, his face inches away from yours. He absorbs how ruined and dishevelled you are; red cheeks, tear stained face, and visibly spaced out.

“This is the only time I like seeing you cry,” Minho whispers against your wet lips.

His hand trails up to your throat, fingers ever so gently squeezing around the sides of your neck as he goes in to kiss you. You feel his tongue, and the wet heat of his mouth, all of which make you feel drunk.

Your hands want to touch him so badly, to feel his skin, muscles, everything. But the restraints on your wrists make it patently clear that you’re not allowed.

If Minho could hear your thoughts, he’d say you were being greedy. He’s already letting you be kissed by him and that’s more than enough based on what he thinks you deserve.

But out of nowhere, he rises from the floor, leaving you to try and chase after his lips. He walks over to the edge of the bed and returns with a vibrator.

Seeing that toy in his hand already has you whimpering in a way that makes him grin. You can see where this is going and it brings back the many sexual adventures he’s had with you whenever he incorporates some sort of apparatus that can make you cum your brains out.

“You’re dripping on the floor,” Minho alludes to the space between your legs and the ground.

Not that you can see it, but you undoubtedly believe him.

Usually, your first instinct is to cower and blush at an embarrassing remark like that. But it has you flustered for the wrong reasons and it’s all because Minho has shoved you into a frame of mind where you’ve lost all shame and dignity.

You’re dripping onto the floor because you can’t help it. All the welcoming pain he’s inflicted so far has fashioned into an uncontrollable reaction. That reaction is something Minho feeds off of. It makes him manic seeing the sweet results of his actions.

“This is what’s going to happen,” he starts, ignoring his excited nerves on the inside. “You’re going to tell me when you’re about to come. If you don’t, the scene ends. Got it?”

Even as spaced out as you were, his instructions were very simple. But it was a lot easier said than done and the unsure look on your face proved it.

The problem was that you could barely keep yourself from not being able to come when Minho was fucking you. Being edged with a vibrator will require just as much self-restraint if not more.  

“Wait, I-I don’t know if I can,” you mumble to him, barely able to blink.

“Is that so?” He asks, looking you dead straight in the eye. “Colour?”

There he goes again - reminding you with a simple question that no matter how many times you contradict yourself, Minho knows your best interests. At the same time, he needs to ask just in case you actually can’t continue the rest of the scene.

“Green.”

He chuckles to himself and goes to sit cross-legged in front of you, “stop doubting yourself kitten.”

Your breathing has already doubled in pace and gets even quicker when Minho turns the vibrator on and holds it against your clit. Your body seizes instantly on its impact, mouth pursed together to try and suppress your moans.

“There you go,” Minho exasperates breathily, watching your contorted expressions. “Look at that. I bet that feels good doesn’t it?”

You nod. It’s all you can do. The task of trying not to come takes up far more of your attention than attempting to answer a basic question. Minho understands that, but he’s not compassionate enough today to let it slide.

So he cranks up the setting on the vibrator to the highest level. Your mouth finally pries open, whimpering Minho’s name repeatedly and panting like you’re about to run out of air. The speed of the toy makes your hips jolt and buck even though there’s no room to fully move.

“Gonna…I’m gonna come,” you warn, eyes fluttering as the sensation between your legs intensifies.

Minho chooses not to listen and continues to hold the vibrator against your clit.

“P-Please, I’m almost...”

Your head tips back, chest heaving as your orgasm approaches before its highest peak.

“Minho please!”

Within a split second, the vibrator is gone and your body startles from the sudden lack of pleasure. Still profoundly dishevelled, your head lifts back up to glare right into Minho’s eyes.

“What?” He asks. “Did you really think I was going to let you cum? I don’t think you deserve to at this point.”

Even though Minho wasn’t explicitly clear that he was going to do it, you knew that was the moment when he started an edging session. In his mind, overstimulation would be counterproductive for you – a person who has been misbehaving a lot and shouldn’t get what they want for the time being.  

Before going back in with the vibrator, Minho begins to extend your limits. He reaches out for your nipple, pinching and rolling the nub between his finger and thumb. It makes you want to twist and turn, but with your hands bound to the sides of your knees, it’s difficult to get the movement you want.

Absorbing the contorted expressions on your face, he bathes in the sounds that come from your mouth. How your moans sound so aspirated and breathy then loud when the vibrator comes in contact with you for the second time.

There’s no preparation for the assault that toy has.

Your eyes squeeze shut in determination to eliminate any sort of pleasure inside you before it starts. Diverting an orgasm is no walk in the park and it gradually becomes more difficult. The first ‘edge’ Minho bought you to already chipped away at a significant portion of your energy. It was almost hard to grasp what you were going to be left with by the time he’s done with you.

As the vibrations rattle through the most sensitive parts of your body, Minho still doesn’t let up on your nipples, only switching to the other for more attention.

“You’re gonna be good and tell me when you’re about to come, right?” Minho assumes. “Don’t wanna disappoint me do you?”

You shake your head and swallow, “n-no.”

Seeing you become more obedient makes him smirk but also melt inside. It’s compelling enough to make him release your nipple from his fingers and use that hand to slink behind your neck.

His face closes the space towards yours, lips reaching you first. It was an odd contrast to the fact that he was being mean and had you bent over, spanked, and fucked.

Now he was being gentle.

Although, it’s no shock or surprise at how sensual Minho can be. It was the thin line between the two main shades of his personality at play.

Despite his soft touch and his tongue in your mouth, the pleasure growing inside was hard to ignore. Even though you wanted to keep kissing him, you were also under the instruction to tell him when you were about to come.

Being wordless wasn’t a hindrance for the man who’s fucked you an undisclosed amount of times. He knows your body - particularly the responses it gives when you’re being worked up.

Your breathing is jumpy and staggered. You’re moaning into and against his mouth, so much that he can feel the vibrations throughout his upper body. Just as your head tips back again, Minho catches your bottom lip and bites down.

Another loud moan escapes from your mouth just as you were about to come until Minho rips the vibrator away and leaves you shuddering.

“That was close wasn’t it?” He asks you with a small smile. His words almost made his soft and gentle nature look like a complete sham.

You jolt once more at the feel of the vibrator press once more to your sensitive clit. Already at this point, your body is so overstimulated that you think it’s impossible to build more pleasure. Every nerve inside you is on end as the euphoria escalates higher this time - greater than what you’ve felt at any point tonight.

The third ‘edge’ turned into the seventh, which turned into the twelfth, and landed you around in the twenties. Somewhere along the way, you had given up full control to Minho.  

He had succeeded in getting you to a point where you would begin to subconsciously obey him. Each time he would hold the vibrator to your clit and build you up to an orgasm, all you were capable of doing was muttering the word ‘coming’. After that, he’d pull his hand away, praise you, and wait until that orgasm dissolved before going back in.

It was repetitive - to the extent that Minho gave up tallying the many times he was edging you.

“You’re doing good for me,” he praises with a satisfied smile. “You like it so much don’t you?”

Regardless of whether he was going to extract an answer out of you at this stage, he can’t help but feel excited when you’re unable to speak. It means you’re past the verge of mindlessness - all the control you sought to harbour from him was wilfully given up.

To add to the torture, Minho would switch up the speed of vibrations every now and then. If he used the highest setting, your orgasm would build quicker before he pulls away. If he used the lowest setting, it would take longer to reach and harder to chase.

Both of these methods have you completely dazed and turned your brain into liquid. You make inaudible noises, ones that Minho finds interesting yet adorable. He’s completely stripped you back to an incoherent mess.

“Do you want to come?” Minho asks, watching you look up at him with tears in your eyes and a glazed expression. “Should I even let you come?”

Sentences are too complex for you let alone to be able to comprehend the question as your head lolls to the side. It’s impossible to simply answer while simultaneously trying to restrict yourself from coming. The latter is the one that sucks the most energy out of you and has been since Minho pulled that vibrator out.

But he sits on the idea of wanting to be merciful or absolutely brutal by not allowing you to come. Even though he was pushing the thirty minute mark of edging you to the point where you can’t speak or think, he was only half satisfied that you deserved it.

“You’ve been acting up quite a bit lately,” Minho reminds you. “Always getting me to do the work in bed, misbehaving, talking back to me…”

Your jaw is slack, still, no words come out. Instead, Minho continues to do all the talking while you try not to come without his command.

“I think you need to learn another lesson. If I don’t give you what you want, you’ll be good. But there’s always the risk that you’ll play up again,” Minho says, turning the vibrators’ speed up one notch. “Still, you’ve been good to me this evening and I want to reward your behaviour. What do you think I should do?”

“M-Min…I’m…”

They’re the only two words you’ve been able to say within the past half an hour. Minho knows you’re on the verge of coming if you start talking, and yet, he doesn’t do anything to stop you. He wants to test you, to assess how good you really are to him.

Before you start fumbling with more words again, your orgasm approaches its peak and by that time, it’s too late. Minho doesn’t even say anything about allowing you to come, you just do it regardless.

A couple of more tears roll down your face when you feel like you’re about to burst from the pressure in the pit of your stomach. None of what had been initiated an hour ago was anything short of overwhelming and all it does is continuously building aggressively.

Unable to keep up with the toy that’s pressed firmly against your clit, all you do is succumb to an out of body experience. Your head tips forward, chest heaving as your legs begin to shake in the restraints.

Minho lets out a conceited chuckle of disbelief, watching you cum over the vibrator. Whilst he appears rather annoyed that you didn’t listen to him, he cannot deny how amazing it is to see you orgasm so incredibly hard.

He revels while watching you lose your mind to the toy. This time, the ball of pleasure that has been growing exponentially doesn’t stop for anything. It makes for a blinding orgasm.

Spreading in surges and surges of pleasure, your body tremors at each one. Minho watches you while he’s completely dazed by how hard you’re actually coming. He can only stare as your orgasm shreds throughout every cell in your body until you’ve gone limp.

“Well, guess that answered that then,” he scoffs rather condescendingly then turns the vibrator off for the first time.

Since the low hum and buzz of the toy is no longer in his ears, Minho can now fully hear all of the tiny noises you’ve been making. He can hear you breathing heavily in staggers, the small, strained whines, and yet the one thing he can’t hear is you struggling against the restraints anymore.

You’ve just completely given up on trying to break free as if you have genuinely begun to enjoy the idea of not being able to move as you please.

That thought alone sends a reminder down to Minho’s now fully hard dick again. Now that you’ve unintentionally made him hard again, he wants to get his use out of this session to cum once more. This time, finally, inside of you.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” Minho growls in your ear.  

Before you know it, he’s lowering you carefully back down into the first position he secured you in, with your face down on the floor and your ass in the air.

The mess he made on you earlier was still there. Seeing it makes him sick with excitement now knowing he can do the same but inside of you. With that, Minho then frees his cock once more, rubbing the tip in between your wet folds. He pushes into your hole with ease, slicking his dick faster than he could imagine.

A sigh of relief leaves his mouth when he feels that velvety heat enclosed around him. It’s only come to his attention now just how achingly hard he is. As for you, you’re just floating absentmindedly, content with a warm fuzzy feeling inside of you as you swim around in a post-orgasmic haze.

When Minho begins to fuck you again, his ears drink up the wet sounds from in between your legs and the small whines that leave your mouth. He realises how much he enjoys it when his nails start digging into the flesh of your hips, screwing his eyes shut as he tries not to come early.

Minho just wants to be buried inside of you forever.

To top things off for him, he can feel you clenching around him. He knows for a fact that it’s not intentional because you’re in no headspace to even think right now. It then dawns on him that you’re having another orgasm.

“You’re coming again?” Minho questions in a degrading tone of voice.

Still, you can’t answer.

He chuckles deviously, almost like he’s gone mad as he keeps fucking you hard from behind, “such a slut. I already made you come once and now you’re going to come again?

Without giving a verbal answer, Minho can feel, see, and hear your actual response. The result of his cock repeatedly hitting the same sweet spot inside you has your eyes rolling back and ultimately makes you squirt.

Trembling uncontrollably once more, your walls are spasming around Minho’s dick while dripping constantly on the wooden floor.

“Holy shit,” he exasperates. “Baby.”

It’s the first time he’s made you squirt, and it takes him so much by surprise that he has to slide out of you and see the mess he helped you create. If Minho had his phone on him, he would’ve - without a doubt, taken a photo. Unfortunately, he was only able to do with a mental image, one that’s now permanently ingrained in his brain.

Rabid with excitement, Minho now knows what he needs to do next time.

He loses sight of his authority for a split second after getting too caught up in what just happened. With a shaky hand, he realigns himself with your entrance and glides back in effortlessly with a string of moans that leave his mouth.

“So fucking good for me,” Minho rasps, snapping his forward.

He gets himself into a steady, forceful rhythm and tries to drag out fucking you for as long as he can hold off. It’s difficult for him to not come when you’re so pliant and fucked out. Before he knows it, Minho is clawing into your skin again, coming hard that it causes his vision go slightly splotchy.

For a few moments, he slows his thrusts and allows his breathing to steady. To help ease himself back to earth, he continues to drag his cock in and out of your wet pussy. It was mind blowing for him just as it was for you. Minho then pulls out and observes you one final time.

The wet mess on the floor, on your ass, the way that you’re still dripping wet, the redness over your skin from his hands and belt earlier, how you’re bound on the floor - it could all easily make him hard a third time.

He almost feels high as a result, but he’s also reminded that he needs to move quickly - to get you out of your restraints. Minho unhooks all the cuffs and swiftly takes away the spreader bars before bringing you between his legs as you both rest against the bed, still on the floor.

The mess nearby doesn’t bother him at this stage. Right now, his focus is solely on you. Ensuring that you know he’s there even when you’re on cloud nine still is important. It’s the least he can do to ensure that you don’t go plummeting into subdrop - the worst possible outcome to subspace.

Coming down from two orgasms on such a large scale can be jarring if there’s no aftercare.

“Good girl,” Minho whispers in your ear, hoping that it’ll reach your mind that’s floating elsewhere. “You did so well for me baby.”

His arms have wrapped themselves around your body as he soothes you with gentle words of praise. From the mirror across the room, he can see how spaced out you look now. The frontal view of your body grants Minho to see just how yielding you are.

How vulnerable your body is to him right now.

His right hand lies across your abdomen while his left hand slowly makes its way down to your oversensitive clit. A small, strained whine escapes your mouth and like some sort of conditioned behaviour, your legs seem to slowly pry themselves further open.

Minho smirks. He seriously can’t get enough of you. If he hadn’t of fucked you already, he would’ve come untouched just seeing you so obedient.

“The things you do to me,” he whispers against the back of your shoulder.

Minho watches his fingers in the mirror and begins to wonder if they have minds of their own. They travel down slightly past your sensitive clit to the cum that has been leaking out of you. The pads of his fingers collect what’s of it, only to bring it back up to your clit, caressing and massaging around and over the nub.

Your reactions are subtle but effective for Minho to pick up on. He can tell that his fingers must feel different in comparison to the vibrator. They’re more attentive and soft which makes the sensation between your legs even greater and gets you over the edge quicker than ever.

“That’s it baby,” Minho encourages. “One more for me.”  

His eyes never leave the mirror - never leave from where his fingers are until he makes you tremble and come once more. Moans continue to lodge in your throat as Minho helps you ride out your high until every ounce of energy within you is spent.

Within the next twenty minutes, you are blissfully floating. It takes you a while to come down from such an intense session that by the end of it, you're left wondering how you have damp hair, a fresh pair of comfy clothes on, and now back on the bed.

Minho, who is sitting on the edge of the mattress, has been rubbing moisturising lotion onto your legs - especiallywhere your knees are. Next to him on the bed is a towel with a couple of ice packs for what you only can assume is for the tenderness that has started to emerge.

The aching around those areas was a reminder that you spent quite some time on the ground. Not to mention the restraints…

“Hi baby,” Minho says quietly, studying your tired face.

“Hi,” You reply, too exhausted to even move. “How long was I out for?”

He twists the lid back on the tub of lotion and sets it on the bedside table. He then grabs the towel and places it over both of your knees followed by an ice pack on each one.

“Not long. Ten minutes after we showered. You can go back to sleep if you want?” He replies.

You shake your head, “no it’s okay, I just want to see you.”

He smiles softly then scoots up the bed a bit to get closer to you, “how are you feeling?”

“Mm, good,” you hum. “A bit like jelly though.”

Minho chuckles, feeling a bit of guilt there, “yeah I’m not surprised. That would’ve taken a lot out of you.”

“I loved every bit of it though,” you reassure him.

The last thing you want is to place doubt in his mind about what he’s doing in the bedroom. Then again, Minho trusts you enough for you to go to him if there’s something you’re not comfortable with, and vice versa.

“Judging by how hard you actually came, I’m not surprised,” he says, which earns him a playful smack to his arm by you.

“Quiet,” you reply sarcastically. “I don’t want to hear that.”

“It was hot,” he replies, ignoring what you think about it. “So hot that I wanted to record it.”

“Maybe you should’ve…”

“We’ll discuss it next time,” Minho says then leans and meets your lips. He kisses you so softly and tenderly before coming back up. “For now, just rest as much as you need to. I’m ordering dinner then we can eat together while watching a movie.”

“Sounds perfect.”

-

A/N: Omg what is thisssss. Sometimes I surprise myself with some of the stuff that I wrote, but anyway, please enjoy. I really want to write another piece similar to this except the reader goes into subdrop. I’m not too sure if anyone will be interested in that but if anyone is, please let me know and I’ll write something up lol

Note: I strictly do not permit any copying, editing, rewriting or remakes of my work nor do I allow them to be uploaded to any other site or social media platform. Tumblr is the only site I use to post this type of content so if you see it elsewhere, then it has been stolen. 

[secretmellowblog]

Les Mis Canon-era Paris Photographs: Jean Valjean and Cosette’s route to escape Javert, in Pictures!

Jean Valjean's escape through Paris is Victor Hugo's way of mourning the Paris he knew from before his exile, the Paris before the modern renovations.

Hugo wrote Les Mis from exile in Guernsey, at the same time as Paris was undergoing a series of massive renovations. The "Old City" of medieval Paris that Hugo loved was being replaced by the “New City" of Baron Haussman. The dark medieval labyrinth lit by oil lamps was being replaced by modern wide streets and standardized architecture lit by gas lamps. Victor Hugo is nostalgic for the Paris he remembers before his exile-- so Jean Valjean is able to escape Javert using things unique to the Old City. He escapes through a labyrinth of tiny medieval streets in a neighborhood Hugo claims was destroyed during the renovations; he climbs over the convent wall using the rope from an oil lamp, the very oil lamps that were being replaced by the more modern gas lanterns. The dark maze hides him from police surveillance in a way modern streets cannot.

A man named Charles Marville photographed Paris shortly before many (though not all) of the renovations occurred. In this post I'll go through all the different streets mentioned in the Valjean-Javert Paris chase chapters, and provide Marville's photographs whenever they the image has been labeled with the name of the street. Note that there may be some inaccuracies. Some street names changed over time.

Here is a map of what the chase looks like, taken from the book "Paris in the Times of Victor Hugo."

A quick overview: Jean Valjean starts in a slummy half-built suburban area. This area is highly associated with the King; the royal Jardin des Plantes is nearby, and King Louis XVIII often rides by in his carriage during the afternoons. After travelling down a bunch of streets, "zigzagging" back and forth, Jean Valjean decides to cross the Seine over the Bridge of Austerlitz (a bridge named after one of Napoleon's victories.) Then he reaches the areas of the city near the Faubourg Saint Antoine that are more associated with working class rebellion. From there he enters a dark isolated half-built medieval neighborhood near marshes and timberyards, with narrow mazey alleyways, that Hugo mostly made up. Hugo pretends this medieval neighborhood used to exist, but was destroyed like many others during the recent renovations. Now that we've gotten the overview out of the way, let's go more specific!

The chase starts out in "the old quarter of the Marche aux Chevaux." At the time, this was a less inhabited and poorer area of Paris; it's described as basically a slum. Here are some of Marville's photographs :

Then we're told "Jean Valjean described many and varied labyrinths in the Mouffetard quarter, which was already asleep, as though the discipline of the Middle Ages and the yoke of the curfew still existed. He combined in various manners, with cunning strategy, the Rue Censier:"

"and the Rue Copeau," (according to the map I linked earlier, the Rue Copeau is now the Rue Lacepede. Here is Marville's pic:)

"the Rue du Battoir-Saint-Victor and the Rue du Puits l’Ermite. There are lodging houses in this locality, but he did not even enter one, finding nothing which suited him. He had no doubt that if any one had chanced to be upon his track, they would have lost it."

"As eleven o’clock struck from Saint-Étienne-du-Mont:" (note: this refers to the church of Saint-Etienne)

"he was traversing the Rue de Pontoise, in front of the office of the commissary of police, situated at No. 14." (Jean Valjean sees Javert and the police following him on this street, because they're visible in the light of the lantern from the police station.)

"He took a circuit, turned into the Passage des Patriarches, which was closed on account of the hour,"

"strode along the Rue de l’Épée-de-Bois

and the Rue de l’Arbalète, and plunged into the Rue des Postes."

"At that time there was a square formed by the intersection of streets, where the College Rollin stands to-day, and where the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève turns off." (Note: these streets are labeled Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève, but not Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, so they may be different streets! But I'm putting them here anyway.)

"It is understood, of course, that the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève is an old street, and that a posting-chaise does not pass through the Rue des Postes once in ten years. In the thirteenth century this Rue des Postes was inhabited by potters, and its real name is Rue des Pots." (Annotation: Hugo's bein silly and making little puns. He's snarkily pointing out the "new saint-genevieve street" is old, and the post street rarely has post-chaises/carriages go through it.) (Jean Valjean hides in the shadows and watches to see who shows up in this big square intersection of streets. In the moonlight, he recognizes Javert.) "He slipped from under the gate where he had concealed himself, and went down the Rue des Postes (which I shared a picture of previously), towards the region of the Jardin des Plantes." (Note: the Jardin des Plantes is a royal garden. Here is a modern photo from Wikipedia.)

"He left behind him the Rue de la Clef,

"then the Fountain Saint-Victor, skirted the Jardin des Plantes by the lower streets, and reached the quay. There he turned round. The quay was deserted. The streets were deserted. There was no one behind him. He drew a long breath.

He gained the Pont d’Austerlitz." (The Pont d'Austerlitz, named after Napoleon's victory at the battle of Austerlitz, is a very famous bridge. Marville has no photographs but here's an 1830 engraving:)

"The bridge once crossed, he perceived some timber-yards on his right. He directed his course thither. In order to reach them, it was necessary to risk himself in a tolerably large unsheltered and illuminated space. He did not hesitate. Those who were on his track had evidently lost the scent, and Jean Valjean believed himself to be out of danger. Hunted, yes; followed, no." Here's the quai by the pont-au-change-- a different quai, but gives you an idea of what the areas around the Seine often looked like.

(Then Jean Valjean sees Javert and the other police on the Bridge of Austerlitz, following him. He hurries towards the darker alleys of the city.)

"A little street, the Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine, opened out between two timber-yards enclosed in walls. This street was dark and narrow and seemed made expressly for him."

Here's an abandoned timber-yard-ish looking picture:

But Marville has no photographs of this street. I'd have to double check, but iirc this is the part where Hugo starts to 'make up' more street layouts. I wouldn't be surprised if this street really WAS made expressly for him (meaning Hugo made it up.) "The point of Paris where Jean Valjean found himself, situated between the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and la Râpée, is one of those which recent improvements have transformed from top to bottom,—resulting in disfigurement according to some, and in a transfiguration according to others. The market-gardens, the timber-yards, and the old buildings have been effaced. To-day, there are brand-new, wide streets, arenas, circuses, hippodromes, railway stations, and a prison, Mazas, there; progress, as the reader sees, with its antidote."

(Here Hugo talks about the Haussman renovations directly, claiming that if his street layouts are "inaccurate" it's because these are some of the Old Medieval Streets that were razed during Paris's recent renovations. He goes on for a while comparing Petit-Picpus to various other areas that were changed during the renovations.)

"Le Petit-Picpus, which, moreover, hardly ever had any existence, and never was more than the outline of a quarter, had nearly the monkish aspect of a Spanish town. The roads were not much paved; the streets were not much built up. (....) Such was this quarter in the last century. The Revolution snubbed it soundly. The republican government demolished and cut through it. Rubbish shoots were established there. Thirty years ago, this quarter was disappearing under the erasing process of new buildings. To-day, it has been utterly blotted out."

The Petit-Picpus, of which no existing plan has preserved a trace, is indicated with sufficient clearness in the plan of 1727, published at Paris by Denis Thierry, Rue Saint-Jacques, opposite the Rue du Plâtre;

and at Lyons, by Jean Girin, Rue Mercière, at the sign of Prudence.

Petit-Picpus had, as we have just mentioned, a Y of streets, formed by the Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine, which spread out in two branches, taking on the left the name of Little Picpus Street, and on the right the name of the Rue Polonceau. The two limbs of the Y were connected at the apex as by a bar; this bar was called Rue Droit-Mur.

The Rue Polonceau ended there; Rue Petit-Picpus passed on, and ascended towards the Lenoir market. A person coming from the Seine reached the extremity of the Rue Polonceau, and had on his right the Rue Droit-Mur, turning abruptly at a right angle, in front of him the wall of that street, and on his right a truncated prolongation of the Rue Droit-Mur, which had no issue and was called the Cul-de-Sac Genrot." Here is @everyonewasabird's attempt to puzzle this out:

It was here that Jean Valjean stood."

Then Jean Valjean escapes by pulling down an old oil lantern, strung up by ropes. Hugo notes that this would have been "impossible if the streets were lit with gas, the way they would be after the renovations. This picture shows an old oil lamp strung up by ropes:

Finally, Jean Valjean climbs over the wall into the Petit-Picpus convent. This convent is fictional. Hugo pretends it used to exists but is no longer around-- another relic of the early 19th century that has been lost over time.

TLDR:

Jean Valjean's escape through Paris is Hugo way of mourning the Paris he knew from before his exile, the Paris before the modern renovations. To quote Volume 2 Book 5 Chapter 1:

The author of this book, who regrets the necessity of mentioning himself, has been absent from Paris for many years. Paris has been transformed since he quitted it. A new city has arisen, which is, after a fashion, unknown to him. There is no need for him to say that he loves Paris: Paris is his mind’s natal city. In consequence of demolitions and reconstructions, the Paris of his youth, that Paris which he bore away religiously in his memory, is now a Paris of days gone by. He must be permitted to speak of that Paris as though it still existed. It is possible that when the author conducts his readers to a spot and says, “In such a street there stands such and such a house,” neither street nor house will any longer exist in that locality. Readers may verify the facts if they care to take the trouble. For his own part, he is unacquainted with the new Paris, and he writes with the old Paris before his eyes in an illusion which is precious to him. It is a delight to him to dream that there still lingers behind him something of that which he beheld when he was in his own country, and that all has not vanished. So long as you go and come in your native land, you imagine that those streets are a matter of indifference to you; that those windows, those roofs, and those doors are nothing to you; that those walls are strangers to you; that those trees are merely the first encountered haphazard; that those houses, which you do not enter, are useless to you; that the pavements which you tread are merely stones. Later on, when you are no longer there, you perceive that the streets are dear to you; that you miss those roofs, those doors; and that those walls are necessary to you, those trees are well beloved by you; that you entered those houses which you never entered, every day, and that you have left a part of your heart, of your blood, of your soul, in those pavements. All those places which you no longer behold, which you may never behold again, perchance, and whose memory you have cherished, take on a melancholy charm, recur to your mind with the melancholy of an apparition, make the holy land visible to you, and are, so to speak, the very form of France, and you love them; and you call them up as they are, as they were, and you persist in this, and you will submit to no change: for you are attached to the figure of your fatherland as to the face of your mother.

[xx-riffraff-xx]

❆ ~ settled in the silence after ~ ❆

premise; Zayne deals with a mass casualty incident at the hospital. You pick up the pieces afterwards

warnings; HEAVY ANGST, death, hospitals, skipping meals, fainting from skipping meals, dissociation, guilt, self-doubt, evol backlash, hand-wavy doctor jobs

a/n; i went insane on call with a friend and wrote this monster. enjoy. (p.s. this post is pretty this time!)

friend's note; HE COOKED!

Zayne wakes before his alarm, as usual. The gentle light of the coming dawn drifts through the blinds. He gently brushes a strand of hair from your face. You were snoring softly. You’d deny that you were if he mentioned it to you. The two of you would “argue” about it until Zayne softly admitted that it was one of his favorite parts of his morning to know you were sleeping soundly. You’d blush and reach up to kiss him. He had to wait until after his shift at the hospital to play this game with you again.

He kisses your forehead softly and allows himself an extra couple minutes to burrow his nose in your neck. This is what he needs to face the day ahead of him. He crawls out of bed and sets about getting ready for the day. You’ll be greeted by the scent of coffee and breakfast on your nightstand when you wake up and no memory of the last gentle kiss he plants on your temple before he leaves. He takes the lunch you left for him in the fridge last night.

Akso Hospital is nothing out of the ordinary when Zayne first arrives. The hours tick by slowly, spent seeing patients and filling out paperwork. Then...

6:37 P.M. The ringing of a phone call from another hospital in the city disrupts his peace. The hospital is in shambles. People are dying. The Hunter’s Association is already on scene, instantly his mind flits to you. Second, to the influx of transfers soon to hit the floors of Akso Hospital. Zayne springs into action, communicating and organizing the response. They’ve got a big storm coming.

6:59 P.M. The first patients from the attack flood the hospital. Nurses and doctors and surgeons sprint through the halls. Ten patients in critical condition, their hearts in danger of stopping any moment. Zayne works quickly and effectively. The thoughts of the bodies still waiting to be saved settle heavy on his chest.

7:30 P.M. There are now thirty, fourty, fifty new patients in need of immediate medical attention. Zayne prays you aren’t hurt. He’s performed more sutures and blood transfusions than he can count in the span of half an hour. Under the harsh operating room light, another patient’s heart beats feebly in his hand.

8:41 P.M. Akso Hospital is out of beds. Zayne resigns himself to a long night. Yvonne calls other neighboring hospitals to see if they have hands or room. There’s nothing. Every hospital in the area is stretched thin. The Wanderer attacks continue.

9:18 P.M. A Wanderer breaks into the waiting room of Akso Hospital. It is frozen before it has the chance to attack anyone else, but Zayne doesn’t know for how long. There are more patients than there are beds. Victims crowd the waiting room despite the Wanderer. You are the hunter to respond to this particular attack. Zayne forces himself to focus on the task at hand, fights through his desire to fold you into his arms and forget this ever happened. He hasn’t eaten today. You’d be upset at him for that. He can’t help it.

10:43 P.M. The Metaflux fluctuations are finally under control. The flood of patients stems, but the system is still overwhelmed. Neighboring hospitals are swamped. Asko’s supplies are running out. There is so much pain. The suffering in the building seeps into Zayne’s body. He needs rest, but he has to keep going. It’s not over yet. The patient under his care does not make it. She is not the first.

12:45 A.M. The flow of injuries is neverending. Zayne has seen so many near-deaths in the past six hours that they blur together. Evan Mullaney, Jane Bridgers, Beatrice McCarthy, Kye Ingram, Oliver McCarthy... tens of others whose names he never got to know. Countless others who never made it to the hospital in the first place. Breaking the news to families is devastating every time. He has to keep going.

3:27 A.M. The urgency has slowed just enough that he can swap places with other nurses and doctors so they have the chance to sit for a moment, get something to eat, or close their eyes for twenty minutes. There are still tens of patients waiting for beds to open up, their condition steadily deteriorating. The weight of their families’ worlds threatens to crush him where they’re settled on his shoulders.

5:00 A.M. Zayne pauses for ten minutes. He cannot allow himself to stop for longer than that when there are so many people who need him. The first thing he does is check that you’re okay. The lunch you packed for him is finally opened. He can barely bring himself to stomach any of it.

8:56 A.M. Akso is working with little to nothing. Zayne uses his evol to cauterize wounds. They’re out of suture kits. He doesn’t know when they’ll get more.

12:27 P.M. The neighboring hospitals are at capacity, but stabilized. Zayne does not stop.

1:43 P.M. Zayne is nearly forced to stop. His vision swims as he walks down the hallway, pausing briefly to hold onto the wall for support. His blood flows icy cold in his veins. Frost creeps up his collarbones. He cannot stop. He has to keep going.

3:12 P.M. Dr. Greyson brings him something to eat and suggests he drink some water. A patient crashes before he can even refuse. Pain and suffering and despair permeate the walls. If he ever leaves Akso, he doesn’t think he can scrub it from underneath his skin. The hospital’s staff are exhausted. It does not get better. It only gets worse.

5:13 P.M. Zayne collapses. He’s out on the hallway floor for barely a minute. Dr. Greyson and Yvonne fret over him. They’re both as exhausted as he is, if not more. He eats to appease them. He cannot stop, there are still patients who need him. His fingers are frost-bitten.

8:34 P.M. The tension eases. Neighboring hospitals can accept patients for transfer, slowly. Zayne can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel. Almost.

12:19 A.M. Things have calmed down at Akso. There are extra hands on the way, but they won’t arrive until morning shift. Zayne will fill that space until then. Yvonne sleeps for a few, precious hours. Dr. Greyson has a full meal. Dr. Zayne is salvation for everyone in the hospital. His joints are stiff with cold. He cannot stop. He has to keep going.

7:09 A.M. After forty-eight hours straight of tragedy, the delirium is setting in, even for Zayne. Astra-sent help and supplies finally arrive. The waiting room slowly empties. Low-risk patients are cared for and sent home. Zayne tends to his regular patients as their primary care physician. He supresses his shivers. The tragedy is over, but he has to keep going.

4:45 P.M Paperwork, so much paperwork. Death certificates, discharge papers, treatment plans. He had no time to do any of it. There were at least two hundred victims that he cared for or helped care for. The stack of paperwork is inches thick. It hurts to hold his pen. His handwriting is atrocious. He writes anyway.

6:02 P.M. You show up in his office.

Time no longer matters, because you are there. The rest of the world fades back in around you. He’s so tired and hungry. He missed you, he missed you so much. The lunch you packed him is still on his desk, mostly untouched. All that matters is that you aren’t like the pallid, bloodless, lifeless faces he’s seen in the past thirty-six hours. You are blessedly alive.

He’s so caught up in the euphoria of missing you that he doesn’t register your reinforcements. Dr. Greyson and Yvonne enter behind you. You rush over, immediately checking him over. He brushes you off. “I’m fine, I’ll be home later tonight. I have to finish this paperwork.”

Dr. Greyson introjects. “Zayne, you’ve been awake for over two days straight. Go home. The paperwork can be finished another time.” He is promptly ignored. Distantly, he hears Dr. Greyson and Yvonne leave. A hand is placed on his chest.

“Please, love. Come home. You’ve given enough.” You plead. Your resonance slowly warms his joints. You are so warm. And under that warmth, he caves. An exhausted nod is all the permission you need. You take his keys from him and guide him downstairs. Zayne thinks he hears snide remarks made at his slumped form. The guilt claws his insides until he sees the faces he couldn’t save trapped under the rubble of his soul.

He blinks and he’s home. With you. The guilt grows greater. You settle him on the couch, bringing a bowl of soup to him. “Please eat.” You say softly, settled on the couch with him. The gentle act nearly shatters him. He gathers you in his arms and sets you on his lap, clinging to you like it’s the last moments before the world explodes. Or perhaps, he’s settled in the silence after. He tucks his cold nose into the crook of your neck.

“You need to rest, love.” You whisper to him as you nestle a kiss in his hair.

“Please. Just... Can we stay like this?” His voice breaks. Your heart breaks with it. This self-sacrificial, overworked idiot is going to be the death of you.

“Of course, love.” You are mindful of how much time passes so he doesn’t have to be. You made sure his soup was extra hot when you put it in the bowl, you knew this would happen. You saw the Wanderer attack first-hand. There was no way he could’ve saved everyone, but Astra knows he tried.

You count fifteen minutes before you try to convince him to eat some soup, twenty-five before you actually manage it. You draw him a bath. He’s exhausted, his coat is splattered with blood. You gently wash his hair and face. Zayne had thought the pain and suffering couldn’t be scrubbed from beneath his skin. Yet somehow, you made it seem effortless. The guilt doesn’t fade, but it... eases. Settles.

Soon, you’re snuggled in bed together. You hold him close and whisper sweet nothings into his hair. You expected him to pass out the second his head hit the pillow, but instead he’s tense.

“I have to go back. They need me.” Zayne states. There’s an undercurrent of desperation to his voice, but he doesn’t seem to be able to let go of you.

“Love, you are exhausted. You can’t save anyone until you save yourself.” You run a hand through his damp locks, resonating to melt the ice creeping up his neck. “Dr. Greyson told me you fainted. Do you know how worried I was?”

“I didn’t have time to stop. There were so many victims...” He trails off, gripping you tighter, curling further into you. “I tried. I promise, I tried.”

“I know, you did everything you could with what you had available.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“Zayne... you are talented and capable, but there’s only one of you.”

“I could’ve done more. I’m sure of it. Do you know how... agonizing it is to look someone in the eye and tell them that their loved one is gone?”

You’ve walked this path before. Zayne blames himself for every patient he can’t save, every patient who has to endure waiting long hours in pain. “I know. I’ve seen Wanderers rip apart families. I’ve seen the hurt and suffering that comes from it.”

The crook of your neck is damp. You pretend not to notice, as you always do. “It wasn’t your fault, Zayne. You did everything you could with the resources you had available to you.” Zayne doesn’t say anything else, but you feel the weight of the world relax off his shoulders. You stay pressed together until morning. You both have a busy day of nothing to get to tomorrow, after all.