#L&L's Flower Verse

[equallyloyalandlethal]

Let them fight

Theo sighed, sinking back against the side of his truck with a wince, letting it bear the brunt of his weight as he shifted and winced again. With a quiet groan, almost under his breath, he brought a hand down to his side, hovering it over where he knew a bruise that was more black than blue was settling beneath his skin. Full pack training days were decidedly less fun than the one-on-one or two-on-two’s he got away with the rest of the month.

[phoenixduelist]

@mvrtogg

At the end of the day, it was relatively harmless fun, mild inconvenience at worst. It's not like he was injured from the frequent encounters, his pride...an another question.

Of course no one let Marcell visiting his family's grave in New York go alone, not since they became his new family. While Rozália (and mostly everyone) preferred warmer climates, she hadn't given up on exploring an causing just a tiny bit of trouble during their stay. Marcell must be in need of a few fresh stories anyways. The first time was a genuine accident, she almost apologized. Almost.

It sort of became a surprise visit after she figured out the coffee shop is indeed the police officer's favorite go to as a start of the day. And it pretty much ended the same, with him drenched in his morning coffee; at this point she wouldn't be surprised if she was reflexively shot on sight by now. She was slowly but steadily upping the speed, nowhere near the full power but more than enough to warrant a large fine.

The woman snickered under the devil helmet, the familiar rush of adrenaline attaching its tiny hooks into her better judgment. The bright red Ducati zipped through street with an astonishing 150 kmh, shamelessy taking advantage of the small pools from the rain at dawn, adding a graceful arch of water to the usual spillt coffee.

Tires screeched at the quick brake to study her handiwork, for the first time even unclasping her helmet to do so.

"Learn how to drive bitch!" the frustrated remark by an another biker was followed by a long tongued, vulgar display hinting at how she should be given oral sex, the gesture shocking enough for the man to drive straight into a lamppost. Rich alto laughter followed the scene, catlike green eyes focusing on the officer again with a playful grin playing on her lips.

[basset-babe]

five times: the one point five.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

warnings: none but gossip yet again

word count: 2.9k+

a/n: please do send me a message or comment down if you would like to be added on the succeeding taglists for the five times series! here is 1.5 times with ben. enjoy! thanks loves <3! (also, pls do imagine ben holding a graft rose for this one heh)

five times series: the first. the one point five. the second. the third. the three point five. the fourth . at last. text divider from @heavenlayt and pattern banner from @cafekitsune thank you!

the one point five time.

In the hours of sunlight, callers have flooded the Y/L/N drawing room. All bringing gifts and performances in hopes to win the favourable yes of the season's paragon, Miss Y/N Y/L/N. The grand parlor, adorned with exquisite tapestries and sparkling chandeliers, buzzed with the lively hum of conversations and the tinkling laughter of society’s elite. Lavish bouquets of rare, fragrant flowers filled the room, their heady scent mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed tea and delectable pastries arrayed on silver platters.

Gentlemen, dressed in their finest attire, lined up to present their offerings to Miss Y/L/N, each one more extravagant than the last. Some brought intricate jewelry, glittering with precious stones, while others offered rare books, hoping to appeal to her reputed love of literature. Musicians performed virtuoso pieces on the grand piano, their fingers dancing over the keys in a bid to capture her attention through the power of melody. Poets recited verses composed in her honor, their words dripping with adoration and longing.

Miss Y/L/N, the epitome of grace and poise, received each suitor with a warm smile and a gracious word. Her eyes, sparkling with intelligence and kindness, moved across the room, acknowledging the efforts and intentions of each visitor. Her charm was such that even a simple nod or a softly spoken thank you felt like a cherished treasure to the eager suitors.

The hour had struck past 1 in the afternoon when, hopefully, the last caller of the day had bid his farewells. The Y/L/N drawing room, which had been a whirlwind of activity, now began to settle into a quieter, more contemplative atmosphere. The sunlight streaming through the large windows cast a bright hue over the room, highlighting the opulent furnishings and the array of gifts that had been presented to Miss Y/N Y/L/N throughout the morning.

Servants moved gracefully, clearing away the remnants of the lavish spread of refreshments while ensuring that every detail of the room remained immaculate. The air was still fragrant with the scent of roses, lilies, and other exotic flowers that had been brought by admirers, creating a heady, almost intoxicating environment.

"As much as I do love botanicals, all these flowers have turned obnoxious to my senses, Grandmama," Y/N sighed, feeling the urge to slouch on the couch. Her frame was poised elegantly despite her weariness, a testament to her upbringing and the endless etiquette lessons she had endured.

Her grandmother, the Viscountess Y/L/N, reentered the room with a look of satisfaction mixed with maternal concern. "My dear," she said softly, "you have conducted yourself admirably. The attention you have garnered is truly remarkable, but alas, this be the trials of being the season's paragon," she said with jest. "A small price to pay for such adoration and the opportunities it presents."

Y/N allowed herself a small, rueful smile. "It has been a most eventful day. I do hope I have shown the proper appreciation to each caller." She gently plucked a stray petal from her gown, its soft texture a stark contrast to her current mood.

"Rest assured, my dear, that this too shall pass," her grandmother replied soothingly. "Soon, you will look back on these days with fondness, perhaps even in laughter."

Y/N nodded, though she wasn't entirely convinced. She admired her grandmother's ability to see the positive in any situation. Lady Y/L/N had once been the toast of her own social season, and her wisdom was hard-earned through years of navigating similar waters.

"Would it be terribly improper to open a window, Grandmama?" Y/N asked, her eyes drifting towards the heavy drapes that concealed the afternoon breeze. "I believe a bit of fresh air might revive my spirits."

The Viscountess chuckled softly. "Not at all, my dear. In fact, I think it would do us both good." She motioned to a nearby maid, who quickly moved to pull back the drapes and open the window, allowing a refreshing breeze to sweep into the room. The cool air carried with it the scents of the garden outside, a welcome contrast to the overwhelming floral arrangements within.

Y/N took a deep breath, feeling instantly more at ease. "Thank you, Grandmama. That is much better."

"Now, my dear," Mrs. Y/L/N said, her tone becoming more serious, "while you have a moment of peace, tell me—was there any caller today who truly caught your eye?"

Y/N considered the question carefully. There had been many suitors, each with their own merits. Some had been charming, others earnest, and a few rather boastful. But it was not that she minded all these suitors; it was who she looked forward to that truly occupied her thoughts. It had been this Bridgerton man she'd hoped would be calling on her the entire morning. Unfortunately, he had not been seen yet in this drawing room.

"Y/N, my dear, are you still with us?" Lady Y/L/N's gentle voice broke through her reverie.

"Yes, Grandmama," Y/N replied, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "I was merely thinking."

"About anyone in particular?" her grandmother inquired with a knowing smile.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then decided there was no point in hiding her thoughts from her perceptive grandmother. "To be quite honest, I was hoping to see Mr. Bridgerton today.. well as of this morn," she admitted. "I fear he may have been otherwise engaged."

"Ah, Mr. Bridgerton," Lady Y/L/N said thoughtfully. "A fine young man, from a respected family. It is no wonder you look forward to his call. Perhaps he will still make an appearance."

Y/N nodded, though she knew the likelihood was slim as the noon wore on. She took another deep breath of the fresh air now circulating through the room, trying to shake off her disappointment. The season was long, and there would be other opportunities to see him again.

"There was Sir Nicholas Deveraeux. He was quite charming," Y/N remarked.

"He comes from a good family as well, but I've heard his uncle," Her grandmother leaned in conspiratorially, "envies the crown."

Y/N laughed at the Viscountess' antics. "Grandmama, that's quite scandalous. Wherever did you hear such a thing?" Y/N laughed.

"Deborah told me," her grandmother said, motioning to her maid. Y/N couldn't help but laugh at the notion of her grandmama indulging in gossip. "But I must tell you, I keep my options open still," she stated matter-of-factly, regaining my composure.

"Even though you are clearly captivated by Mr. Bridgerton's smile," Her grandmother teased. "It is wise to keep your options open, my dear, so as not to appear too eager for any one gentleman's attentions."

"Indeed," Y/N thought to herself, "it is prudent not to seem desperate and helpless this early in the season. After all, the season is just beginning, and there will be many more opportunities for maybe much more meaningful encounters."

The older woman patted the young lady's hand reassuringly. "You are a clever girl, my Y/N. Your charm and grace will surely attract many suitors. Just remember to enjoy the process and not to place all your hopes on one gentleman, no matter how enchanting his smile may be."

Y/N nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination. The season was an adventure, and she was ready to embrace it with an open heart and mind. As her grandmama said, there would be many chances to find the right match, and she intends to savor every moment.

Just as she was about to resign herself to the wait, a soft knock sounded at the drawing room door. Both Y/N and her grandmother turned their heads in surprise as the butler entered.

"Forgive the interruption, ma'am," he said with a slight bow. "But there is one more caller who has just arrived."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat as the butler stepped aside, revealing none other than Mr. Bridgerton himself. He stood at the threshold, his confident demeanor softened by a warm, sincere smile.

"Good afternoon, Lady Y/L/N, Miss Y/L/N," he greeted them, bowing respectfully. "I apologize for my tardiness. I hope I am not intruding."

Lady Y/L/N's eyes twinkled with amusement as she replied, "Not at all, Mr. Bridgerton. We are delighted to see you."

Y/N felt her spirits lift instantly, her earlier fatigue forgotten. "Indeed, Mr. Bridgerton," she said, her smile reflecting the genuine pleasure she felt. "Your timing is impeccable."

Mr. Bridgerton's eyes met hers, and for a moment, it felt as though they were the only two people in the room. "I am glad to hear that, Miss Y/L/N," he said. "I have been looking forward to our meeting."

As he stepped further into the room, bringing with him an air of warmth and possibility, Y/N knew that this visit was just the beginning. The season held many uncertainties, but in that moment, with Mr. Bridgerton's presence brightening the drawing room, she felt a renewed sense of hope and excitement for what was to come.

He walked closer, offering his wrapped gift with a warm smile. "I know of your love of botanicals. Although, I wasn't sure what to get, but I opted for a grafted Rosa Falstaff from our estate's own gardens."

Y/N's eyes widened with surprise and delight as she reached out to accept the potted rose. "A Rosa Falstaff? From your family's gardens?" she exclaimed, her fingers gently tracing the leaves and delicate blooms.

"Yes," Benedict nodded, his gaze softening as he watched her reaction. "I thought it would be a fitting addition to your collection, considering your fondness for floriculture."

"Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton. This is truly truly thoughtful of you." Y/N's eyes lit up as she accepted the graft, appreciating the gesture.

Mr. Bridgerton smiled, a hint of relief and pleasure in his eyes. "I'm glad you like them, Miss Y/L/N. I thought something from home might be more personal and meaningful than the usual offerings."

Mrs. Y/L/N, observing the interaction with a pleased expression, decided to give the young couple some space. "If you'll excuse me, I have some correspondence to attend to," she said, rising gracefully. "Please, Mr. Bridgerton, make yourself comfortable."

As her grandmother left the room, Y/N gestured for Mr. Bridgerton to sit beside her on the elegant settee. "It's so refreshing to receive something so genuine," she said, placing the graft gently on the table beside them. "Tell me more about your estate's gardens. They must be quite beautiful."

Mr. Bridgerton settled into the seat, his expression brightening as he began to speak. "Our gardens are indeed a sight to behold, especially in the spring. We have a variety of flowers, from different roses to lavender, and even some more exotic species like that which my mother is particularly fond of. Each section of the garden has its own unique charm and character."

Y/N listened intently, her interest piqued not just by the subject but by the way he spoke with such genuine affection for his home. "It sounds enchanting," she said. "I would love to see it someday."

He smiled, clearly pleased by her response. "I would be honored to show you around Aubrey Hall, Miss Y/L/N. Perhaps you could offer some advice on expanding our collection of botanicals."

"I would be delighted," Y/N replied, her smile matching his. "There are always new species to discover and cultivate. It would be a pleasure to share that with someone who appreciates it as much as I do."

As they continued to talk, the conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on various topics of mutual interest. The room seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them engrossed in their exchange. The connection they felt was palpable, a promising hint of what could be a deep and meaningful relationship.

The noon sun cast a golden glow through the open window, bathing them in warm light. It was as if the world outside had conspired to create the perfect moment, one that Y/N would cherish as the beginning of something truly special.

"Why not a change of scenery, Miss Y/N? May I enchant you to a walk with me this afternoon?" Mr. Bridgerton asked, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Y/N felt a flutter of excitement at his proposal, though very different from norm indeed. The thought of a leisurely walk, away from the confines of the drawing room and amidst the fresh air and beauty of the outdoors, was undeniably appealing. She glanced at her grandmother, who had discreetly lingered near the doorway.

Mrs. Y/L/N, catching her granddaughter's hopeful expression, gave a subtle nod of approval. "I think that sounds like a splendid idea, Mr. Bridgerton," she said. "A bit of fresh air through my garden will do you both good."

"Thank you, Grandmama," Y/N replied, her smile widening. She turned back to Mr. Bridgerton, her eyes meeting his with a mix of excitement and gratitude. "I would be delighted to join you for a walk."

Mr. Bridgerton offered his arm, which Y/N took with a graceful nod. Together, they made their way out of the drawing room and through the grand halls of the Y/L/N residence. The household staff, now accustomed to the comings and goings of numerous callers, discreetly stepped aside, offering polite smiles as the pair passed.

As they stepped out into the sunlight, the warmth of the afternoon embraced them. The gardens of the Y/L/N estate stretched out before them, a riot of color and fragrance that promised a delightful stroll. Birds chirped melodiously, adding a charming soundtrack to their walk.

"Your gardens are truly beautiful, Miss Y/L/N," Mr. Bridgerton remarked as they began their promenade. "It's easy to see where your love for botanicals comes from."

"Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton," Y/N replied, her gaze sweeping over the well-tended flower beds and neatly trimmed hedges. "I find great joy in spending time here. There's something so peaceful about being surrounded by nature."

They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, taking in the beauty around them. Y/N's lady's maid chaperoning behind. The gravel path crunched softly underfoot, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

"I must admit," Mr. Bridgerton said, breaking the silence, "I was quite nervous about coming here today. I wasn't sure if my gift would be well-received."

Y/N looked up at him, surprised. "You needn't have worried," she assured him. "Your gift was one of the most endearing ones I have received. It speaks volumes about your character and your genuine interest. Quite a change in the morn's most fragrant bouquets. All exquisite but a tad bit too much on my senses." I gestured towards my nose.

He smiled, clearly relieved. "I'm glad to hear that, Miss Y/L/N. I hoped to make a meaningful impression."

"You certainly have," she replied warmly. "And now, here we are, enjoying a lovely walk together. It seems your efforts have been rewarded."

As they continued their walk, their conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on topics both serious and lighthearted. They shared stories, laughed together, and discovered common interests. The connection between them grew stronger with each passing moment, the bond of friendship and potential courtship becoming more tangible.

"So, do tell me more about you, Mr. Bridgerton."

"Do call me Benedict, if you please. Provided, of course, that you feel comfortable and we are beyond the earshot of your lady's maid." his eyebrows raise in suggestive jest.

Y/N chuckled, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. "Very well, Benedict. You may address me by Y/N as well."

Benedict smiled, clearly pleased by her informal, now more familiar, address. "My days are usually spent at home, but sometimes, I spend my time in my art studio at the academy."

"Yes, you've mentioned of yourself an artist, I remember." Y/N remarked, intrigued. "That is fascinating. What sort of art do you create?"

Benedict's face lit up with enthusiasm as he began to describe his passion. "I work primarily with oils on canvas, though I do enjoy sketching as well. There's something incredibly satisfying about capturing a moment or a feeling in a piece of art. It’s a way to express myself that words sometimes fail to achieve."

Y/N listened intently, her admiration growing. "I would love to see your work someday. It must be wonderful to have such a creative outlet."

"It is," Benedict agreed, a note of pride in his voice. "And I would be honored to show you my studio and some of my pieces. Perhaps I could even paint your portrait, if you would allow me."

Y/N blushed at the thought, a mixture of shyness and excitement. "I would be delighted, Benedict. Though I must warn you, I may not be the most patient of sitters."

Benedict laughed, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I’m sure we would manage just fine. And who knows, you might find the experience enjoyable."

"I look forward to it," Y/N said, her smile reflecting her genuine interest. "But tell me more about your family. I have heard much about the Bridgertons, but I would love to hear it from your perspective."

Benedict's expression softened as he spoke of his family. "We are a large, close-knit group. There are eight of us siblings, and we were all raised with a strong sense of duty and love seeing my late father and mother attend to our household. My mother, Violet, is the heart of our family. She has always encouraged us to pursue our passions and support each other."

"That sounds wonderful," Y/N said, touched by his words. "Family is so important. I imagine it must be lively with so many siblings."

"It certainly is," Benedict replied with a grin. "There is never a dull moment at Bridgerton House. We have our share of disagreements, of course, but we always come together in the end. All the laughter and camaraderie make it worthwhile."

Y/N felt a warm connection forming between them, their shared values and interests creating a bond that felt both natural and exciting. "I would love to meet them all someday, even so now that your brother has found himself a wife. Such exciting things!" she said.

"And they would be delighted to meet you," Benedict assured her. "I can already tell that you would fit right in."

"He thinks of me as someone who would fit with his family? I could feel my heart flutter," Y/N thought, the realization sending a warm, thrilling sensation through her.

As they continued their conversation, the afternoon sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the garden. The hours had slipped away unnoticed, a testament to the ease and enjoyment they found in each other's company.

Eventually the day had struck shy of 3 at afternoon and they made their way back to the main house, the promise of future meetings and shared experiences hanging in the air. As they reached the steps, Benedict turned to Y/N, his expression earnest and hopeful.

"Thank you for a wonderful afternoon, Y/N," he said. "I look forward to our next meeting."

"As do I, Benedict," Y/N replied, her heart full of anticipation. "Until then."

With a final, warm smile, Benedict took his leave, leaving Y/N with a sense of happiness and a fluttering hope for the future. The day had been more than she could have imagined, and she felt a deep sense of gratitude for the connection they had begun to forge.

taglist: @novausstuff @pussyslayerhd @amoosarte

[adrienneleclerc]

girl! I love everything you write! I have a tiny request if possible, what would you thing about wrote a scenario/reaction of Charles at a concert by his Latina girlfriend with some of the guys from the grill? Something like the first time seen her on the stage 🙈 ily

Ooh I love that!!! Like always, I’ll be using Becky G as a face claim for the header, I love you too! I am so glad you like what I write, sometimes I’m not too sure about some of the fics I post but I really am glad you like them. And his Latina girlfriend doesn’t know Charles will be there either!

Superstar

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Hispanic/Latina! Reader

Summary: Charles is dating the Latin superstar, Y/N L/N, and he finally sees her on stage.

Warning: spelling and grammatical errors

A/N: hope y’all like It, I believe the header look PERFECT for this, I know I always use Becky G but I fucking love her, what you gonna do?

Charles and Y/N were by far the most loved couple on the grid, their outfits were always coordinated for media day, whenever Y/N has a new song released, Charles will post about it, Y/N music videos will always have Charles somewhere in the background, something of his in the background, or as her love interest in the video, they were so supportive of each other. However, Charles has never seen her perform live, he has never been to one of her concerts at all.

Y/N was currently in the Rose Bowl Stadium, backstage, doing her makeup and doing a wardrobe check. The white cargo pants and crop top looks good, her hair was styled perfectly, and she got her phone so she could call Charles before performing. However, what she didn’t know, was that Charles was somewhere in the Rose Bowl with Carlos, Lando, Lewis, Pierre, and Oscar.

“Can’t believe we drove down here.” Pierre said, moving through the crowd. “Can’t you just wait until your girlfriend does a European tour? And why do you have roses?” Pierre asks

“I haven’t seen her in 2 weeks, this is her first full headline tour, my girl deserves her flowers. Plus, who knows if I’ll be free when she’ll have a European tour.” Charles said.

“I am excited, look many fans Y/N has.” Lando said,

“Yeah, she’s very popu…” Charles started saying but the crowd started screaming, he saw a spotlight, and that’s when he saw Y/N in her performance outfit, she was glowing, waving at the audience.

“Como están, Pasadena?!?” Y/N asked the crowd, they cheered “If you do not know who I am, my name is Y/N, and this is my first stop in my US tour! Now let’s get this concerted! I mean it’s reason why you’re all here.” The track ‘Arranca’ started playing, Y/N was dancing, singing, interacting with the crowd, Charles watched in awe and Carlos sang along,

“You know the song?” Lewis asked the Spanish man.

“It’s on my playlist, cabrón.” Carlos answered, making Lewis laugh. Charles pulled out his phone to record her. The song finished after a minute.

“Now as you guys may know, I have a boyfriend.” Y/N said and the crowd started cheering. “He’s a few years older than me, as all Latino parents, they’re a little concerned, but I told them que a mí me gustan mayores.”

The crowd went crazy as the song ‘Mayores’ began to play, the song went along as normal until the second verse. “Si él supiera que en mi mente yo solo quiero a uno, dice que en la mañana me quiere de desayuno, como él ninguno, dura más que uno de 21, él se pone para todas mis locuras, sabe que a mi me tiene segura, no quiero un Romeo, no quiero aventura, Daddy Yankee sabe que estoy dura, me resuelve siempre 24/7, pa él me quedan de más los juguetes, me da todo nuevo del paquete, difícil que con él tú te compares, mejor vete.” And everyone SCREAMED, Carlos laughed and put his hands on Charles’s shoulders, shaking him. If he knew that I only want one person on my mind, he says he wants to have me for breakfast, there’s no guy like him, he lasts longer than a 21 year old. He’s down for whatever, my ride or die, he knows I’m his, I don’t want a Romeo, I don’t want adventure, Daddy Yankee knows I’m bad, he’s ready 24/7 (like if Y/N wants sex, Charles is DOWN), there’s no need for toys when I’m with him, everything he gives me is brand new, it’s difficult if you think you can compare to him, you better leave.

“Wow, cabrón, didn’t know you had it in you.” Carlos said.

“I really gotta learn Spanish.” Charles said.

“Yes you do.” Carlos replies.

After like 28 songs, the concert finished.

“Thank you so much, Pasadena, you have been a great audience, I’ll see you next time!” Y/N said. Once the lights turned on, Charles said goodbye by to the boys.

“Hey, I’m gonna see Y/N backstage, I’ll meet you guys later.” Charles said.

“Yeah sure, we’ll be in the cars.” Pierre said.

While Charles went to one of the security guards, the boys got out of the stadium singing one of Y/N’s songs.

“Ahora tengo novio nuevo que me hace ram Pam Pam Pam Pam.” They sang.

“Don’t know Spanish, but her songs are so good!” Oscar exclaimed.

“Yes they are, we should go to more concerts actually.” Lewis said.

Charles got escorted to Y/N’s dressing room and knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Y/N said and she turned around, seeing Charles holding flowers. “Muñeco!” Y/N said, getting up to hug him, Charles hugged her back hard, rubbing her back. She pulled away. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in Las Vegas? Isn’t your flight back to Monaco tomorrow?”

“I came to see you, I never saw you perform before, you were amazing. The crowd loved you, Carlos was singing along, I think Lewis, Pierre, Lando, and Oscar became fans…” Charles said.

“Wait, the 6 of you drove down here to see me?” Y/N asked.

“Of course. Well, Pierre and Lewis drove the cars.” Charles admitted.

“Well I’m glad they liked the show.” Y/N said.

Liked by yourusername and 2,726,566 others

charles_leclerc went to see my girlfriend perform last night and she was amazing! Couldn’t be more proud of her for her first headline tour at 21 years old. She is talented and I finally got to see her perform for the first time ever. I love you, mon coeur 😘❤️

View all 10,291 comments

yourusername loved the surprise, muñeco! I love you too, I expect to see you at more concerts from now on

carlossainz55 i have your songs stuck in head now

yourusername as you should!

landonorris best concert I’ve been to in a long time, glad I went with you

oscarpiastri thank you for inviting me, dad

lewishamilton big fan of her music, Roscoe is loving it too

pierregasly i already added some of her songs to my playlist

y/n_Queen love that the grid became fans of her, so cute 🥰

user39 Charles is giving “male wife” and I love it!

user18 will we be getting more Y/N songs on the F1 playlist 😱

The End

Hope y’all liked it! It’s a little short but I think it turned out well

[hexonthepeach]

perfume - k.dy

pairing: f4!nct doyoung x fem!reader (past johnny x reader mentions)

genre: hana yori dango/boys over flowers/meteor garden/f4 thailand reverse harem au (mild allusions and characterization only)

warnings:

bully-to-friends-to-lovers, established relationship, polyamory, dom!doyoung, glucose father adjacent, scent kink, control over food consumption/bathing (for scent kink purposes only), gratuitous use of the l-word by anti-romantics, angst/feelings, flashbacks and history

🔞 edging, cockwarming, orgasm denial, oral (m/f receiving), passionate sex, rough sex, spanking, creampie, bukkake, consensual negotiated kink (degradation, somnophilia), anal play (f receiving)

wordcount: 20k

author's note: this is a doyoung-centered continuation of my ongoing F4 au. it can stand on it's own but i recommend reading Dive for more context. Doyoung's role in the F4 is Sojirou Nishikado/So Yijung/Ximen/Kavin (playboy control freak) so this fic incorporates elements of his secondary romance within the original/adaptations, now with y/n.

read on AO3

fic headers / dividers credit to @ saradika + please do not repost

Freshman year, Kocher International. 

Head down in your books at lunch, trying so hard to escape scrutiny from above, you pretend to be no one. 

It shouldn't be hard to be nobody, otherwise ignored and immune to whatever social contract deliberates your life. In a better world you'd be invisible. It's a superpower you'd wish for much more over the usual playground answers of super speed or control of the weather. 

Let me be unobserved, you'd thought. Let me open a door and not worry about a bucket full of dirty mop water falling on my head or the inevitable posting of a grainy video of it, posted in a Telegram channel to fulfill some checklist made up by bored, rich monsters. 

Your four-generation-behind phone with its cracked screen proved useful in some regards; you never heard about these public pillories until some kind stranger sent you a screenshot of them, usually in the context of whatever plans they'd made to torture you again.

Every notification is already a pain, driving splintered glass into the pads of your fingers. Just now you're reading a text message from your father asking you to pick up more cheap instant noodles from the convenience store on your walk home to round out whatever scraps he's picked up from the local restaurant your mother bussed tables and cleaned dishes at when she needed extra money.

"Why is Saint Kim watching you?" your friend asks across the table. She's been looking up at the room this entire time, unable to give you even a moment of her attention or assistance to finish the English homework you'd been working on. You'd been rushing all day to finish it before afternoon class, after a late morning of delivery driving for your family's drycleaning business.

"Are you sure it's not the Devil?" you ask, parsing through the lines of a book you'd bought secondhand, trying to match verse for verse.

"No," she says, shaking her head when you finally look up. "Don't react. He's coming this way."

"Shit," you say under your breath, eyes flicking to your untouched lunch. "I need you to leave now. Take these trays and dump them and I'll meet you outside of 4th. If I make it."

You don't look up from your book as you mutter, but you follow her path and her hesitancy as she internally debates whether to heed your warning or watch from a safe distance.

Your handwriting becomes a scrawl of nonsense you have to cross out in sharp lines. You begin the verse again, holding your breath as you will your entire body and mind back to a manufactured calm. 

If you can't be invisible, you can at least play your role. You're copacetic by the time you see the tips of polished black wingtips beside you, before you hear the Saint clear his throat.

“Y/N.”

He drops a familiar, school-mandated clear cosmetics bag next to your ratty backpack. The already embarrassing stash of tampons and old chapstick has a new bounty including a "used" pregnancy test stick with a second line drawn in with pink gel pen jumbled into its contents.

"You left this . . ." he says, not finishing the sentence to indicate where he'd found it. You immediately hear a titter. Your flock of spectators is growing by the second and the useful idiot at its center seems wholly unconcerned.

"Thanks," you say, not bothering to look up or to even hide the bag. You keep writing, blindly, the English words just rounded shapes flowing from your shaking hand. 

Their kind fed off attention, your only defense is to starve them of it.

The Saint clears his throat, again. Apparently he’s not just unconcerned, he’s also unwilling to leave.

"Aren't you grateful Doie found it before someone else did?" You don’t have to look up to know it's Miranda who’s asked, glimpsing her manicure as she picks up your bag, green gems shining on perfectly-tipped nails. 

"Oh this must not be hers. I didn't think she could afford this."

You think she might be diving into the stash for one of the Lilies' pointed additions but no–you watch in horror as she plucks out the bottle of perfume you'd been carrying with you since your parents had gifted you a single, tiny box last Christmas. 

"Chanel?" she says, laughing. "No wonder you smell like my grandma."

"Probably a knock-off," another of the Lilies says. Ginger, by the sound of her grating voice. Her handwriting on the board in homeroom listing out your abortions is as familiar as the pink gel pen script on the extra large foil condom with xoxo slut written on it staring at you through the plastic.

"Definitely a knock-off. You have a nose, don't you, Doie?"

You look up, finally, at Saint Kim. He's alone for once–the other one, the Devil Kim that shadows him is still up on the second level, leaning on the railing over his shoulder. You watch the Saint’s small mouth turn into a moue of distaste, nose wrinkling at the proffered bottle.

"Authentic," he says, capping it before offering it back to you. Your field of vision is obstructed by that veined, pale hand–fingernails as perfectly groomed as the rich girls who surround him.

You reach up to take your most prized possession back only to find he doesn't let go, holding tight when you try to pluck it from his fingers.

"You should know . . . " he says, sniffing slightly.

You look up at him with alarm blazing in your eyes. Every word Kim Doyoung says to you writes your next damnation. You should ignore him, run, anything–but you can't look away once you've met his assessing gaze, his tall frame limned in the fluorescent cafeteria lights like he's carrying his own personal halo. 

Even seeing him at a distance every day can't depreciate how ethereally handsome he is. You know better than to swoon at that elegant face, night-black hair pushed away from his forehead. Beneath his family’s charities and his PR-scripted concern you know he’s just another ungodly creation birthed of nepotism and curated genes.

He leans in, carefully, musical voice a whisper. 

"You should know it doesn't suit you."

The laughter that follows is deafening.

No, you think. He's just as soulless as the rest of them.

“What do you mean actually sleep?" you ask, coyly, unbuttoning your romper. "Like after we . . . ?"

"I've managed 6 hours of sleep in 36 hours, y/n–” Doyoung seems to hesitate, dark eyebrows raising, hand pushing his hair back from his pale forehead. He snaps his laptop closed, at last, shoving it to the farthest edge of the bedside table.

No–you think–not hesitation. 

Frustration.

You've seen this man before. 

All work and no play made Saint Kim into a Prince of Hell. He'd spent the first 8 hours of your date day half-present–the other in the 4 hours of sleep he's gotten since some crisis at his family’s headquarters in London that usurped your vacation. 

A whole 2 days in which he hasn't held you at all. His rules, his chance, but you can't help but wonder what has him so clenched that he's barely even touched you since your date began at 6 am Bangkok time.

You'd taken two extra strength melatonin and slept like the dead, anticipating his early-riser schedule. Only you and God had to know you'd fallen asleep next to your day tour fit ready to be fucked in it. 

You’d made yourself so pretty only to find him in the kitchen hunched over his phone, laptop softly pinging with notifications. Doyoung had still been dressed in the clothes you'd seen him in the night before, ending his conference call to laser in on you hovering in the kitchen.

"Are you upset?" Doyoung asked.

"No," you'd lied, pushing the piece of paper he'd left the staff on the counter, his English handwriting crisp and formal. "What’s this?" 

"We have a few dietary restrictions today," he’d said. 

"Are you saying I am what I eat?" You’d asked, taking a bite of a plump strawberry. "Is this some kind of prep?"

"It's for the date," he'd said, resigned. "Just be patient with me."

Then he'd smiled, disarming you with a casualness you hadn’t seen on him in a long time, rubbing his eyes blearily under his thick glasses. 

"Can we go back to sleep?"

And so you'd settled into his grasp on your made bed, scrolling Insta and waiting for the inevitable alarm–which turned out just to be Jungwoo delivering two iced Americanos in some gambit of checking your progress.

"Missed the floating market opening?" Jungwoo asked, eyebrows raised at the sight of Doyoung face first in a pillow.

You'd silently mouthed your thanks, leaving the drinks to sweat on the bedside table as you changed into your second outfit of the day, occasionally drifting in to check on your sleeping beauty.

It was a rare delight to have him so vulnerable beside you, blanket rucked up beneath his chin and his white teeth visible past the sweet curves of his mouth. Without consciousness your partner for the day is just Kim Doyoung, the gentler side of the same creature who you knew would often choose a couch to watch serial television with you over a day trip if you wanted it. 

But this was different.

Now instead of using his precious time to fulfill what you'd felt promised in his casual brushes against your back when you'd finally traveled out, or the way he'd stroked your leg at brunch under the table (every bite chosen by him, of course), you're being railroaded into lying still while he sleeps. 

Again.

You continue undressing, letting him drink in the sight of the lingerie set he’d left in your room. You knew it was custom made by the way it lifted each curve he’d already had access to, tailored for you as if every millimeter of your body was to account for.

Doyoung's cheeks are hollowed, lip chewed. He pulls his glasses down and regards you even more as you continue to undress yourself.

"You do know what the word 'nap' means, don't you?"

"I'm not the one who hasn't slept," you say. "At least let me get comfortable."

His stare pierces into you as you turn around, stripping for utility rather than give him a show he clearly hasn’t earned. You check yourself in the floor-length mirror beside the bathroom, viewing yourself through his eyes as you pluck the lace over your curves to sit just right. 

“Do you like it?” you ask.

You may as well be speaking to the floor when you turn around, finding him buried in the pillows only by the dark fall of his hair.

“You can’t be that tired,” you say. 

You're used to taking a late afternoon siesta in peak summer but you're far too excited to even consider sleep right now. For one, it's sweltering–windows open to allow the noises of hawkers and traffic not far off to drift in.

Second, you've never been more turned on in your life. 

You can still feel the tingling in your toes from when he’d slipped his hand up under the hem of your shorts, teasing at the velvety smooth skin on your inner thigh as you tried not to choke on your mimosa.

You make your way to the bed languidly, crawling up the thick white duvet with a teasing smile.

"Just stay on your side of the bed, please," Doyoung says.

"Oh," you say, collapsing on top of the covers beside him. "Well you're no fun." 

"And you're impatient and uncouth," he retorts in a way that makes you wonder if he really means it. 

"Will you at least hold onto me?"

"Too hot." He rolls on his back, flapping his half-buttoned shirt in the breeze from the fans. You sigh dramatically, collapsing into the pillows in the middle of the bed. 

"You should get naked, then.” You say. “Don't be modest on my account."

He opens one eye to glare at you, finding you relaxed and inviting beside him. His throat bobs, gaze flicking to the ceiling.

"That year of celibacy really took a toll on you, didn't it? Two hours. Indulge me."

"Please, sir," you whisper. "I've been such a good girl."

It had been a stipulation of the F4’s latest deal–24 hours for you to recover from your first night before the gauntlet began. Doyoung had been more than strict about the terms, leaving you your own set of instructions including–not surprisingly–not touching yourself.

Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t think about masturbation constantly, at all hours of the day. He may as well have told you to try not to think about a white bear for how powerful the intrusive thought had taken over since then.

"You'll get your reward. Later," he says. He's an impassable wall, stretched out beside you, so you content yourself with staring at his profile. Even under these oppressive circumstances you appreciate the light dusting of freckles on his cheek brought out by the sun, the dark lashes dusting his cheeks over the slight bluish marks of sleep deprivation.

"Yes, sir."

It only takes a few minutes for him to snap at you again.

"Stop that," 

"Stop what?" 

"Getting so handsy."

You hadn’t even realized your hand had drifted over the plane of his belly under his white shirt, too absorbed with watching the muscles in his cheek spasm as you inched nearer. 

"Can I help it when you're right there?" you ask. "I thought this was your–"

Doyoung rolls you before you can slither any closer, pressing your back into the sheets with his hands on your wrists, knees digging into your thighs. 

If the intention was to get you to stop being uncomfortably turned on it has the opposite effect: you let out a moan of pleasure, legs twisting together for friction. He slams them shut between his own, groin pressed into yours.

He's as hard as you hoped, and you lift up into him to let him know you know it.

"If you don't behave I'll have to cancel this," he warns directly in your ear, sounding as choked as you feel. "I thought you were already trained." 

"Trained to fight back," you correct, pressing against him with your own strength.

"That's not trained," he says, lifting up. "I'll blame your lack of experience and experienced partners. Nothing we can't work on. Until then you'll follow my rules or I pull you from the game. Understood?" 

You let a few beats pass, accepting there's no way out and you don't have anything to throw back at him.

"Yes, sir," you pout.

"Now that's a good girl," he says.

Just as quickly as you were taken down you're let go, inhaling deeply now that you're not being pressed into the soft bed. 

"You really don't want to play with me before you sleep?" you ask, brushing your lips against his chin as he crouches over you. You’d be a liar if you didn’t say you enjoyed the way his nostrils flare a bit, working his pink bottom lip between his teeth. Whatever arbitrary rules he’d set for your time together you can tell he’s at least regretting it right now, stiff length brushing against your bare leg as you lift your knee to test it. 

“Are you trying to make me punish you?” he asks, voice husky. 

"I thought you liked it when I was a brat," you say, cocking your head. 

Doyoung sighs, eyes half-lidded. "I do. But not when you're using it to avoid intimacy."

Your throat clenches, a hard knot forming in it you can't seem to swallow as your face gets even hotter.

“What are you talking about?” you ask. 

“I think you know what I mean,” he continues. “It’s not like we both don’t have a habit of using sex as a distraction from anything emotionally challenging.”

You gape up at him in disbelief. 

Of course you’d never been able to hide that aspect of your last relationship with him when he’d often been right outside the door. All of the F4 knew how many times your arguments with he-who-should-not-be-named-especially-not-while-in-bed-with-his-best-friend had ended in you shutting him up by any means necessary. Not that you didn’t enjoy it at the time–but rather you understood it wasn’t the most healthy template for a relationship. 

"I thought this wasn't going to be about feelings," you blurt out.

“Proving my point.”

Doyoung tsks, tapping your cheek with his fingers–nowhere near a slap but just as effective, soothing the spot with his thumb. Soon he’s brushing your tears away when they inevitably spring up and you have to turn to hide their seep into the mass of pillows.

"If I wanted therapy I wouldn't be here, Kim Doyoung," you say, trying to bury your face in the piles of soft down. 

“Shh, silly girl,” He gently pulls you out from hiding, soothing you with a warm kiss against your forehead when you stop struggling and let him hold you, releasing that surge of emotion and writing it off to hormones and the sting of rejection.

“You know I’m speaking to myself here, too,” he states softly. “Bear with me, I’m learning.” 

"Do you even really like me?" you ask, face pressed into his chest. 

It’s horrible to admit this specific insecurity but you can’t help it. Being abandoned multiple times in your life when you’d finally, finally let your walls down would damage anyone’s trust. You’d hoped this day with him would be easy and carefree and light, not dimmed by the shadows of your anti-romantic histories. 

"I adore you, actually." He settles partially on top of you, leg wrapped over yours as he props himself up on his elbow. "Which is why I want to start this right. You wanted the F4 boyfriend experience. This is mine."

"Last I checked you’ve never seriously dated anyone," you groan, sniffling. 

"Last I checked, neither have you." 

Well, that connects. You swallow your fears, relaxing into the cage of his embrace, retreating a little from the vulnerability of being exposed.

"What kind of girlfriend experience were you expecting, then?"

A lazy smile gusts across his features. You can't help but find it a bit sinister after being handled so indelicately. 

“I don’t always know what’s going on in that empty little head of yours." He accompanies his statement with a brush of his thumb across your flushed cheek, tracing your semi-parted lips in a way that sends sparks down to your core. 

"I’d like to stop guessing and actually get you to let me treat you the way you want to be treated. Have you ever asked yourself what you want?"

You panic a little, considering his words. Living with disappointment had made this question a hard one to even consider. 

"I just want a good time. Isn't that what you want, too?"

Doyoung seems to ignore your ask, drifting into a relaxed state against the pillows. His hand traces the hairline at your temple. "You know I worry about you. All the time, actually.” 

His voice is lower, a little wistful, and it’s doing just as much as the slight brushes of his fingertips to make you throb all over again. A lack of sleep must have made him delusional, you think. This is not the Kim Doyoung you know.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

"Is that why you're always involving yourself in my business?" you ask, matching his tone in how breathless you are. You expect a quip, not the sincerity written on his face when he swoops in to press a gentle kiss against your lips, too fleeting to be anything but sweet and sincere. 

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time? It certainly wasn’t just to get into your pants. I want you. All of you.” 

You're taken aback by his honesty. You'd always suspected his constant meddling in your affairs came from a place of interest but you'd never wanted to give him too much of a response–maybe a little afraid his fickle nature and fear of commitment would mean he’d give up on your friendship, too. 

Another thing you knew about Saint Kim: he had a tendency to run like a frightened rabbit at the first sign of emotional neediness in his partners. You'd never given him reason to believe you expected anything from him, but you'd also stopped fighting him on giving you what he desired to give.

It wasn’t just presents or expensive experiences, of course. He’d found out quickly those weren’t welcome without some cajoling. No–his art was in knowing what you needed even before you realized it, nudging it across your path. 

You’d figured out his deviousness after the umpteenth time someone was charitable at your little florist shop part time job, offering to fix your scooter in exchange for a nice arrangement for a proposal. As soon as you’d seen the fully restored bike outside and the customer didn’t return your texts you’d called Doyoung, completely unsurprised to find he was at the coffee shop next door, waiting to pick up his flowers.

“Stop being so nice to me,” you’d said. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“What makes you think I’m giving you charity,” he’d responded, dropping a department store bag and your own custom coffee order on the counter. “You’ll wear this when I come to pick you up tonight at closing, including the jewelry and perfume. I need you to play your part again. The flowers are a consolation for the heart we’re breaking.”

He’d enlisted you as his defacto “new girlfriend” for the more difficult separations, and though you’d gotten your share of a glass of expensive wine thrown in your face more often than he ever experienced it (his type always went after the easier target) it wasn’t like he didn’t have a replacement dress ready and a nice dinner waiting after you’d cleaned off the Chateau Lafitte Rothschild. 

You have to face the fact that no matter how many times he’d treated you like his girlfriend, you’d never actually expected him to want you to be one. 

“I’ve waited a very long time for this, Y/N. Which is why I want our first time together–alone," he adds quickly. "–To be special."

It's difficult to believe him but you're spellbound all the same, watching pink dust his cheeks and his ears turn a shade darker as he most likely realizes how ridiculous it is considering him fucking you senseless the other night with the help of two other men. 

But you can empathize with his anxiety. Yesterday's Thai massage he'd arranged had helped you work out the flight or fight of anticipating being alone with him. It’s back now, but different. The way he's looking at you makes you feel infinitely naked, infinitely unlocked.

"What do you mean special?" you ask, wary, hoping to see some glimmer of uncertainty or falsehood in his gaze. You want to believe it's a lie or just some artful prank, trying to ignore your heart flip-flopping in your chest. 

It’s a mistake to let him see you squirm considering it’s Doyoung’s drug of choice–his lips twist into another menacing grin as he plays with the charm on your necklace. Another of his little gifts.

"Do you think you can handle it?" Doyoung asks, dripping self-satisfaction. “Or are you going to chicken out on me?”

You turn over so he can't see your expression, realizing he’s throwing your own words from the night before right back at you.

"I haven’t decided if I want to date you, yet,” you say. 

"Maybe not," he says. "But you'll have to pardon me for wanting to show you this good time you supposedly want while also treating you decently. Unless we're no longer friends?"

"We are," you say, biting your lip, "even if you enjoy torturing me."

"Torture?" He laughs, breathy. 

"Metaphorically speaking."

"You have no idea, do you?" You can feel the edge of his glasses as he bites the place where your clavicle connects to your shoulder, his hand snaking around your bare middle.

"You could show me," you invite, mid-gasp, as your body responds to his long-awaited touch. His fingers are almost cool in contrast to the heat in the room, tracing circles in your skin that have you squirming. 

"Is that a challenge?" he asks.

Why not?

"We don't have to have sex," you offer. "Maybe you could just–"

"Shh," he says, fingers skimming lower. "My terms. Are you going to stay quiet for me?"

You nod into the comforter, breath hitching as he touches you through the thin layer of your underwear, veined hand flexing as he molds the damp fabric to your body. It's such a delicate pressure but he's already memorized your shape, index finger sinking into your folds, gently rubbing a ring around your throbbing clit.

You're sticky and swelling with each pass, entranced by how good he is at teasing you, cherishing the way he sucks in his breath when he pushes into the indent of your hole.

“Doie,” you whine, leaning back into him, trying to get him to kiss you as he laughs into your hair. 

“Quiet,” he reminds you, kissing your cheek and teasing the seat of your underwear where they're soaked the most. "You want to take these off?" 

You shake your head, sensing it would be too easy of you to give in.

"That wasn't a question," he says, tugging down the band, leaving them trapped tight around your thighs. "I don't want you to wear them until I tell you that you can." 

You feel your core clench at the way his voice cracks, his fingers sliding back up to slowly and delicately draw a thread of moisture from your bared slit. You whine a little when he stops touching you, bringing his fingertip to your lips.

"Taste it." 

You let your mouth fall open, let him run it over your tongue, beginning from the middle and swirling over it. 

"Describe it," he murmurs. "If I like your answer, maybe I'll indulge you more." 

"Salt," you say, immediately. 

He tugs your hair, making you meet his eyes. 

"Have I taught you anything? I want specific notes. Flavors." 

You're transported back to the time he'd taken you to your first (and last) wine tasting. Spitting into a bucket and being lectured about body and tannins and soil conditions was the last thing you'd wanted to do after an hours-long trip to a vineyard but you'd indulged him, allowed one glass of what he considered the only drinkable wine on the premises. 

An unrefined palette, he'd called you. 

"Fruity and floral," you make up. "A nice lingering finish. Want a taste?" 

He looks down at you behind his glasses, equal parts amused and unimpressed. "Did you use the soap I asked you to?" 

Your brain glitches at that. Had you? You'd been in such a rush to go out–

You gasp when he palms your breast, squeezing the meat of it through the breathable fabric of your matching bra.

"I'll take that as a no," he says. "I guess you're not ready." 

He rolls off of you, leaving you in a lurch as you realize your legs are locked together by your underwear. You move to remove them, taking off your bra as well to avoid the awkwardness of being partially dressed.

By the time you're done you realize he's on his back, the hand that had been stroking you buried in his loose khakis. 

"What are you doing?" you ask, more than a little pissed off at the sight of him masturbating as if you aren't ready and willing to assist beside him. 

"Getting ready for our date. You can watch. No touching." He cracks an eye to look at you before closing it again. "Either of us."

"Are you edging me, Kim Doyoung?" Your menacing tone is entirely natural.

He hums a bit, working himself at a more punishing pace, knuckles peeking out from under his boxer briefs with each full pass over his length.

"Can't even look at me? Afraid you'll lose control?" You sidle down on the bed, beside his tensed thigh. You can smell a bit of the ozone on him from a morning in the sun, your knees knocking into his calves when you move over him.

"I don't trust you," he says, voice deeper than you've ever heard it.

"Is it touching if you finish on my face?" you ask when he finally blinks up at your presence, hovering over him with your breasts dangerously close to his clothed thighs.

"Absolutely not."

"Not touching–"

"Just. Watch," he orders.

He pulls himself free from his pants, surprising you with how dark and weeping his tip is as his thumb encircles it. Pools of white precum spatter on his lean, pale belly, your head dipping dangerously close–

"I said watch." He grabs at your hair, denied when you bend up again, showing him your dirty tongue.

He groans, fingers clenching air. "You were put on this earth to test me, weren't you?"

Still, he doesn't break his attention on the way you roll the drops you'd licked from his clean skin in your mouth, swallowing once you've fully enjoyed the taste.

"A little sweet you say," teasing him. "Drinking pineapple juice?"

"Brat," Doyoung says, but he's almost gone–eyes dark with desire, gently gripping your skull as you continue to ease in.

You're a master at following his lead, blowing a breath over the spot you'd licked, and then his length until his movements slow, cherishing the way you hold your mouth over his cock.

"If you can't give me what I want, then at least give me a taste," you say, sticking out your tongue in offering. You love the way he responds to the sight, needy and losing it when you hold eye contact, drilling into him.

"No," he echoes, weakly. He's too smart to push into your open mouth, instead driving his hips up to fuck his fist as you watch his glasses slide down his nose, eyes clenching shut. 

"You're no fun," you say. "Just a little swallow can't hurt?"

"No. Don't want to ruin it," he says cryptically, making a choked noise as you brush his fingers with your nose and he has to pull you away.

"I promise you it . . . It will be worth it," he manages. His jaw clenches as his movements relax, finally in control of you both.

"It better be," you say. 

You lower your lashes as your eyes flick between his cock and his face, stretching out your tongue to the point that drool begins to drip down your chin, splashing on his whitened knuckles and the tight stretch of his balls peeking out from his underwear. He bites his lip, breath holding as he starts to spiral.

The first thick rope of white rockets up his half-bared chest. Soon he's spurting even more, cum reaching his rucked up shirt, a little getting on his glasses. 

He's so out of it he doesn't fight as you wrest out of his limp hold. You clean up the sticky mess on his skin with your tongue, his abdominal muscles twitching under the light flicks and drags. 

"Want to give me some notes?" you ask, straddling him without resting any weight down, taking off his glasses. This time when you move to kiss him he rises weakly to meet you, lips parting to accept what you haven't swallowed. 

In truth, he tastes wonderful. Coffee, a little menthol from toothpaste and a hint of the watermelon you'd shared earlier mix beneath the coat of his spend.

He licks into your mouth until you moan, your body throbbing with unfulfilled pleasure. You follow him as he sinks back into the pillows, enjoying having him at your disposal, your core leaving wet trails on his thigh when you brush against the fabric.

"I'm going to wait until you're asleep and use you if you don't help me get off," you threaten, pressing soft kisses to his slack face. It’s no use. Doyoung has passed out again, lower teeth visible as he snores softly, forehead sheened with drying sweat.

Fuck it, you think. 

You ooze off of him to take your second cold shower of the day, and maybe get acquainted with one of the fancy showerheads in his massive walk-in while you use his special soap. 

It's not–technically–touching yourself.

Your mystery destination isn't an unknown–it's in every tourist booklet and blog you'd skimmed before your trip, thinking you'd be on your own to find a good spot to traverse to. But it still takes your breath away the moment the car door opens in the sprawl of motorbikes and delivery trucks and Doyoung takes your hand to pull you into Paradise.

Pak Khlong Talat is a bustle of energy well after dark, the time you know its treasures are delivered fresh and unbloomed, wrapped in newspaper and steeped in crushed ice. For as far as you can see the market sprawls along Chak Phet road, but even more overwhelming than the sights and sounds is the scent. 

Jasmine, roses, lavender. Thousands upon thousands of blooms strung up and tended to by night owl vendors, delicate arrangements hand-sewed by artisans streetside into garlands so well-crafted Doyoung has to tug you to keep you moving, onwards to some other unspoken destination. 

"I was worried you might hate flowers after working with them for so long. I take it you like it?" he asks, indulging you when you ask if you can take his picture at a particularly lovely hang of garlands, the purple-blue light perfect for the film you'd loaded into your father's old camera. Photography had never been your craft, but after your dad had passed you'd made an effort to capture more of your memories, cherishing what you'd taken for granted before.

“It’s perfect,” you say, admiring him through the viewfinder. "But can you look like you're having fun?" 

Your model is stiff, mouth a moue as he checks the street for other observers or a possible collision with a laden handcart. 

"Fun?" Doyoung asks, and you snap his picture on the offbeat, enjoying his look of surprise. 

“Like you've taken your date to one of the most romantic places on earth, after buttering her up with a night cruise of Chao Praya and finally letting her eat real food." 

He sniffs at a fall of marigolds, a smug look on his face that you commit to film, right before he sneezes. 

"For the record, we're eating after this. Som tam hardly counts as a meal, I just didn’t want that drink going to your head." 

You're shepherded through the vast warehouse of the main market, to an adjacent street, and into a non-descript building painted in a funereal white.

"Are we even allowed to be here?" you ask, once the key code is entered and you enter the strange business. 

"I called in a favor," he says, taking your hand, leading you up a metal staircase past a simple storefront of dried blooms and shelves laden with boxes and bottles alike.

An apothecary? An alchemist's shop? The purpose of the space eludes you.

"An atelier," Doyoung explains. "One of the most sought out in the world."

There's the distant hum of the city outside and a central air you're unused to in this climate but the upstairs is quiet–by all accounts either an office or a laboratory, or a mixture of both. The central working area is a chaotic but organized space filled with tables of glassware and dried floral arrangements contrasting potted orchids, small beakers of coffee beans littered amidst rows of labeled brown bottles.

"So this is how they make perfume," you say, inspecting a stoppered bottle labeled "Gerianol 10%".

"Not just any perfume. The best. Here." Doyoung leads you to a much less cluttered workstation, the desk arranged with the lights still on, a note detailing some instruction you can barely read before he slips it into the pocket of his slim-tailored pants. Beneath it is a notebook, scrawled with a perfect cursive English you recognize from the cards he’d included in boxes or bags whenever he’d bothered to claim their contents. 

"Sit," he instructs. You think he means the comfortable chair but before you can sit down he presses you to the desk, caging you in. 

"Sit," he repeats, hands on your hips through your slinky skirt, lifting you to the bench. You scoot back, carefully, the white blooms of some exotic flower brushing against your cheek until he can move the vase a careful distance. 

"Do you understand what we’re doing here?"

You can't possibly know what he means, eye level with the graceful column of his neck and his exposed collarbone beneath his translucent button-down, drowning in the melange of scents but most especially his clean, neutral cologne. 

"No," you say, honestly, heart beating fast. 

He picks up a corked flask from some kind of metal scale, dipping a thin thread of paper into it to waft it a fair distance from your nose.

"Before we came here--before you even agreed to this trip–I sent instructions to my friend for a specialty blend of their creation. It took quite a bit of back-and-forth–I even visited here last month to take a private class and make sure we prepared the base and middle to your standards."

"For me?" 

You feel dizzy, reaching out to take the sample and smell it again, his hand capturing your own before you can bring it too close to your nose. He wafts it for you, expectant as you absorb the details.

Indeed, it smells divine–exactly the kind of warm, bright notes that make your heart feel at ease. There’s something floral and citrus worked in, not too heavy, the finish leaving you with an impression of a lazy summer afternoon. 

“It’s beautiful,” you say. “Did you make this to match what you knew I liked?”

"Yes.” Doyoung exhales, looking almost sheepish. "I had some references. That cheap shampoo you never stop buying, the Lush exfoliator with the orange blossom, even–" he shudders a bit– "that awful Chanel you doused yourself in, in high-school."

"Coco Mademoiselle," you say. "It's been years since I–"

"It didn't suit you," he says, standing up to sample another bottle from the neat row. 

Something dawns on you, a distant memory locking into place.

"It was you," you gasp in realization. "You're the one who got rid of it. I should have known when you tried to give me that bottle of Jo Malone–"

“It had already turned. You need to store your scents away from direct light.”

“It was a keepsake!” There were very few possessions from your youth that you’d been able to hold onto–not only because your parents had been barely able to afford your school uniforms, much less gifts. What little you’d had was lost when your house was destroyed by the men your father owed money to, this small thing neglected in the destruction.

“It didn't suit you because it wasn't made for you," he continues. "You wore it because you thought it would make you fit in, when you should have made what you wore wear you–"

"Please, stop."

You have to bite your lip to the point of pain, remembering how excited you'd been to unwrap that tiny bit of luxury your parents had saved up to buy you, your mother sure the brand name would save you from another day of humiliation. You didn’t have the heart to tell them that the cutout ad from the magazine on your wall was for the model, not the actual perfume, but you felt loved by the gesture all the same.

Hundreds of thousands of won an ounce for it to only turn on your skin, well before afternoons spent on the basketball court under the thankless sun. That memento had aged from pink to a sickly rose unused on your cosmetic shelf, a totem from a time when you imagined yourself belonging. Before it had disappeared, like so many other things.

You can't remember the last time you'd worn anything, had never even gone near that section of a department store after the humiliation of being made fun of for smelling cheap.

“My dad skipped lunches and my mom worked double shifts to get that for Christmas my first year in Kocher,” you say. “Mira was the brand ambassador for that campaign, you know.”

Mira had been your idol even before you won the scholarship she’d established to attend Kocher. Perfect, beautiful, but most of all the first girl in their sphere to show you genuine kindness.

"It must be so easy for you," you say, wiping your face. You rarely cried these days but that memory was particularly painful, a reminder of how often you’d assumed Doyoung found you just as offensive. Not just your scent, you thought, but you.

Something to be tolerated. Below his regard. 

"Whatever you want, you can have. Whatever you don't like, you can get rid of. I'm sorry, I don't live in your world. I can’t just throw something away when it’s not useful."

"No," he says, quietly, abandoning his explanation. "That was thoughtless of me. I can replace it–"

“Can you?” You glare up at him. “Is this what you really want? To dress me up like your perfect doll and feed me from your hand so I’m more able to suit you?

Doyoung looks like he's going to be ill, every design in his head unraveling before your eyes. You’d feel sorry for him if you didn't know this was a lesson worth imparting.

"Don't ever offer to replace what you don’t know the true value of," you say, voice trembling.

There's a weighted silence as he considers his next words. You still haven't slipped away from him, choosing to hold your ground. How many times had you been forced to be the antagonist in some fruitless class warfare, unresolved? But then you also had a habit of finding battles in peacetime. 

You pluck the newest scent strip from his frozen hand and waft it between you, at the designated distance.

“Thank god this smells nothing like it,” you murmur. You offer him a wry smile, anger fading. “I couldn’t stand it.”

You feel Doyoung’s relief as he collapses against you, forehead against your hair as his arms wrap tight around your middle. You relax after a bit, cheek pressed to his collarbone as you breathe in his unique scent–a little like fresh laundry left out in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “All these promises and plans and stupid details and at the end of the day I really . . . Don't know what I'm doing."

"I really don’t know what you’re doing, either," you say. "But I like that you try.”

"You do?" The hope in his voice makes your iciness melt a bit. You let your hands twine around his neck, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease with the gesture.

“I know it’s not easy for me to admit but I do appreciate everything you do for me, Doie,” you say. 

He doesn’t respond in words but you savor the shift in his demeanor, like a weight has been lifted from him. You think even he didn’t know it was there. You ignore the glassiness in his eyes when he pulls back, choosing to look at his notes instead.

“Are these all the ingredients?” you ask, working out a few of the more familiar words. “What’s op–?”

“First things first,” he says, rolling up his sleeves.  "Did you touch yourself?" 

"No," you say, surprised by the shift. "I followed your instructions. No products with scents. No underwear."

You spread your thighs to make your point. His hands hike your skirt up, over the breadth of skin to your hips and then to the curl of your belly, his breath hitching as he finds you already glossy.

It had been a bit of a gambit considering your riverside excursion but he'd allowed you a lemongrass-based repellent–the scent of which is still clinging to your bare skin as he kneels down to press a kiss to where his fingers had traced earlier.

You jerk a bit, conscientious of the workspace as he spreads you, just that light touch making your nipples harden beneath your thin shirt and bra.�� 

“Are we allowed to–”

“Shh. Relax and try not to spill anything,” he interrupts, breath cooling your wetness. “I just need some inspiration.”

“What?” 

"You’re so good already," he says into your sex, spreading you so he can lightly tongue at your skin. “Perfect little flower just for me.”

After waiting so long, you're torn between begging and shoving his teasing licks away, hand threading through his raven hair as the notebook slips from your hand.

"Kim Doyoung–” you gasp as he spears his tongue through your upper folds, nose nudging the sensitive bud. “–if this is another round of teasing I will murd–”  

You yelp as he hunches down to wrap your legs around his shoulders, hands re-occupied by exposing you as you try to stay upright. 

“Don’t worry. You can come like this. I want to know if you taste different after.”

You don't know what he means until his mouth closes over your clit, sucking just right. You jolt, pinched on the meat of your thigh until you can relax again, making little mewls as he rolls his thumbs alongside the point of contact.

“I want you inside of me,” you beg, feeling that fluttering sensation that heralds a build-up. “I wanted to come with you inside me.” 

“Soon. Just need to be good while I sample you.” 

“Sample?” Your hand sinks into his hair in panic, tugging, but Doyoung is too lost alternating between suckling at your sex and palpating you with a circling thumb, his beautiful hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread.

“Drip for me, first.” 

“I don't think I can–”

“You giving up already?” Doyoung scoffs, smirking up at you with reddened lips, tongue-tip darting against your clit. Every brush of soft muscle makes you spasm a bit, belly tightening unfulfilled.

You shake your head, panting. “I just . . . Doie I want you inside me.” 

“You can relax and take it,” he says, tongue wrapping around your labia, sucking slightly. Your head is buzzing, every stray thought removed by his exploration of you.

“Relax. If you don't I'll just have to try until you're begging for me to stop.” 

“No, please, Doie. I'll be good,” you plead. “Just . . . need something inside. Hurts so bad being empty.”

“Hand me a pipette.”

“What?”

“The one that looks like an eyedropper,” he says, hand open to accept like he’s performing surgery. You fight to find the right glassware with his mouth still on you, efforts more focused and intense as your legs tense with each hit. You find the rubber-stoppered glass cylinder, stomach dropping. 

“Is this safe?” You ask, gripping his mussed hair tighter when he pulls away for a moment.

“If you hold still, yes,” he taunts. You seize when you first feel the tip slip inside you. The glass is cool but warms to your body heat quickly, too slim to feel anything.

“Good girl,” he says. “You’re even pushing this out, you must be so tight.”

“I am. Too tight,” you groan. “Please don’t tease me anymore.”

He ignores you, focusing on his work, pulling the instrument free when he’s satisfied.

“Not bad,” he says, dropping it on the desk beside you before he’s back on his knees with his nose buried in your cunt. “Bet you can do better than that.”

“No, please, I need you–”

“Then drip for me,” he laughs into your leg, tracing the wetness down the crease in your thigh. You tense your hold on the desk’s edge when you feel his tongue prod at your entrance, muscle breaching your hole to lick into you. He makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat that has you plummeting just as he resumes stroking your clit through the slippery coat of your arousal. 

Finally, you think, feeling the advent of tears for how wound tight you are, how desperate you are to feel him give you just one more point of contact with the ache inside.

“Oh god, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you repeat, the noises obscene as he drinks you in, other hand on your hip to hold you against his face. It’s not even the stimulation that makes you begin to come but the audible groan he releases as he feels you quake against his mouth, heels snagging on his shirt when the first wave breaks and those little tics inside you turn into powerful contractions around his tongue-tip taking everything you can give him. 

He keeps licking you even when you’re begging for him to stop, nose tracing down to catch a stray drop from the back of your knee with a playful dart of his tongue. 

“Was it worth it?” you ask, folding over him as he wipes his mouth clean in your drenched skirt. You know it’s just the start but you already feel wrung out and feather-light, wicking away the sweat that’s beaded on your own face despite the cool, dry air of the room. 

“Hmm?” he hums a bit, disentangling to stand up and hold your face in his hands. His pupils are blown, sweat beading on his temples, but he looks as satisfied as you hoped he would be, your arousal drying on his slender features.

“All the prep,” you say. “Isn’t that why–do I taste as good as you expected after all that?”

Doyoung looks down on you, amused. Already you feel like you’re heating up again, with how his dark eyes flit to your mouth and back up again. 

“You think I prefer you prepped?” he asks, angling his head down besides yours to whisper in your ear. “The next time I eat that perfect little pussy of yours I want it to be filthy.” 

He traces the lobe with his teeth for good measure, pulling another moan out of you. “I’ll even make sure to wait until the other two have a go at you, first.”

You feel your heartbeat stutter as he presses his lips to your pulse point, tongue darting past his lips to dab at the sweat there.

“No, precious, I wanted to make sure the perfume we make tonight matches all of you.” Doyoung’s nose brushes your ear as he breathes in your scent. “Every time I wear it I’m going to remember the way you sounded when you first came for me and me only.”

The promise of it has you feeling a different kind of heat, dizzying for how much you want it to last past this night. 

“Fuck,” you whisper explosively, eyes clenched shut to stay fixed upright, fisting the thin material of his collar as he pulls you from the countertop and against the hard planes of his body. “I need you. Now. Please.”

“I like hearing you say that,” he chuckles a bit. “But I’m going to make you earn it. You can wait a little longer. You made me wait years, after all.”

You let him guide you into his lap, in the chair, pushed into the desk as he opens the notebook to another page. And another, until you take over and explore it for yourself. In the dim golden light from the street outside you catch glimpses of colors and drawings, notes written of impressions and memories you’d all but forgotten in your haze of grief these past few years. 

There’s even photographs taped to some of the pages��ones you know well by the fact that they’d been taken on your camera. Doyoung didn’t have Jaehyun’s artistic training but he did have an eye for capturing candid moments.

November, your first year of college. You’re standing in the first snow of the season, catching flakes on your tongue. You can still feel the burn of them, hear the murmur of the city dulled in a fresh blanket of white and taste the roasted yam you’d eaten, tossing it in your mittened hands until it was cool enough to peel. 

Doyoung’s shoulder is off-kilter beside yours, unable to capture himself in the frame for all his long reach. The peek of the striped scarf you’d knitted for him in gray and blue is all that’s visible of him under his peacoat, the mismatched weave of it captured even in this poor exposure.

“Base note: cedarwood,” you read, carefully, eyes hazing a bit with emotion. Evergreen.

“I still have it, you know,” he murmurs against your temple. “I only stopped wearing it because it started unraveling.”

“I’d make you another but I quit knitting after making three scarves,” you say, wryly. “Well two and a half, actually, I ran out of yarn on Jungwoo’s and made him a hat instead.”

“I thought you were just trying to get him to hide that ridiculous military haircut,” Doyoung muses. “Keep going or we’ll be here all night.”

“Now you’re impatient?” you ask, cementing your flirtation by shifting in his lap. You can’t ignore the feeling of his erection folded against the curve of your ass, or the way he grunts when you find a better seat with it nestled between your thighs.

“Sometimes I forget you were put on this planet to vex me,” he says. You’re lifted up by the waist, a hand on your lower back the moment you’ve found the desk for support, face above the book. 

“Why don’t you try reading until I’m satisfied you know exactly what you’re getting?”

You don’t fight him, elbows bent as he rucks up your skirt. You feel your face grow warm with blood as you find yourself exposed to him again, locked in by his legs and his groping touch reaching up beneath your shirt. 

"Base notes: amber and–" you have to fight to keep your voice steady as he swats your exposed curves, hard enough to sting. 

"Ambergris,” he corrects, voice fried with delight.

“Ambergris,” you repeat. “And white musk."

"Good. And?"

"Bisabol–" you begin, corrected with another slap on your ass that hits, hard, glass jingling on the table.

"Did you jump ahead?" He asks, knowing full well your eyes are swimming with tears. 

"No sir," you say. “I didn’t think that was a real word.”

"Opoponax." He says, reaching over you to grab a bottle, dropping a thick oil on you and rubbing it into your bruising skin. "Also known as sweet myrrh. Go ahead. Keep reading."

"Source: distilled from resin from ancient groves in Somalia, bought in Mogadishu from a local orchard, all profits to fund schools and clinics for women displaced by civil war." 

"Do you believe this to be a charitable effort?" He asks, hand spreading over your buttocks. You think he might be referring more to your arrangement than whatever is written on the page.

"No," you say. Your history and political know-how might be lacking but you've seen the wrong side of kindness. "It sounds like what people write to make themselves feel better about exploitation."

"Clever girl," he answers. You feel his nose brush against your skin, testing the mingling of scent with it. "Keep going."

You turn the page, swallowing back your protests. This spread is rich with text and color, a veritable garden bursting from the page. You fix on the first entry in the upper corner, bracing yourself for another faux pas.

"Heart notes: Turkish rose," you say. "What is this, poetry?"

"Aren’t you familiar with it?"

You shake your head, lips pursed in delight at the scrawl of English. “No.”

You let out a gasp as he bites the flesh nearer your back, the sting of it surely leaving a mark by the way the pain lingers.  

"Read it," he says, dipping over you for another bottle. “You’ll remember.”

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows," you dictate, stumbling over every word and yet never punished for it. Instead Doyoung lets a steady drip of the bottle fall down the back of your leg to your knee, his fingers bringing up the rest to mix what he's already poured on you.

"Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine." 

You end your recitation in a whisper, leather binding and paper gripped in your fingers as he massages the oil gently into your tingling skin, careful to avoid where your legs are locked together in arousal. You're heady with scent and sensation, awaiting some reminder that this isn't just a strange dream you’ve wandered into.

"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lulled in these flowers with dances and delight," he finishes for you as he paints the rest up your spine beneath your shirt. You let him ministrate on your body as the words settle, as time recedes and you face a version of your youth you’re not sure isn’t just fiction. 

That book beside you, the first time he’d spoken to, long forgotten.

“Midsummer’s Night Dream,” you say, turning to face him again, settling between his thighs as he fails to meet your gaze. You lift his face with your fingers, cheeks indented by your gentle hold. “You remembered that, too?”

“It was the first time you ever looked at me,” he says. “And it felt like you saw right through me.”

No, you’re not dreaming. You’re the architect of this moment just as much as he’ll claim to be a cursory observer if confronted on it. 

You take in his mismatched eyes–one folding a little more than the other when he smiles at you ruefully. Those freckles you’d never really spent time examining, a happy accident of the time he’d spent with you in the sun. His fingers catching yours for a moment when you weren’t paying attention.

But most of all, the haunted cast where he’d lost sleep managing someone else’s problems. When he’d still been worrying about yours.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think I ever really saw you until now.”

“What didn’t you see?” he asks, expectantly.

Six years of his careful distance from you, that coldness and disinterest just another mask for someone who was as raw and vulnerable and real as you if you managed to pry open their shell. His tendency towards control, towards the knife’s slice of cutting you so cleanly from his life no one would know your name unless he spoke it aloud.

There wasn’t another human being in their right mind who’d last that test, your only grace being that he’d thought you were untouchable. His best friend’s girlfriend, of course. But beyond that, one of his best friends. 

No, one of his only friends.

“What didn’t you see?”

It wouldn’t require money or taste or a family name to bring Saint Kim down to earth. Just time and small acts of resistance, like the beautiful shell remnants you’d spilled into his hands on that last trip to Maui together, when it had still been the five of you. Each ground down to a small disc with a perfect spiral at its center, a reminder of the beauty remaining in broken things.

You place the notebook in his hands, curling your fingers around his. The pages it’s opened to are sparsely constructed, besides the photographs nestled between. Only you two know what’s there, buried in black sands and blue waters. You can see his handwriting falter where he’s written the notes for this moment in your shared history, sketches of those shells, and flowers.

A single photograph of you watching the others playing in the surf, his shadow cutting across the stretch of your legs.

Top notes: Jasmine for sensuality. 

Orange Blossom for innocence. 

Plumeria, for admiration. a new beginning . . .

You recognize the creamy yellow-white flower he’d tucked behind your left ear when you’d fallen asleep beside him. A non-native plant to the island, you’d learned, worn to indicate one was taken. A weed, like you, now prized as a treasure.

“What didn’t you see?”

You pull back to look at him, giving him yourself without reservation. 

“That I think you love me . . .” you say. “. . . Like I think I love you, too.” 

He looks up at you, astounded, the chair beneath him creaking as he collapses. 

For once you regret being beside him when you’d heard the same words spoken to him by other people, pulled into their lives without you ever remembering their names. The difference between you, you once believed, was that they didn’t mean it. 

Now, you understand, they just never knew the true cost of losing him. 

You watch him collect himself, running a hand back through his hair and curling into his seat, memories forgotten in his lap, bedamned. You’re sure the engines of Hell are running hot for the way he can’t even look at you right now. 

He needs a way out, you think. You’d rather be drowned in other women’s wine poured over your head than be on the receiving end of his disregard again, the script already constructed in your mind before you’d found you had the nerve to sleep with him.

"You can be honest with me,” you say. “Tell me it's been fun but you're not interested in a relationship.”

“What?” Doyoung is just as confused as when you’d told him you loved him, as honest as you’ve been in both sentiments. 

“Your family will never approve of me. I’m just another fling you happened to take a more lasting interest in. It’s better this way. Cut me off, forget about me and move on.”

It's his turn to balk. You expect his pre-programmed response. Saint Kim's gospel for turning down the interested but uninteresting party: deflect, dissuade, detach. 

“No,” he says, face draining of color.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I can handle it. Really. We can still be friends.” 

“No,” he repeats, more forcefully.

“What do you mean, no?” you ask. “Isn’t that how this always ends?”

“You stupid girl,” he says, grabbing your face in his hands so you can’t escape, making you look into his warm gaze. 

"Don’t you get it? This was always about feelings.”

When his lips crush against yours you don't have to speak to respond, catching his head so you’re not suffocated by the raw emotion you can feel in every movement. You return each kiss until the breath is out of your lungs, until you're drowning in his scent as he forces you back onto the desk.

You’re impatient to feel him, everywhere, aware you’re ripping buttons as you open his shirt to gain access to his smooth chest, trailing kisses as far down as you can go, still unable to escape his tongue sliding over yours.  

“I wasn’t going to do this here, like this, but fuck it,” he says once he’s free, fumbling with his belt as he holds you to pepper your face and neck in a steady reminder of his affection. “I need you.”

“I need you, too,” you echo wholeheartedly, helping free him out of his clothing, pulling his length to where you’re still slick with oils and cum and ready for him. God, you think you’ve never been more ready to break around him, to show him what he’s brought out of you with this game.

“Please don’t make me wait anymore,” you whisper. 

You watch his face, breath held and heart stuttering as he sinks into you slowly, both of you gasping at the way your heat resists each measure of his continuous thrust. It feels like he’s barely in you when he stops, making you moan in dismay.

“Doie, please,” you say, trying and failing to wrap your legs around his slender hips to capture him deeper. You’re half out of your mind with that burning weight inside you remaining still.

“Say it,” he says, taking off your shirt to have access to your skin. He pulls down your bra, nipples tugged between his fingers as he assaults your neck with his tongue and teeth.

“It’s special,” you choke out. “Thank you, please–”

“Say it,” he corrects, twitching inside you but not moving an inch more. He curls down to nip at your breast above the lace, sucking a mark into the softest part. “Without the ‘I think’.” 

“No,” you resist, realizing what he’s asking too late. Your nails sink into his half-bared shoulder, head rolling against his. “You don’t get to torture me for that.”

“Don’t chicken out on me now.” Doyoung laughs against your cheek, hand splaying around your hip to still your squirming. “I can do this as long as it takes.”

He thrusts, just a little more, making you cry out in desperation as the contents of the desk tinkle behind you. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You think I love you?”

“So, so close.” He pulls out, rocking into you again to feel the seize of your entire body when you anticipate just how far he’ll go before denying you. A little more, at least, and you can feel how much it’s taking for him, see the strain in his body as he holds back.

“You love me,” you tease, this time not a question, no you think. “Saint Kim loves me.”

He sheathes himself in you fully, gripping your nape to kiss you as you clench involuntarily around him, protests in the back of your throat muffled by his tongue sliding across yours. He tugs at your bottom lip when he breaks free, fully smiling now like he isn’t buried completely in your cunt just warming himself instead of chasing his own bliss.

“What did you call me?” he asks, leaning over you to retrieve something. 

You take advantage of his distraction to snake a hand between you, slipping beneath your skirt before it’s grabbed, tight, and brought up to his lips. 

“Don’t cheat,” he says, wrapping your fingers around the cap of a bottle. 

“You never heard anyone call you that?” you murmur, opening it. 

You smell spring flowers and delicate citrus before it’s taken away, set aside when you nibble and suck at his sensitive ear to make him twitch, hands drifting across his ticklish belly down to his hipbones. He reads your intent again, stopping whatever silly task he’s doing beside you to lift your wrists to his shoulders. 

“The name is a little ironic, isn’t it?” you say, squeezing him experimentally with your thighs as you stroke his nape with your nails. You flex other muscles too–earning the grunt he makes as he feels you squeeze around his girth. 

He angles your head, pressing something wet and soft to where your pulse flutters in your neck. You’re immediately permeated with a light, airy, sweetness, the different scents revealed like a melody that ends in that richer, warmer scent from earlier. 

“Is that my perfume?” you ask. 

“An anointment,” he says, blowing across your skin to dry it and sending a shiver down your spine to where your bodies are locked together, that fullness and muted pleasure of him radiating down to your toes.

“I do seem to have a demon inside of me,” you sigh into his neck as you rest your head against his shoulder. “Do they do that in exorcisms?”

“Blessings,” he corrects, adjusting with another grunt. “We’ll find out if it worked in about an hour.”

“An hour?” you grumble. “You think you can keep torturing me that long?”

“I think I gave you the key to your own cage,” he says, checking his watch. “About five minutes ago. Does it feel like longer?”

You mumble something into his rumpled collar, making him laugh beneath you. Even just that tiny movement has you involuntarily gripping him, abdomen clenched. 

“What’s that?”

“I’llsayitifyoumakemecome,” you repeat, embarrassed enough to hide your face in the crook of his neck again. 

“You think this is a negotiation, Y/N?” Doyoung’s hands are back on your breasts, thumbing the areola in slow circles that are very much a reminder of his touch earlier on your throbbing clit. You whimper, trying to stay still so he doesn’t figure out that if he continues to do that you might have a chance–

“You trying to make me come squeezing me like that?” he asks, breath ragged. “That seems like a quick way to end this.”

“You . . . you could just fuck me,” you wheeze, feeling the way he teases your pebbled, hard nipple with lighter brushes, his mouth quirked where it’s pressed to your forehead. 

“What if I want to make love to you, instead?” he asks. He inhales sharply at your body’s response. 

“Fuck, you liked me saying that, didn’t you?”

You nod, unable to speak, holding onto him in desperation as the combination of his words and soft strokes make you melt into the pleasure of every small motion of him inside you. You realize he’s unconsciously pushing into you, too, unable to keep his hips from pressing into yours. 

Overstimulation is making you hyperaware of the scratch of his unzipped jeans against your burning thighs, the random brush of his open belt against your belly. Time seems to disappear as he holds you quietly, letting you soak up the fragrant, radiating warm reality of him.

“I can wait all night for it,” he threatens, even just his lower register making you quiver a little around him. “Count every time you twitch and moan on me until you break.”

You’d felt him flag a little while he worked but now he’s fuller inside you, stretching you wide as he twitches to life. It’s even hotter than all of this build-up, you think, knowing he can act a menace but that the idea of you surrendering to him is what’s really getting him off.

Of course, you think, mentally steeling yourself like you’re preparing for war. In a way this is something like it, up against as formidable a foe as he is. 

“Doie,” you whisper, threading your hands in his hair as you nuzzle for his lips, kissing him softly and intimately, like it’s your first time. “When did you know?”

“What?” He goes a little rigid against you, unable to hide his rapid heartbeat with how close you’re pressed to him. You blink up at him, expectantly. 

“When did you first know you loved me? Really?”

He smiles, shyly, but you see the hint of anxiety on his features beneath his arousal. There it is, you think, having to hide your own satisfaction. 

“Is this a trick question?” he asks, warily, eyelashes half-lowered.

“Not if I know the answer,” you say, smoothing his kiss-swollen lips with a touch. “I don’t think it’s in that book, either.”

“Really?” He’s intrigued, a tentative rock of his hips against you making you dizzy. “Tell me.”

You shake your head, just as playful. 

“I’ll tell you later,” you say. “After.”

He sighs explosively, nose wrinkling. “You don’t know.”

“Want to bet?” you ask. It’s always a little thrilling seeing Doyoung presented with an opportunity he can’t resist. He fumbles for the notebook beside you, almost slipping out of you when he has to reach even farther for a pen.

“Write it down,” he says, smug as a cat who’s caught something small and easily toyed with. 

“Only if you do, too,” you say.

His answer is a pained sound of agreement, adjusting himself against the desk. 

“No peeking,” you say, flipping to a page in the back. 

“Wait,” he says, grabbing the book before the nib of the nice pen touches the creamy paper. “What are the terms?”

You ponder for a moment, feeling a grin slide onto your lips. “Doesn’t our perfume need a name? Whoever is right, gets to name it.”

You can practically taste his delight as he leans in to kiss you, forcing you to pull your page closer to you. You make him wait, filling the blank space as best you can with detail as he fidgets between your legs, sending small shocks of pleasure through you both. 

“Thank you,” he says in earnest once you’ve handed him it open to a new leaf, his hand and the notebook shaking a little as he tries to write mid-air, finally resting it awkwardly atop your head in order to scrawl out his own answer.

“My eyes are closed, Kim Doyoung.” 

“You’re a cheat,” he says, shushing you with an added thrust of his hips. 

You settle back on your elbows, already enjoying your victory as you feel the tiny pressure of his handwriting, hear the scratches of his sketch. You're more emboldened than ever when the leather binding snaps shut.

“Now tell me,” you say, looking up at him coyly. 

“Can’t I just show you–”

You snatch the book from him, turning to your entry. Then, to his horror, you rip your page free and fold it shut, tucking it into the pocket of his open shirt.

“Tomorrow morning,” you say. “You had 24 hours, right? I’ll give you my answer tomorrow morning.”

Doyoung looks as if he’s tasted something sour. “You won’t tell me.”

“I’ll tell you that you won,” you say, looking down at his page. You trace the fresh ink with care, admiring his tight script and explanation. “February to April? How could I have guessed an entire season?” 

“Did you at least guess the year?” he asks, looking a little better for your affirmation of his win. 

You nod, finally feeling the discomfort of your position and resting your head against his warm chest. There’s nothing awkward about being wrapped around him like this, the late hour and strange, still space making it easier to forget the world outside.

“Hard to forget,” you say. “I thought for sure I’d never see you again after that winter holiday.”

Another break with Johnny, of course–but this one had been your choice. You’d finally felt the crushing weight of two years of contempt from the people around him, the Suh family matriarch at the center of it all, doing everything in her power to crush not only you but the people you loved. 

And then, when you’d needed him the most, Kim Doyoung had walked away from you, too. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you, either,” he sighs. “It was the first time in a long time you weren’t with us. With me. And it was my fault for pushing you away when you were just trying to–”

“It’s in the past now,” you cut him short with a finger pressed to his lips. 

The memory is painful, still–and you don’t want to sully this moment with it. You appreciate that even in his roundabout admission there’s a clear understanding for all you’d been through. You’d hoped he remembered that time from the past, when you’d first peered between the cracks in his carefully-manufactured facade.

Now you could be sure of what it meant to him. You feel like your own walls are crumbling, the light shining through. 

“So you chose the period of time when we didn’t speak to one another, at all?” you muse. “Not just one day?”

“You know what they say. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he says. “You were on my mind every minute and every hour of those three and a half months.”

He pauses, sigh warm against your brow. “I couldn’t tell you when I knew, for sure. I certainly couldn’t admit it, then, even to myself. But sometime then, I realized I cared more about you than a friend.”

You’d never doubted he was capable of it, never doubted it might be true. But hearing him admit it, now you know why he wants to hear it from you, too.

“Say it,” you say.

He finally looks at you again, tired but alight with amusement.

“You first,” he says.

“Who knew three simple words would be so difficult for Saint Kim?” you tease him.

“Alright. Come here,” he motions, slipping out of you with a shared groan. He pulls you to a couch under the shuttered window, settling down and forcing you to straddle him. In this position he can’t stop you from immediately taking all of him, his eyelids fluttering when you bottom out.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs. 

“You’re not going to last,” you laugh, delighted by the way his nose scrunches when you clench around him. 

“Says the girl who’s sucking me in like you never want me to leave.” He grabs on to your hips to roll them against his own, fingers tightening when you wriggle against him. “You’re gonna say it first even if I have to fuck it out of you.”

“Whoever comes first, then?” you offer.

“I can live with that,” he sighs, head resting back on the couch. 

You rock on your knees slowly, satisfaction warming you throughout as you force him all the way inside you. You let him hear how he makes you feel, pleading sounds and whispers every time he hits that place in your upper walls, curved inside of you perfectly. It doesn’t matter if you're in control you can’t help but hunt down that lovely rush of pleasure in your belly, twining your arms around his shoulders to steady yourself. 

“Good girl,” Doyoung praises, watching you in awe through half-lidded eyes. “You’re so beautiful. I always wanted to know what it would look like when you lost yourself with me.”

His words make you shiver, brushing his lips until he holds you against his mouth to show you how he likes it, less exploratory and more confident. It’s maddening how good he is at this, making you feel every single sweep of his tongue across yours, hand on your neck keeping you from escaping. 

“Don’t you want to–” you protest as he helps you to lay flat on your back across the length of the wide loveseat, settling between your thighs. 

“Oh god, Doie,” you whimper when he takes over, finally, finally, beginning to fuck you. It’s just as slow but at least he penetrates you fully before pulling out almost all the way, shoulders quaking as he holds himself up. 

“Promise me you'll let me dote on you for the rest of your life,” he says, not waiting for your response before driving into you again. His movements are barely controlled, grunts escaping the back of his throat when his hips snap into yours again.  

“I promise,” you hold onto him, back arching off the cushion to meet him, blissed out in the relief of each, careful stroke against your fluttering walls. That crescendo is happening whether you want it to or not, every overworked knot of muscle threatening to snap loose. 

“Promise me that no matter who you fuck you’ll always let me treat you right,” he says, voice breaking. “You’ll let me show you how I feel even when I can’t say it.”

“Yes, Doie. Yes.” You pull down on his shoulders, trying to move for you both, kissing his jaw and throat.

“Stop fighting me and take it,” he says, moving more easily with the thick coat of your cum, establishing a gentle rhythm. 

His voice has always made it hard for you to pay attention to anything else but he abuses that power now, murmuring guidance into your neck that has you tightening around him as he fucks you deep and slow. 

“That’s my girl,” he praises. “You’re taking me so well. Take all of me.”

You feel shivers up and down your body, nipples hardening tight as they brush against his chest, his hair tickling your forehead as he blindly kisses and licks at your mouth and chin. 

You’d thought he’d be concentrating on something else in his head to keep from losing himself but instead it’s you who's floating, breath captured in your lungs when he adjusts on top of you to pin your hips down, pressing your leg wide to bury himself to the hilt.

“You feel so perfect. I could really do this all night, you know,” he smirks down at you from where he’s supported on his elbow. “Is that what you want?”

“No, fuck, please,” you whine. There’s no thoughts in your head besides just how much you want that ache inside of your cunt to melt into real pleasure. 

“You want me to stop?” he asks, feeling how you begin to pulse around him as he swirls his hips up into that most sensitive part of you, his flat belly grinding into your clit. You gasp, leg locking around his, helping him work you apart.

“No no no,” you beg, face hot. “Just . . . just kiss me through it, please.”

Doyoung’s smile grows wider. “Say what you already told me.”

You twist your head against the cushion, earning his hand on your jaw as he makes you look at him while you break, kissing you between panting breaths. His confidence is written in the cocksure grin remaining on his mouth, more cruel when he bites at your bottom lip, hard, before licking the pain away. 

“Say it,” he breathes, slowing down on purpose. 

“I . . . ah,” you cry out, “I love . . . please don’t stop.” 

“What’s that?” he asks, pace punishingly slow. Your legs lose feeling, vibrations starting in the back of your thighs and tremoring down to your feet. 

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” you repeat, nearly tipping off the edge, “I’m coming, I’m finally–”

He slows down right as you hit that crest, making you cry out in frustration. 

“Doie, I’ll kill you–”

“Say it,” he says into your lips, pulling out–too far–

“Iloveyou,” you exhale, seizing around him in time to your wildly beating heart.

“Louder.” He slams into you again, merciless.

“I love you, you stupid bastard,” you say, hanging on to his shoulders. “I love you!”

“Good enough,” he says, drilling into you until he can feel you break, orgasm sustained through the painful pressure of him losing himself in your throbbing heat, finding your mouth again, finally, to silence the repeated mantra on your tongue.

You kiss him fiercely, unloading everything words aren’t enough for, legs tied around his waist to keep him locked inside you until he’s fighting back, fucking you so hard the sound of it fills the quiet room. 

“I love you,” you repeat a final time for him, just to watch the way it makes him break, jaw slackening when he loses control, finally. 

He stutters into his own orgasm, teeth scraping against your locked lips, forehead pressed into yours as he empties inside you for what feels like forever, finally collapsing on top of you with a whimper when his arms give out and he’s as limp as his cock inside you. 

You scrape your nails across his scalp, soothing him. You don’t mind his weight, or the way you’re still pressed together with sweat and your combined spend. 

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he rasps, eyes dazed as he looks up at you. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head tightly. “Not for me, at least.”

“You’re not mad?” 

You know he means his inability to say the magic words but you crack a smile, just as pleased with yourself. 

“About the bet?” you ask. “No.”

Oh, it’s delicious seeing realization dawn on his face, little glimmers of surprise and horror bubbling up from his afterglow. 

“Fuck,” he says. You’re grateful he doesn’t deny it, rolling to the side in defeat. 

“Who told you? ‘Woo?”

You laugh softly, rolling over to pin him down with your leg, trapping him against the back of the couch. 

“You did, right now,” you say, relishing having him where you want him. “I had a hunch. And I know you, you’d never beg for someone to say something during sex–”

“I didn’t beg,” he corrects, grimacing.

“What was it? The first one to get me to say it? Bonus points if it’s on your cock?”

“Ah, well,” he says, perking up despite the fist pressed to his forehead in embarrassment. “Then you don’t know.”

“I’ll find out soon enough, Jaehyun wouldn’t–”

“You’re really not mad?” he asks, painfully reticent as you pull his hand away from his face and twine your fingers together.

“Not if it means I can use it as leverage,” you say, kissing his knuckles.

That doesn’t seem to surprise him, at all. 

“Good girl,” he says. “What do you want?”

A few years ago, give or take 

You’re a little too happy, an awful fact considering how much he'd missed seeing you this way.

Lately you’ve been sleepwalking through your life, all those tiny fractures and bruises finally having the time to mend–but healing is a painful process in itself. Doyoung had returned from his family’s formal Chuseok gathering in Singapore, eager to check in on you after receiving sparing responses from you via text.

You didn’t have a friend he could check in with instead any longer–not after that one girl had fled the country, the other ghosting you after their father was mysteriously laid off from a company he well knew did business with Suh International. 

He’s worried about you long before that, terrified that one last straw would break you even if by all indications you were strong enough to take it. After you’d had Johnny arrested and solicited a no-contact order you’d cut your ex off completely, moving to a tiny apartment far from where you’d grown up, changing your number. 

Only Jungwoo knew about it, and it was he who’d reluctantly offered your whereabouts to him after a few glasses of whiskey in their usual club. 

“She asked me to keep her info on lockdown. Got that hacker kid, what’s his name–Haechan? Wiped her socials off the map, so he can’t find her. He did good but you know Suh.”

Doyoung nods. They hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, probably because the idiot was combing through every civic office and apartment building in the city. Hell, he’d probably driven around until he found her by sight alone, knowing that animal wouldn’t rest until he knew her whereabouts, as stubborn about chasing her down as he was about refusing the F4’s help. 

“His mother called me to ask if the place he bought in cash was for her,” Doyoung says, knocking back his drink as he receives a text, heart sinking that it's not you. “Did you help him buy it for her?”

Jungwoo sighs. “No. I just got her rent halved with some coercion, you know? But then he goes and buys a unit in the same building with whatever stash he thought the Old Tiger didn’t know about.” 

The Devil Kim leans back, long legs akimbo as he gestures towards the server for a refill. “He’s waiting for her to go back to Chicago before he moves in. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“I did not,” Doyoung affirms, turning away from the group of women at the bar sending looks towards their private table. “Let’s plan for when Madam Suh leaves. I can have her pull him into the London offices, considering he’s failing his courses.”

“Stone cold,” Jungwoo says, smirking. “Glad I’m not on your shit list.”

“Just don’t fuck with her,” Doyoung says. “Or fuck her.”

Jungwoo laughs into his glass. “Even I’m not that stupid.”

He’d thought he wasn’t, either. 

Not until you’d called a few days later, your speech a little slurred. He couldn’t have told you if what he was doing was important even if he was in a meeting, showing up to find you picking at a bowl of bar snacks in what he thought might be one of the nicer bars in your shitty part of town. Not as shitty as your old neighborhood, but it wasn’t a competition.

“Saint Kim,” you’d heralded him, raising an empty glass still smelling of watermelon and hibiscus. 

“You shouldn’t be drinking alone, here,” he’d said. 

You were dressed in one of your few nice outfits, a little on the revealing side for his tastes, but those had been Johnny’s you’d conformed to–animal print and thin straps, tastefully tasteless.

“I wasn’t,” you say, hiccuping. “Alone.”

For the first time in a long time fear spikes his blood pressure into overgear. Were you drugged? Was he going to have to fend off another predator who'd found you vulnerable?

You deserved the chance to move on but there was a real threat in what would happen to anyone who approached you without their permission. Johnny’s, yes, always, but the F4 had also agreed to look out for you well before your last incident at a club. 

“Who?”

“She left,” you say. He feels instant relief, reaching out to adjust the thin coverup slipping off your bare shoulder. 

“You make a new friend?”

You shake your head. “She’s nice. Met her in one of the ikebana classes work is paying for. Thought we were hitting it off but I must have said something dumb because she ran out of here, fast.”

You look up at him cautiously, too inebriated to realize he can recognize a set-up before it begins.

“You didn’t just talk about your ex, did you?” he asks, settling beside you at the bar. He orders something less ridiculous than whatever you'd been drinking, while you scroll through an Instagram feed, finger trembling over the screen. 

You look up at him, color-stained lips curving in an easy smile. “You want to see what we’re working on?”

Doyoung finds himself looking through a grid that is immediately obvious is not yours. His mouth goes dry, seeing rows of beautifully-staged floral centerpieces, the backgrounds as familiar as the back of his hand. You don’t seem to notice, going to the user’s story and tapping in vain to find the picture she’d posted.

“She deleted it already. Huh. Well, she texted me the picture–”

“Stop.” Doyoung places his hand over yours, his palm damp from the immediate flood of adrenaline. 

“So you do know Mona,” you say. You look up at him, expectantly, eyes glassy with the brand of hopefulness and naked curiosity he’s seen you charm everyone else around you with before. 

“She’s the one, isn’t she?”

Doyoung pulls cash from his pocket, not caring how much he puts down except that he’s sure it’s enough to cover the amount he’d like to drown himself in right now. Enough to go blind and burn out the phantom of that face he’d put behind him years ago. 

“Put your coat on,” he says. “I’m driving you home.”

“But I’m not–”

“Now,” Doyoung says, grabbing your wrist. He’s barely ever touched you in the years that you’ve been friends, and it sickens him when he feels you freeze in fear and confusion, that trauma response buried so deeply it's in your bones.

He wants to be kind, he wants to be patient with you. He just doesn’t have it in him to be anything to you right now.

“What’s wrong, Do–?”

“We’re leaving,” he says, dragging you out into the bitter cold evening, the streets slick with sleet, your heels catching on the pavement as you stumble in his wake.

“Stop,” you yell at his back, trying to yank your arm free from where he’s bruising your skin with whitened knuckles. “You’re hurting me–”

“You’ll live,” he says, pulling you to where he’s parked his car, the engine roaring to life the moment you manage to close your door. He can barely look at you, realizing too late that your crestfallen expression is making him more upset than the lightning strike of seeing her name again.

“You didn’t ask my address,” you say, quietly, met with his silence as he drives much more dangerously than the weather permits. He's forced to speak with you once he's slammed the brakes at an intersection, red light shading you through the windshield.

“Tell me one thing,” he says. “Did you try to set us up by having me come there?”

You’re petulantly silent now, an answer in itself.

“Answer me,” he orders, hands gripping the wheel.

“I thought you’d want to–”

“Do you think we have the kind of relationship where you can just do whatever you want and get away with it?” Doyoung’s voice is calm but he sees you flinch at his words and tone, your shoulders moving under your jacket as you begin to quietly cry. 

It drives him deeper into anger, hitting the gas with a roar of the engine the instant the light turns green. 

“You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself for this one, Y/N,” he says, already regretting every word tumbling out of his mouth. “You fucked up.”

“I just thought you could both have some closure after that–”

The car jerks as he brakes in the side lane of the service road, cars roaring past them honking their horns. Your sobs are barely audible over the idling engine and the blink of the hazards he turns on while he tries to find calm, your face turned away from him. 

“You thought that interfering in other people’s personal lives would make you feel better,” he says. “No wonder you don’t have any real friends.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see your full body shakes still, can feel as that armor encasement you’d put together piece-by-piece over years of dealing with loveless reality falls back into place. And, years later–no, even hours later–he’ll remember how at the time he was stupid enough to think it was the right thing to say. 

You needed a reality check, he’d thought. A reminder that all the wishes and hopes in the world wouldn’t change the bleak architecture of it, uncaring by design and much easier to navigate without them. That moving on was the only path to this idiot’s dream of closure, something you knew nothing about for how often you’d let them pull you back into their world, blinded by sunk-cost and loneliness. 

All the things he wished he believed for himself, but without the benefit of your optimism.

“Fuck you, Kim Doyoung,” you say, opening the car door and slamming it shut without so much as a glance behind you. He’d waited to make sure you reached the nearest bus stop before driving off, calling Jungwoo to let him know you were here–crying in the cold. 

He'd seen you in passing.

His best friend knew a lie when he’d heard it, most especially from him. 

He wouldn't hear from you again until spring.

Kim Doyoung can’t sleep. 

He’s not allowed to. 

He can’t move either, arm going numb beneath your curled body, your breathing finally easing for the dozenth time since his trial began. You have horrible sleep habits–kicking off the covers, stealing the pillows–but tonight you’ve passed out with that same bone-deep tiredness he’d felt earlier, face beatific in the slivers of light piercing through the slatted shades. 

It’s close to dawn, he thinks, the cacophony of insects and birds outside transitioning from a quiet chorus to a full orchestral suite. Soon it will be too loud to sleep deeply. 

“Y/N?” he whispers, tentatively, not daring to move.

You don’t respond, relief rushing through him. It’s not that he’s desperate to join you in slumber but that he’s waited for you to finally surrender to REM. He needed you down. 

And you needed it, too. 

He’d negotiated with Jaehyun when you’d been in the shower, earlier, sacrificing precious moments of shared time exploring your skin and the new taste of you under the water to supplicate himself to his best friend and worst enemy in this moment.

“It’s a charter,” Jaehyun said, blinking sleep from his eyes but awake enough to be angry. “You’re not finding another one short term.”

“I emailed you the tickets. Cattle car but first class, at least,” he says. “Jungwoo agreed to give you his day, he doesn’t want to take her out until after dark, anyway. You can sleep in tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Jaehyun had slammed the door shut in his face, but he hadn’t missed the budding smile on his friend’s face. At least one person was rooting for him.

That’s how he’d earned another morning with you. As always, making up for lost time.

You’re half out of the covers, one leg sprawled over the duvet as you sleep. You’d put on one of his softer button-downs, inhaling the smell of it after he tried to steal it back. 

“Please let me wear you,” you said. “I want to dream about you.”

Being around you like this is more comfortable than he imagined, as if you’re being slotted into a position he didn’t even know there was an existing space for. He’s woken up to women in his bed but you’re the first who’s ever asked him for this, particular experience.

“I used to have this fantasy, you know, whenever we crashed at your apartment.” He’d watched you go sheepish recalling, dates omitted for a reason. “Sometimes I’d lie there and touch myself thinking about you crawling into that guest bed–maybe a little drunk or you’d forget which room. Or maybe, you just wanted me to think that. I’d be awake but I’d pretend to be asleep while you . . . used me.” 

He experiments by tracing his fingertips up your bare leg, the peek of your lace underwear beneath the hem of his shirt maddening for how it curves into the crest of your ass, presented for him. A treat dangled before him, the command to partake only that you wanted him to make it slow–you wanted to wake to it.

He sucks a breath in, erection in his sweatpants hard against the band already from just watching his sleeping beauty. He finds every mark on your leg, every fine hair, thanking Heaven above you aren’t overly sensitive or ticklish like he is when his hand slips beneath his shirt to your belly. 

He slots himself against you, carefully, as if adjusting in his sleep. He has to wait for your breathing to even out again, slipping his free hand up to your breasts. 

“Used you? Did you not get off in this scenario?”

“I mean, yes. But it’s mostly about you. You wouldn’t say anything at all, you’d just fuck me full of your cum and then you’d leave me leaking it on your sheets and go back to your room. Or sometimes I’d crawl in your bed, if you were alone, and you’d cover my mouth so the others couldn’t hear it. And the next day it would be like nothing happened, you wouldn’t even bother to ask how I’d slept.” 

He loved how much of a slut you were, when you felt comfortable enough to share that side with someone. Johnny had certainly never appreciated the subtleties of your nature–too blinded by adoration to even consider degrading you on purpose. 

No, Doyoung had known for awhile you pushed the boundaries with him to see if he’d break.

Your nipples harden even though he’s barely handling them, discovering what shape your breasts make in repose as he tries desperately not to rut into the swell of your ass. Warming himself in you earlier had been one of the hardest challenges he’d faced but it had been worth it to learn you inside and out, to know how to make you grip his cock with that delicious little cunt of yours with just a kiss or a word that pleased you.  

You don’t wake but he knows he’s gotten through to that little lizard brain of yours when your legs rub together unconsciously, pushing back into him so his cock is settled between your buttocks. The friction from the lace is like the proverbial pea under a mattress–rubbing against his cock through the layers, catching on the veins and scraping the underside of his cockhead. 

It’s already a nice ache, one he ignores as he adjusts to better continue plucking and teasing at your body beneath your shirt, until you’re used to his touch enough to truly fall back under, once more.

You're so vulnerable, completely at his mercy as he brings his hand down to test the patch of moisture growing in the fabric, that lace sticky with your dreams of him. 

Use you, he thinks. You have no idea what he wants. 

Doyoung can play with the fantasy of you crawling into your boyfriend’s best friend’s bed while he’s passed out in the other room, determined to be punished for waking a sleeping monster . . . but it’s not what he's fantasizing about now. 

He takes time in stroking you, a single finger digging in between your lips through the fabric, listening intently for your breathing to change. You sigh, one of those full exhales one does in their deep sleep, but you arc back a little, into his touch, leg falling forward crooked so you’re a little more spread. 

Doyoung wishes he could move down there and use his nose to push you apart instead of his hand but that’s not your fantasy–not this time. You didn’t want him to spoil you anymore, completely underestimating his love for it. True, he didn’t often eat other girls out, too personal or just too much of a chore to figure out what they liked, but you weren’t ever going to be with him and not come from that first. 

Just the thought of tying you up so he can spend hours fucking you on his tongue is making his cock pulse, too hard to be ignored. He quietly pulls down the drawstring of his sleepwear, freeing himself so he can replace his finger with the much wider tip of his cock, biting back a groan as he rubs into that damp, soft lace he’d known would suit you the moment he’d touched it in the display box brought to his private buying room. 

You'd never know he’d already fucked himself with it before ever giving it to you, that errant fantasy of touching you finally realized as you whimper a little in your sleep at the soft push of him between your legs. He finds where your clit is getting just as swollen as the rest of you, bouncing against warmth and the promise of unspooling that need with his help, again.

Just his precious little cocksleeve, spoiled and worshiped, showing your gratitude by begging for it even when you’re unconscious. He tests the waters of the scenario by slowly pulling the seat of your underwear to the side, easing in between the fabric and your folds. 

You twitch against him, sheets rustling. He holds still, cock jumping and balls tightening with a little anxiety. 

He only has this one chance. 

Outside in the dark and quiet of the house sleeps the man everyone knows you’re really with, the one who doesn’t have to fight for an I love you to pass your lips. You’d never understood what it felt like watching you climb into Jaehyun’s lap whenever the whim took you, pretending you didn’t know what it did to him or the other two of them watching you.

Your breathing is shallow and your hand flexes a bit, against the pillow, but that’s it. Within a minute he’s grown more confident that you’re still asleep.

He reaches over you, pressing the pads of two fingers against the front of your underwear while he slips a little deeper between your legs, eyes almost rolling back in his head at the contrast between the satiny slide of you and the rougher cling of your panties. It’s a relief as he loses himself to it, rutting from the back while he applies constant pressure to your bud.

“Mmm.” You make a soft noise, but he doesn’t pull free, choosing instead to keep a hypnotizingly steady pace fucking against you. Your hips twitch against him, seeking out more contact, but he doesn’t rush–pressing his head against the back of yours and melding with you in the softness of the pillows and sheets. 

You’re so wet you’re soaking his pants, everything he collects tickling down to his balls pressed into your ass. He’s going to stuff your mouth with his fingers, when you finally open it, make you gag on them while he fills you full from behind. 

You moan now, voice syrupy with sleep. He doesn’t care if you’re still down, not with you gently pushing back, trying to get release.  

Not yet, you little harlot, he thinks, hips going still again. He’s burning at the wait, your cunt continuing to glide against him as you act out whatever is going on in your dreams, the movement making him insane for how closely it adheres to his desire to have taken you back when you were innocent, his little virgin weed learning what her body wanted, seeking it out in his bed.

“Treat me like one of the girls you don’t really like. Use me.”

Such an unending fantasy of yours that he never wanted you, almost sweet for how dumb you are–or just willfully ignorant. He’s always liked the second one better–your little game played out that you were one of them. Dressed in that school uniform, kicking your skinned knees, sucking on a piece of candy while four college-age idiots hid their bathing-suited boners under their robes, fighting or fucking around in front of you so you could keep up that precious little illusion of immunity. 

“Johnny,” you murmur in your sleep. 

It should make his blood run cold but as with all twisted-up and tangled desires it only makes him feel ignited, pulse pounding in his head. You’re still asleep and thinking of someone else, someone not even in this house, the guilt of it passing over him faster than a cloud on a breezy day. 

He rocks back into you, this time pulling out enough that he can find your soft hole, already tight again–the only part of your body not relaxed as he forces his way past the flutter of your opening, cockhead sensitive enough to sense the more textured g-spot where he knows you’ll come fast and easy if he fucks into it. 

“Shh,” he says, finally trailing his mouth against your jaw, pushing into you softly. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

“Mmhmm,”  you reply, nuzzling into the pillow, curling into him. He pushes a knee between your legs, folding you into the bed beneath him as he begins to fuck you, finally taking you for himself and himself alone. 

You’re so warm inside, body adjusting to take him easily for how boneless you are, kitten-like mewls muffled by the pillow. It turns him on hearing the edge of pain there, the way you struggle when he pulls your underwear up so tight it sticks between your folds, clit rubbing against it the way he’d stroked himself to completion with it tied tight around his cock.

“Stay quiet or I’ll stuff your mouth full instead,” he whispers against your shoulder, feeling as always a little stupid but losing that internal cringe when you choke on a moan.

“Is that what my little slut was dreaming about? Gagging to tears on another man’s cock?”

He feels you tense at a bit at the suggestion, letting him use you in spite of the rougher handling. 

“That’s right. You said another man’s name in your sleep. Do you think that's acceptable?”

You shake your head, whimpering. 

“Such a whore you can't keep track of who's dick is inside of you. Tell me, who's fucking you right now?” 

“Doie,” you say, music to his ears. He'd always hated the nickname until you started using it. You were the only one–you were always the only one who made his chest burn with unsated desire when you said his name.

“Who owns this tight little pussy?” 

“You do,” you gasp out. 

“Are you going to forget me? Maybe I need to fuck you so hard you only think of me when you spread your legs for another man.” 

Doyoung feels electric at how easily you begin to crumble with just a few words, squeezing his dick so tight when he says something you like, even more when he makes it hurt. 

“Sleepy baby going to let me stuff every one of your holes until I’ve had enough? Use you like my own little doll?”

You nod, no longer capable of speaking except in a plaintive moan when he leaves you to shuck off his pants and pull down your ruined panties, pillow pulled beneath your belly to force your ass up. In this position he can drill into you deeper, burying you into the mattress with each thrust. 

“That’s what you get for crawling in here,” he says, fingers digging bruises into your hips to hold you down. “Keep your mouth shut and take it.”

The pleading, almost scared noises you're making have him hard and pulsing, two steps away from coming himself but in no hurry to. He pulls your hair to bring your head back, shoving his fingers in your mouth. 

“You like that?” Your cunt can't hide it, sucking him in. “Get them wet for me.” 

You drool over his knuckles, gagging as he fucks your mouth with them in an awkward rhythm to his merciless rutting. He spits into his hand when he's satisfied, fingers swirling around the tight rim of your ass so quickly it makes you buck. 

“Don't scream,” he murmurs, giving you two fingers at once. You make a noise through the pillow you're biting, gripping him tight. He's gentler with this, slowing, letting you adjust to take him.

“This is my favorite, right here,” he groans. “Feeling my cock inside you with my fingers. I'd fuck this tight little ass again but I want to feel you come like this.” 

He begins to stroke you harder, deeper, wet and sticky when his balls slap against your abused cunt. He keeps his fingers buried in you, scissoring you open as you take it.

“Come for me, Y/N, grip me good so I can fill that pretty mouth of yours.” 

It's a beautiful feeling when you begin to throb, contractions in your ring of muscle letting him know when you hit your peak. He fights the tingling in his balls, the urge to come with you painful for how long he's been holding it back. 

He talks you through it, instead.

“Such a good little hole,” he says. “You're coming so hard, baby, can feel it so well.” 

You moan, loud, as you break, loosening almost immediately, flooding him with sweet, hot warmth. He makes sure the last of those tics is gone before pulling out.

“Roll over,” he says, straddling you with a hand on the headboard, delighted by the sight of your flushed face and starry eyes. You already know what to do, tongue lolling and uvula exposed as he guides himself into your mouth, soft tongue swirling around his tip. 

God help him he's been thinking about this since yesterday, pushing deep enough to gag but not choke, fucking your mouth and the hot tightness of your throat when he hits it. It’s the sight more than anything that drives him to spill hot white ropes of cum into your mouth, pulling out to milk the last few splashes on your parted lips and delighting at the sight of you licking them with your spend-covered tongue.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, dropping down and kissing you, finally, tongues stroking each other until you finally pull free to breathe, blinking up sleepily at him. 

“You do taste different,” you tease.

“I taste like you,” he says, pressing soft kisses all over your face. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

“Did you like that?” you murmur. 

“I loved–” he pauses, watching the smile spread on your wet lips. 

“I love you, you know,” he finishes. You reach around his neck, comforting him out of instinct, but he doesn’t need it. 

“I love you,” he repeats, testing the words on his tongue now that they've flown out so easily, the tightness in his chest easing as you rise up to kiss him. 

“It's beautiful to hear you say it,” you say. “But you're right, I know.”

“I think I even know the exact time and date,” you say, reaching between you into the pocket of your shirt to pull out that torn and folded art paper scrawled with your words and an amateurish sketch.

Tomorrow morning . . .

[Unknown number] [Tomorrow morning April 13th dawn is at 6:17] [I have something to show you. Meet me on the roof of the East Wind Hotel]

Doyoung looks at the text message again, hand hanging over the railing of a dance floor, conversation with the woman by his side forgotten. With the blur of a late night and a trip to a different hotel room, with a different woman, he'd almost missed it.

Probably one of the innumerable flings he's had, Jungwoo recruiting him to get every last lick of enjoyment out of Seoul before he enlisted. His friend snatches the phone from his hand.

“No business,” Jungwoo slurs, eyes bloodshot as he focuses on the text. “I thought you weren't working hospitality anymore.” 

“It's not . . .” There's something nagging at him, like a bird pecking at his skull in time to the drone of the EM, the buzz of conversation. A sense of deja vu so strong he's forced to cycle on it. 

“Pfft. I know you don't bring girls back to your kingdom,” Jungwoo says. “Stop working and party.”

Doyoung doesn't know why he feels compelled to see the cryptic message through, doesn't know why he races across town at 5 am, reeking of whiskey and another woman’s perfume, doing his best to sober up as the designated driver talks about the change in weather, the cherry blossoms in full bloom outside the window.

The morning commute is already surging and the destination central to the city so by the time he makes it he's out of breath from running two blocks away from a jam, head pounding.

“ . . . restricted for non-guests,” someone is saying, voice recognizable as an intern he knows from his leadership program, still stuck on night front desk duty. 

“I just need a few minutes, please. I need to take a picture–” He'd recognize that voice in a hundred years if he hadn't heard it, not just a hundred days.

“What's going on here?” 

You freeze, shoulders stiffening as you turn to face him. Not much has changed–a new haircut, same ratty old sneakers–but you look different. No longer a ghost, but just as untouchable for the skittish way you hold when he approaches, only the barest relief on your beautiful features.

You don't smile, don't even say hello.

You're scared of him, again, just that thought making him spiral.

“You came,” you say, exhaling. “We need to hurry. We need to get to the roof.”

Doyoung turns to the staff. “Is the roof access still shut down?”

“Stair access only, sir.” 

Your eyes go wide at the interchange, something like embarrassment passing over your features as you begin to laugh. 

“Of course this is your hotel,” you state, smacking yourself on the forehead. “Of course, why didn't I think to check that. God, I'm an idiot.” 

“We didn’t change the name when we acquired the chain so it would be unlikely for you to have guessed that,” he says. “What are you doing here?” 

“There's no time and it's easier just to show you. We need to get to the roof, now,” you say, grabbing his wrist and tugging on it towards the stairs. 

“Y/N,” he says, holding you fixed and pointing at the elevator. “We can take it up as far as we need to.” 

You're still laughing maniacally twenty floors up. “I was going to cry if I had to go up another flight of stairs.” 

“Are you really taking pictures?” He asks, gesturing at your camera.

“No, but I started carrying it the first time someone called the police on me thinking I was going to jump,” you giggle, wiping away tears. He feels delirious from lack of sleep, so maybe you are, too, but it doesn't seem to be the case as you spring out the doors, forcing him to guide you when you're lost in the executive suite hallways.

“I managed to sneak in last time, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten this far. I'm glad you came just in time, I think they were going to kick me out.”

He's surprised at how easily things have snapped back into place between you, no mention of anything that's happened as you race up the stairwell to the roof access. 

“Will you tell me–”

“Oh thank god,” you say once your through the heavy doors and collapsed on the green helipad, growing impatient when he props the door open out of habit. He's been up here many times, nothing remarkable about the space besides the legacy sign on top, view crowded by other buildings at varying levels. 

“Stand here,” you say, pushing him into place, turning him by the arms. “Do you see it?”

“I don't even know what I'm looking for,” he says, beginning to grow annoyed. 

“Look over there, at the People's Bank. Relax your eyes, it will only take a minute.”

He feels increasingly foolish but he does what you ask, cool morning breeze clearing his muddled head. The sky is washed in a pink and blue haze, the sun cresting the more mountainous region of the city behind you to bathe the city in solid gold.

“There,” you breathe, letting out a little sigh.

“What?” All he can see is a few birds passing over the vista of crowded advertisements and neon. 

“Do you see the light?” you ask. 

“There's tons of lights–” he begins, cut short by the blinding catch of the sun's reflection on one of the characters, then another. He spells it out slowly, guided by your hand holding his to each one. 

The bank: Sa. 

The next building over, also burning brighter with the touch of the sun: Rang. 

Then an advertisement that has been up long enough most of the original message is lost. Hae.

“How did you find this?” he asks, knowing it would be impossible for him to have ever seen this without knowing the trick of the light. 

“I didn't find it. Well I did–I had to search some buildings for it.” 

Later he'll find out you climbed close to fifty flights of stairs in the last two months, had spent every waking moment not working or in school breaking into buildings before sunrise to find that exact spot, forever amused at the thought you hadn’t checked his family's flagship hotel first.

“You don't remember getting the same message from someone else?” you ask. “I was worried you wouldn't come, again.”

Again. Something tugs the memory up from the oubliette he'd locked it into, Mona teasing him about sleeping in and missing their appointment.

Mona. 

His stomach falls, checking back behind him at the door as if that particular ghost will return to haunt him.

“She's not here. I wasn't trying to set you up,” you say, recognizing the dismay he can't hide. “Honestly. And I know whatever closure you find is yours and yours alone. You were right about that, too, I'm sorry.”

You twist your hands in front of you, suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety. “I did this for me. Because I wanted to know what she tried to tell you, even if she couldn't say it aloud.”

You don't look at him, can't in order to continue. Doyoung feels like a live wire, exposed, two months of painful loneliness and a lifetime's worth of avoidance of this fact all surging through him in this moment. 

As much as he would prefer to leave he's not going to run like he did back then, when he'd ignored the hard parts to pretend like a friendship wasn't something more. Not with the stakes of losing this one.

“You once told me you were just friends, even if you couldn't be one anymore for her after you realized you loved her. How it broke you to be with someone you couldn't be with, who wanted something different.”

“Now you know. She didn't want to stay one, either,” you say. You look up at him nervously, regaining your confidence.

“I just wanted you to know that you were loved, Kim Doyoung. You still are.” 

You turn away towards the door, pretending not to have seen the tears dripping down his face under his glasses. He ignores them, too, not knowing what to say or do to make sure you never leave him again.

The spot never mattered to him, the word and it's confession forgotten in time. What changed that day was having you in front of him after so long, the way you were a reflection of him so many years ago, fighting to be by the side of someone who didn't know how to love you back, the right way.

He'd promised himself than that even if he couldn't say it, he'd show you.

“Thank you for coming. I'm sorry for interfering with your life, but that’s what friends do.”

You'd almost made it to the stairs when he'd wrapped around you from behind, the first ever time he'd held you in an embrace, unsurprised to find you shaking like a leaf as he rested a wet cheek against your hair. 

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Thank you.” 

You relax a little, squeezing his hand. In that small gesture everything is reset, everything is okay again. They won't talk about this for the next few years, even when Jungwoo asks how you'd come back into their lives so suddenly and without any indication that things had changed.

But they had. Deeply. 

“You can make it up to me by buying me breakfast,” you say, smiling up at him, wiping his cheek with your sleeve. “We have a lot to catch up on.” 

“Did I win?” you ask. 

Doyoung can only laugh, giddy, as you burrow into his side to smother him in kisses and teasing. You were put on this earth to challenge him, after all–always right there to match him in stubbornness and competition.

He presses his nose to your neck, inhaling the remnants of the scent you'd made together, one bottle for each, though you didn't have to know his formula was just a bit different.

“‘Tomorrow Morning’ has a nice ring to it, I suppose. It lingers well.”

“It was my answer, actually. I needed to see if I could break Saint Kim's vow of romantic abstinence before I made up my mind,” you say, smug as you move to get up. “Glad you were able to find out before your time was–”

You shriek as he pulls you down again, pinning you to the bed. 

“I still have a few hours,” he says, voice dangerous. “I'd like to hear you say it again.”

[avatartophblindbanditbeifong]

Unbudded Flower

Miles Morales x Reader

337 words

Summary: Miles dreaded fourth period. That was until he met you.

Fluff, fluff, fluff <333

December, 2018

Miles was having a long day, and it was only 10 a.m. Time seemed to be his biggest enemy now that he actually had something to look forward to. Instead of beating up bad guys and being everyone's friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, Miles was going to fourth period.

He was a lot more open-minded about Visions Academy now, although he did still think it was a little elitist and some of his peers stuffy and stiff. All except for one person, Y/n Y/l/n.

Miles first met Y/n in fourth period a week after his final fight with Kingpin and saying goodbye to the other spider people. Y/n had been sitting at a two person desk by themselves and with Miles being late, his only option was to sit in the empty chair next to them. Y/n was quiet, did the work that was given, and went about their day. That was as much as Miles could gather. The only time Miles heard Y/n talk was when they answered a question or quietly apologizing to him when they both accidentally bumped each other's elbows when they wrote.

That was until their teacher assigned a lab that was to be completed in groups of two. Miles learned a lot from that lab, and it wasn’t about science. Y/n was like an unbudded flower. It took some time for them to show him who they were on the inside, but once they fully bloomed Miles could all but admire the person they were. Miles and Y/n talked everyday following that. They ate together at lunch with his roommate Ganke, texted about miscellaneous topics in the middle of the night, and talked in hushed whispers about anything and everything; stifling their laughter to avoid the judgemental gazes of their classmates. They were inseparable. It did not take long for Y/n to become Miles’ friend and by the end of the month, Miles would consider Y/n his best friend.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°

A/N: So, I watched Across the Spider-Verse yesterday and it was such an amazing film! Seeing almost a half a decade worth of work come together in front of my eyes was such an amazing experience. The colors, the animation, the story were all perfect. Miles and all of the other characters mean so much to me, I legit had a meltdown when the credits were over LOL!

Anyway, I knew I had to write a cute little story after seeing the movie so here it is :)

Hope you enjoyed!

[phoenixduelist]

“If not for your genuine panic, I would think this is a clever way you came up for me to have an excuse to check you for wires.” surely at least one little joke was allowed as an attempt to ease him, somewhat

“Gotta specify, I happen to have a lot of those as my views don't usually align with those who get their high on hurting people.” her voice softer now, what they had thrown this poor officer into? A few moments of silence, most of her...problems resided in northern states-

“Oh. That.” Rozália spat with utmost disdain at the discovery

“You're not going to solve that without murder. Best bring a fucking RPG while they are drugged out of their minds. And! That's still a quicker death than deserved.” but the question why is he asking her help on the matter when it was clear that the two gangs couldn't be more different remained open

“You...aren't going alone, right?”

@phoenixduelist said “I’d like to offer moral support but I have questionable morals” [ x ]

Richard stalled, looking the woman over. "Well the only support I could use it not having anyone killed." He was way in over his head right now with an undercover project he wasn't allowed to talk about but he needed her support and help. "It's --- I need your help with a rival gang of yours. I need your help." That's all Murtogg said on the subject too, he couldn't say anything else. He figured the speed demon would like to help with issues regarding a rival biker gang, and in his mind he could help her with it - and in turn - her helping him.

[wangxianficfinder]

SOS help emergency im going on a 19-hr flight soon and im going to need some reading materials. so if y'all could drop your fave long fics so i could download them to read, that would be most awesome 🙏🙏🙏 thank you so much for everything you do your blog has introduced me to so many wonderful fics <3

You know what to do everyone! We need to help Anon not be bored on their very long flight ~ send in some long fics for them to read ^^

- Mod C

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Jumping in to rec 💖 love, in fire and blood by cicer (E, 360k, wangxian, immortal WWX, slow burn, pining, arranged marriages)

~Mod L

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Many trigger warnings! Take them seriously. But this is a good one: burning camellias by AvoOwO (M, 284k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Sunshot Campaign, Prisoner of War, WWX is a Mess, Genius WWX, Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Violence, Blood and Injury, BAMF WQ, BAMF WWX, BAMF WN, POV WWX, Hurt WWX, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Sentient Burial Mounds, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, No Golden Core Transfer, WWX Has No Golden Core, Poisoning, Smart WWX, Protective WQ, WWX & WQ Friendship, Medical Torture, Cannibalism, WWX & WN Friendship, PTSD, Dubious Consent, Consent Issues, Heavy Angst)

on restitution by glitteringmoonlight (M, 98k, LSZ & WWX, WWX & JL, wangxian, dark JC, not JC friendly, captivity, non-graphic torture, angst w/ happy ending)

Ok ok. So it’s not a loooing fic. But it’s worth downloading for a plane trip: a thousand hills, no birds in flight | 千山鳥飛絕 by defractum (nyargles) (E, 26k, WangXian, Mythology, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon adjacent setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort)

Death of a Ghost by Gotcocomilk (E, 107k, WangXian, WWX & JL, Canon Divergence, Ghost WWX, Hurt/comfort, Family bonding, Fluff, Angst)

Amazing world building through the sun shot campaign - lots of sex heads up: Better Things to Do with a Flute in Wartime by Anonymous (E, 365k, MingXian, WangXianJue, Sunshot Campaign, Fix-It, Magical Healing Cock, Dual Cultivation, mild Dom/Sub, Undernegotiated Kink, Golden Core Reveal, Breathplay, Choking, Painplay, Subdrop, Topdrop, Major Character Injury, Canon Divergence, What-If, Temperature Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Fisting, Spanking, PTSD, Trauma, Self-Harm, (in the pursuit of cultivational badassery) )

Have a safe flight! Awaiting Your Return by Karmiya (E, 118k, WangXian, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, the opposite of slow burn, Found Family, Canon Divergence, Age Difference, discussions of wei wuxian’s canonical abusive childhood)

Over the Rotted Bridge by vailkagami (T, 314k, WangXian, Temporary Character Death, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, LWJ dies, Wei Wuxian doesn’t die, neither do (most of) the  wens, JYL also lives, Original Character(s), outside pov, YLLZ WWX,  Canon Divergence, CQL Verse, Illustrated, Grief/Mourning, Non-Consensual  Resurrection, mute LWJ, Hurt LWJ, Slow Burn, canonical death of a child  (mentioned), Survivor Guilt, PTSD)

❤️ The Third Young Master of the Qishan Wen by KouriArashi

T, 139k, wangxian, canon divergence, romance, angst w happy ending, Wen WWX, hurt/comfort, politics, families of choice, revenge, sibling bonding, pining, everyone lives au, Mojo's post)

Ten miles of Lotus Flowers by Yukirin_Snow (M, 273k, wangxian, JC/LXC, ABO, Romance, Slow Burn, Pain, Hurt/Comfort, True Love, Pregnancy, Humor, No one dies that doesn’t deserve to die, Fluff and Smut, Eventual Smut, Angst, Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending)

to pierce your heart; to fill it full by stiricide (E, 210k, wangxian, NHS/Other(s), WQ/Other(s), royalty au, magic, bottom LWJ, angst w happy ending, smut, dark gusu lan sect, implied future LWJ/concubine because heirs, blood & gore, sharing a bed, under-negotiated kink, light bondage, minor character death, slow burn, power imbalance, sexual role play, consensual non-con)

With No Particular Affection  by Chrononautical (E, 92k, WangXian, Modern AU, Arranged Marriage, Kid  Fic, Miscommunication, Family Drama, JFM and YZY’s A+ Parenting, Good Uncle JC, Wedding Fluff, Genius WWX, Street Kid WWX, Homelessness, Rich  LWJ, Oblivious WWX, Cinnamon Roll WN, Implied/Referenced Suicide, WWX Has a Pregnancy Kink, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst)

Mud on Your Feet by AvoOwO (Not rated, 59k, wangxian, JC & WWX, nightmares, sentient burial mounds, possession, panic attacks, night terrors, hurt/comfort, fluff, good sibling JC, hurt WWX, angst w happy ending, blood & injury, hallucinations, insomnia, good sibling WWX, sleepwalking, sleeptalking, protective JC, WWX sees dead people, LWJ pov, PTSD, implied/referenced self-harm, yunmeng siblings feels)

Wei Wuxian Makes a Wish series by natcat5 (M, 119k, wangxian, major character death, underage, madoka magica au, modern w/ magic, time travel, high school au, body horror, self-harm, angst w/ bittersweet ending, time loop, mental instability, suicidal thoughts)

The Scarlet Lotus by rainbowninja167 (M, 137k, WangXian, Marriage of Convenience, Secret Identity, Fix-It, Angst with a Happy Ending, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Canon-Typical Violence, canon-typical war crimes, Yunmeng Bros, the mortifying ordeal of getting seduced by your own husband, nonlinear chronology we die like cql, just kidding nobody dies in this fic, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Miscommunication)

Mad about the Boy by TriviasFolly (M, 62k, wangxian, 1950s America au, greaser WWX, historical smoking, historical viewpoints, angst, internal struggle, pre-relationship, homophobia, sexual awakening, sexual experimentation, self-discovery journey, slef-love journey, gay academia, teenage dramatics)

The Fifth Type of Non-Contact Force by Caixx (Not Rated, 83k, WangXian, Modern AU, High School, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Fluff and Humor, Actually Somewhat Canon, Mutual Pining, Horny Teenagers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Non-Graphic Smut)

I know what my heart wants by yakuso5u (Not Rated, 28k, WangXian, Modern AU, Single Father LWJ, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, Accidental Child Acquisition, Domestic, Slice of Life, Christmas references)

In Imitation of Life by travelingneuritis (E, 70k, wangxian, modern cultivation, scifi au, android WWX, tone: neon seedy, rich people are bored and terrible, post-apocalyptoc landscape, happy ending, smut, severe major characger injury, time loss)

A Narrow Bridge by FrameofMind, Jo Lasalle (Jo_Lasalle) (E, 700k, WangXian, Time Travel Fix-It, Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Getting Together, First Time, Pining while fucking, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, Angst with a Happy Ending, CQL Verse, almost everybody lives/almost nobody dies, epistolary-ish, canon-ish side pairings, radishes) the ultimate fix-everything in my opinion

Twin Demons of Mòby XiaoFeiFei (M, 358k, MXY & WWX, WangXian, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury, Abuse, Twin Demons of Mo, MXY Lives, Major Character Injury, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Angst, Minor Character Death, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Minor Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Torture, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, Canon Divergence, Self-Harm, Found Family, Sexual Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, POV Alternating)

🧡 Stunted, Starving Juvenility by TomatenMark (E, 663k, WangXian, WIP, Fix-it of sorts, Talisman master WWX, Not JFM Friendly, Study Arc, Getting together, Fluff and Angst, Engagement)

💖 Magical Marriage Ribbons series by starandrea (M, 1M, wangxian, ongoing, animal transformations, weddings)

WWX relives the story - I cannot for the life of me remember the name of the trope - it’s early for me: we’re starting at the end by Miss_Enthusiasimal (M, 92k, WangXian, JC & WWX, Time Travel, Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Golden Core Reveal, Burial Mounds, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Starvation, emaciation, Cannibalism, Self-Harm, Amputation, Suicidal Thoughts, Sunshot Campaign, let JZX and WWX be friends club)  

Madam Yu comes to cloud recesses instead of JFM when WWX punches Zixuan: 🧡 To have and to hold by Moominmammashandbag (M, 78k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Major character injury, CQL verse, Happy Ending)

WQ time travels back to the core removal: 🧡 Never Again by Hauntcats (T, 67k, WangXian, WWX & WQ & WN, Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Golden Core Transfer Fix-It, Angst, Not JC Friendly, BAMF WWX)

Second Summer by Anonymous (M, 152k, wangxian, canon divergence, post-sunshot, mystery, amnesia, memory loss, curses, not everyone dies au, golden core reveal)

Linger by the Door (I’ve Always Been Yours) by piecrust (T, 78k, wangxian, canon compliant, slow burn)

actually super fuffy and funny despite tags: Like a Water-Worn Stone by meyari (T, 41k, wangxian, major character death, hurt/comfort, cchronic illness, serious injuries, self-medication, disability, PTSD, depression, self-worth issues, implied/referenced child abuse, aftermath of war, aftermath of violence, prisoner of war, idenity issues, warning: JGS, discussion of enslavement, discussion of abuse)

LWJ saves WWX from falling at nightless city: Unbreakable Heaven, Luminous Earth by carolyncaves (M, 96k, wangxian, graphic depictions of violence, canon divergence, secret identity, sharing a bed, literal sleeping together, pining, getting together, suicidal thoughts, bloog & injury, caretaking, sexual content, fluff, angst w happy ending, power imbalance, JYL lives, not everyone dies au)

🧡 Song of Suibian and Bichen: Or, the Greatest (And Only) Furby Master of Demonic Cultivation by moonwaif (T, 64k, WangXian, Fix-It of Sorts, canon adjacent, The spiritual weapons are furbies, Angst with a Happy Ending, The parent trap but make it WangXian with furbies, Mutual Pining, Taking my favorite parts of every adaptation and smashing them together)

🧡 All will be well when the day is done by abCEE (T, 76k, wangxian, time travel, canon divergence, fix it, not YZY friendly, not Jiang friendly, butterfly effect, no sunshot, madam lan lives, lan WWX)

🧡 like speaking to my heart by SnowshadowAO3 (T, 613k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Daemons, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Some people live!, additional warnings in specific chapters, if you don’t know what daemons are that’s ok because I explain it in the author’s note, also by slow burn I VERY much mean slow burn)

The Same Moon Shines series by sami (Various, 799k, check individual tags from the works!)

Crossover between MDZS and Scum Villain, where Jiang Cheng and Liu Qingge meet, pretend to date, get married, and eventually fall in love. You don't even need to know that much about SVSSS, is so beautiful written that you can just read it: What married people do by Shamelesscooper (E, 216k, JC/LQG, crossover, SVSSS, marriage of convenience, slow burn, pining, demisexual JC, sharing a bed, masturbation, jealousy, slow burn WWX & JC reconciliation, chapter-specific tags in the notes, bathing/washing, enthusiastic consent, relationship negotiaitions)

Nearly 400,000 words, WIP gorgeous AU transmigration: The Tamed by Escheria (T, 366k, wangxian, LWJ/XZ, WWX/WYB, RPF, YLLZ WWX, combination of MDZS & Untamed, OP WWX, XZ is WWX, transmigration, isekai, WIP)

Many happy returns. by orange_crushed (E, 25k, WangXian, Modern AU, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Parent(s), Implied/Referenced Suicide, Past Suicide of a Parent, References to Depression, Anxiety, Therapy, References to Anti-Depressant Medications, Escort Service, Loneliness, Everybody’s Abandonment Issues, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Moving In Together, Oral Sex, Penetrative Sex, Hopeful Ending, Recovery, References to Escorting/Sex Work but No Actual Escorting/Sex Work)

live from new york by varnes (E, 87k, wangxian, JYL/JZX, This is a SNL AU, however the juniors are featured and there are lots of shenanigans!, slow burn, friends to lovers, pining, getting together, happy ending)

I know what my heart wants by yakuso5u (Not Rated, 28k, WangXian, Modern AU, Single Father LWJ, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, Accidental Child Acquisition, Domestic, Slice of Life, Christmas references)

Cure by Yukirin_Snow (M, 100k, WangXian, XiCheng, XuanLi, Modern AU, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Character, Cancer, Medical Procedures, Medical Jargon, Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Love at First Sight, possible trigger warnings) i’ll keep reccing this time and time again until more ppl see how good this fic is!!!!!

[spaceyaceface]

Hogwarts Legacy Masterlist

Link to blurb masterlist for Sebastian, Ominis, and Garreth

Sebastian Sallow

Snow, Scarves, and Schemes - Oneshot. Y/N is sick of Leander Prewett trying to court her. Luckily, she has a best friend named Sebastian Sallow who would love to help put an end to it. They devise a plan to pretend to court up until the Yule Ball. Should be simple, right? If only. Or, the classic friends to lovers, idiots in love, fake dating scenario. Warnings: None. 

What Could Have Been - Twoshot. She had been in love with Sebastian Sallow for some time. And she was afraid of having something to lose. After all, she knew all too well that good things always came to an end.Now it was their last night together. What were they willing to lose? Warnings: Heavy Angst.

What We Are Now - Twoshot. Sebastian Sallow went to America for a year in hopes to find a cure for Anne. As he returns home, he faces the possibility of seeing the girl he loves again. Part two to “What Could Have Been,” but could also be read alone. Warnings: Some Angst. 

Losing Patience - Oneshot. Ominis is sick of seeing his best friends pine for each other, so he takes it upon himself to force them to get together. Warnings: None.

A Little Reminder - Oneshot. After a big fight, Sebastian and her haven’t talked for almost a week. Rumors have started to go around that they’ve broken up. Warnings: Possessive!Sebastian.

I’m Right Here - Oneshot. Just before Sebastian killed his uncle, she was injuried. Now Sebastian has to deal with the guilt of not only the life he took, but the life he almost couldn't save. Warnings: Murder, Guilt, Injury, Depression.

Ominis Gaunt

you are a wildflower garden growing in my head - When she learns that Ominis Gaunt is well versed in floriography, she insists on him giving her lessons to learn the language of flowers. Thankfully, he ins't too hard to convince. Warnings: None. 

Right Direction - Oneshot. After defeating Ranrok, MC is riddled with guilt over the pain they caused and the lives sacrificed to save them. They've cut themselves off and refused to heal their injuries. But perhaps Ominis was the one person who could understand the pain they've gone through. Warnings: Minor Injuries. Self Destructive Behaviors. Survivor’s Guilt. 

One Day At A Time - Oneshot. Sequel to Right Direction. Mc has been improving, but still has bad days. They find comfort in going to Ominis for help. Warnings: Self Destructive Behaviors/Tendencies. Feelings of Guilt. Brief Mentions of Minor Injuries.

Flustered - Blurb. After living with Anne for the summer, MC has heard a lot of stories about her, Sebastian, and Ominis. When Ominis and Sebastian come to reconnect with Anne, MC is eager to ask Ominis about some of the stories she's heard. Warnings: None.

Only In Dreams - Oneshot. She spent her days in love with him, and her nights wishing they were together. But she knew it would never be---Ominis Gaunt had sworn off love for the sake of ending his family's legacy. She knew she wouldn't be an exception to that. Warnings: Angst (with a happy ending).

You Were The First - Oneshot. Ominis Gaunt has never known affection. He has never known how it felt to love---to be loved. She came and changed all of it. Or, Ominis gets love because by god does he deserve it. Warnings: Implied/Referenced child absuse.

Safety - Series. Ongoing. Y/N L/N had always despised Ominis Gaunt. He was everything she hated about her life. As the only daughter to a wealthy pure-blood family, she knew it was inevitable that she would someday find herself in an arranged marriage. But why did it have to be him? Warnings: See individual chapters.

--> Dread | Hatred | Truce | Fear | Anger | Sorrow | Gratitude | Worry | Absence

Prove You Wrong - Oneshot. After being stood up on a date, Ominis decides to prove MC wrong when she feels like no one will ever love her. Warnings: Being stood up, feelings of inadequacy. 

A Black Walnut Wand - Oneshot. A wand made of Black Walnut can be a finicky thing---if the wielder isn't truthful, whether with themselves or with others, it's power diminishes. So it's just absolutely perfect when her wand starts acting up right before N.E.W.T.S., isn't it? Warnings: None.

Sebastian Sallow x MC x Ominis Gaunt (Platonic)

All I Need - When MC was injuried, she knew her two best friends would get after her for it. But they’ll always be there for her. Warnings: Injury.

Sebastian Sallow x Ominis Gaunt 

Don’t Go Where I Can’t Follow - Oneshot. Sebastian can't give up. Not even after he's killed his Uncle. He's determined to save Anne, and won't take no for an answer. Or, a brief exploration into the broken(?) friendship between Sebastian and Ominis after everything happens. Can be read platonic or romantic. Warnings: ANGST

[mars-wuz-herez]

What once....was...mine....

Suggestion #1

His coat lies outside on the floor. Infinite is dead. Sonic is finally free. 

But he can't celebrate.

Sonic turns to face Shadow who is currently laying on the floor, bleeding.

“Nonononono. Shadow?”

Sonic lifts Shadow's head on his lap. Shadow coughs a few times, before his head turns. Sonic grabs his cheek and turns it towards him.

“Look at me. Look at me. I'm right here, don't go stay with me Shadow please!”

Sonic grabs Shadow's hands and puts them on his quills and starts singing, faster than normal, voice breaking as he sings

“Flowers gleam and glow. L-Let your power shine. Why isn't this working? Please work!”

“Hey” Shadow weakly says but Sonic ignores him and continues singing

“Make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine”

“Sonic”

The blue hedgehog looks at Shadow, tears in his eyes.

“You were my new dream….”

Sonic laughs tears now streaming down his cheeks. His hand squeezes Shadows.

“And you were mine”

Shadow smiles, closes his eyes and takes his last breath.

Sonic doesn't move. ‘He died’ he thinks, ‘All because of me’. He cups Shadow's cheeks and continues singing. As he is singing, memories of their adventure play out. Them visiting the Ugly duckling, Sonic singing and Shadow covering his face in embarrassment when really he was hiding his blush and smile. Memory of them barely escaping the guards, memory of them Shadow visibly freaked out when Sonic showed him his powers. (That was a funny one). And then his favorite memory of them all. Both of them on a boat watching the lanterns as they lit up the sky. Sonic remembers taking a glance at Shadow and thinking how beautiful he was. How there was no other place he wanted to be, how he wished that this moment would never end. He was thought about how much he wanted to…

to…

but it was too late now. Shadow is dead. Sonic’s powers are no longer useful. He is no longer useful.

He puts their foreheads together and sings the final verse to the song.

“...what once was mine.”

Then he finally allows himself to cry. He cries and cries while mumbling apologies to the hedgehog on his lap

“I’m so sorry, Shadow. I should've done more to help you. This is….all my fault. I'm so sorry”

As he cries he doesn't notice a tear fall on the others cheek. That tear stays there for a minute before disappearing leaving a glowing flower. 

Sonic almost doesn't notice the bright light coming out of Shadow. The blue light dances in the air and the bright light coming from Shadow gets brighter and brighter. It forms the flower, the 

sundrop flower. Sonic watches as the blood from Shadow's shirt disappears. Then just as the light appears, it all disappears into Shadow. 

Sonic looks at his wound. It's gone! He looks back at Shadow hoping that this could've healed him.

“please…”

For a moment Shadow’s movement remain still. Then he opens one eye. Then another

“S-Sonic?”

Sonic gasps.

“Shadow?”

“Did uh…did I ever tell you I have a thing for blue hedgehogs?”

Sonic laughs and lunges himself into a hug almost falling on the floor. Shadow cathces him and hugs him back, burying his face into the others shoulder. They stay like that for a while. 

Sonic pulls away from the hug and faces Shadow. Before Shadow could speak Sonic closes the gap between them and their lips connect. Shadow returns the kiss. As they are kissing, tears stream down Sonic’s face. 

But these aren't sad tears. 

These are tears of joy.

He's happy because he's able to do the one thing he thought he would never get to do.

He's happy because the love of his life is alive.

The End

Thanks for reading!

If you have any suggestions you would like me to write, feel free to leave a comment here or in my inbox!

Metions

@clarastarpop

[whatsthisascianbullshit]

B A S I C S

Name: Sami Fashonti

Nicknames: None as of yet

Age: around 16 in ARR - a peer of the twins (different verses have different timelines so I'm time bubbling her with her fellow teens)

Nameday: 18th Sun of the 5th Umbral Moon

Race: Keeper of the Moon Miq'ote

Gender: just a girlie (she/her)

Orientation: Lesbian

Profession: Idol (job is a magical-girl reskin of WHM with some BRD buffs built-in)

P H Y S I C A L   A S P E C T S

Hair: Straight light blue hair with white-blue highlights, thick fringe and usually in twin braids

Eyes: Light blue

Skin: light warm-toned grey

Tattoos/scars: white-blue markings on her cheeks

F A M I L Y

Parents: Officially missing, presumed deceased

Siblings: None that she is aware of

Grandparents: paternal grandmother who cared for her after her parents presumably passed, she did not know her other grandparents (deceased before she was born or estranged)

In-laws and Other: Minfillia fills a vaguely maternal role, though it is closer to that of an older sister. F'lhaminn is something of a mentor to the fledgling songstress/idol and is someone Sami has always admired. (I'm still working through the ARR patches with her so while I've ideas about other close bonds - I've not 100% settled on them yet)

Pets: a cute happy bunny she found during Hatchingtide

S K I L L S

Abilities: when the audience is aligned with her she can convey her emotions to them, similarly she can feel the emotions of crowds of people

Hobbies: singing, reading, dancing, trying new foods and scrap-booking

T R A I T S

Most Positive Trait: optimistic almost to the point of being stubborn, she's forever picking out silver linings and is sure that everything will work out ok!

Most Negative Trait: related - she refuses to believe in the worst of people. Sami always assumes good intentions and extends a hand of friendship even after someone has only ever shown her hatred

L I K E S

Colours: most of them! Particularly pinks, blues, reds, and greens

Smells: vanilla, fruits (particularly mango and banana), sugary sweet florals, new book smell

Textures: the comfort of broken-in shoes, hardwood floors and plush carpets, cut crystals and gems, flower petals (freshly picked or pressed and preserved)

Drinks: soda floats, syrupy sweet fruit drinks/mocktails, iced water with slices of cucumber and mint

O T H E R    D E T A I L S

Smokes: no

Drinks: generally no, her grandmother would have given her hot (weak-ish) whiskey and honey drinks for colds and sore throats on occasion

Drugs: no

Mount Issuance: flying magitek stage (courtesy of Joda @azure-dragonsinger in a shared AU), a bunny-eared robot, and a magic umbrella

Been Arrested: no

Tagged by: @lilbittymonster

Tagging (0 pressure): @cantspelldragoonwithoutgoon @sasslett @galadae @gatheredfates @stardustdiver

[literaryvein]

MY WRITING COLLECTIONS

1. I WANT TO BE SO AWFULLY HAPPY THAT I NEVER NEED TO WRITE POETRY AGAIN. This writing collection contains 79 free verse poetry. It begins with the bright top notes of bergamot, pomegranate, peppermint, and a splash of prophetic silence. It then takes on a floral mixture of carnation and geranium, tangled with an ocean of grief. The collection ends with a blend of white musk, Bourbon vanilla, and a handprint of the happy, unlived years.

2. bored god. This writing collection contains 22 free verse poetry and prose pieces. You know what I’m afraid of? That God is sick of us (N.M.)

3. monochrome me. This writing collection contains 20 free verse poetry, prose pieces, and stream of consciousness. Teaching myself how to be me again. 

4. mimicking maelstroms. A 417-page collection of poetry and prose pieces. Writings with “REQ” at the bottom indicate that the piece was requested by a reader. This contains writings that have been tossed into the flames of the internet, with some additional pieces that have since been salvaged from the fire, and a few that have never felt the sun on their face. 

5. writings from the fields of asphodel. This writing collection contains 20 poetry and prose pieces. In Greek mythology, the Asphodel Meadows is depicted as the part of the Underworld inhabited by ordinary souls, those whose lives were neither good nor evil. Lately, life is an aimless wandering through these empty fields.

6. Orchids and Other Poems This poetry collection contains 20 free verse poems. It opens up with the fresh floral notes of orchids, lavender, roses, and an ex-poet’s introspection. The heart turns dark and sweet with a blend of honeysuckle, lily-of-the-valley, religious undertones, and a variety of funeral flowers. Finally, the closing notes bring the collection together with warm amber, sandalwood, summer memories, and a hint of home.

7. Poetic Paralysis This poetry collection contains 20 free verse poems. It is split in two equal halves; the gap between these two halves represents the year I stopped writing. My year of poetic paralysis. This collection will be available on the 29th of February 2024.

8. The Book of Strangers (Part 1: The Tea Room) This writing collection consists of 17 poetry and prose pieces handwoven from strangers' stories. In another universe, we meet at the tea room. These written pieces are cups of tea I offer to you as my thanks for giving me a glimpse of your heart, dear strangers.

9. The Book of Strangers (Part 2: The Poet's Garden) This writing collection consists of 24 free verse poetry, prose pieces, and stream of consciousness handwoven from strangers' stories. This time, we meet at the poet's garden. These written pieces are flowers I plucked for you as my thanks for giving me a glimpse of your heart. Don't worry, the poet wouldn't mind.

Send Me A Message if you want to read any of my writing collections. I will send you a link if: (i) you are following this blog; (ii) indicate which collection/s you want (i.e., 1, 2, 3 etc.); (iii) let me know what you think after reading it; and (iv) do NOT know me personally.

- L. V.

[phoenixduelist]

“sorry i kissed you, that was stupid. let’s just forget about it.” // i just .. dear lord help him. XD

It wasn't her worst kiss by far, it was...kind of sweet actually. A kind that briefly smoothed her sharp edges and allowing a tiny smile to break through after parting. However the bright light behind her eyes swiftly extinguished by the following words.

“Well I did agree to both save your life and get you out of the corrupt department so I have nothing against a thank you kiss.” the biker chuckled, not mentioning the suggestive videos she sent on unpredictable occasions. A playful habit which probably caused him many interrupted reports, ruined shirts and probably driving into a lamppost at some point

“What's the matter officer? You don't think I'm pretty?” Rozália batted her eyelashes in mock innocence but the question rang sincere. Despite learning his name, she still called him officer...for her amusement or for her to not forget they stood on opposite sides of the law, that was a question she couldn't answer.

A heavier sigh and a slight sag of her shoulders accompanied by a faint smile.

“Not your type and it was an impulse, I get it. Really, I do.” a shrug, voice holding no resentment only an echo of something hollow.

“Tall, built, leather and short hair; always had more success with lesbian and bisexual women.” Rozália admitted, her looks and personality were always more attractive in those eyes and she wasn't about to blame Richard for his preferences.

“You kiss innocently. Thinking with your heart, not with your dick. Don't change that. The right woman will appreciate it.”

[alexanderlightweight]

Hope your moving is going swimmingly! I am also moving soon and already stressed l. Plus work so 😬. So my request is something soothing, where Magnus and Alec are just having a lovely time. Verse of your choice

i mean, it happened and it's now past the hardest part! tbh it was stressful and super hot — twas 115ish — but the worst part is now over! Nightshade and the Abyss love the new place and the Abyss is having fun trying to assert her authority over the house — she’s tiny, it’s not going as she planned. however she is about 1/10 of Nightshade’s weight and size and she spent the first night taunting him, teasing him and smacking him with sheathed paws every time he gave in to her meowing at him. 

she likes to wait until nightshade is sleeping and then she sneaks up on him and meows at him until he wakes up and then he goes to say hi, she smacks him and then runs so he’ll chase her so he can get in trouble and so she can smack him again. he’a still really young but he’s trying so hard to be friends with her and she’s older and has no interest in actually playing with a puppy — just bullying him. she’s the stereotype of a cat who goes ‘mwahaha’ while blaming the dog for things.

btw Nightshade’s reaction is legit to just upset zoomie or shake a toy at her and cry after she hits him.

they both got in trouble for those shenanigans btw (the running in the kitchen)

moving is incredibly taxing, mentally and physically so take care of yourself! be safe <3 remember that it’s okay and necessary to take breaks and hydrate lots! 

also just so it's known in general, things will be a bit odd even with the move finishing up because my laptop got damaged pretty badly during the move and we don't know if it's salvageable yet. so i'm using my phone and saeth's when they're not using it for writing themselves.

this is in the 'petals vs' and i hope you find it soothing because i did but if not, just let me know cause everyone finds different vibes comforting! good luck on your move! let me know how it goes? i hope it is as stress free as possible and nothing breaks!

<3 lumine

—

Magnus adds two streaks of purple to his hair and one of mauve before he holds up of a sprig of wisteria, making sure that the colors match. They do and it’s with pleasure that Magnus puts in two — magically crystallized and grown — dangling earrings created from the same flowers that Alexander is going to wear.

It’s a simple night out and Magnus is in the mood for the quiet intimacy of a long walk with his beloved. 

They don’t necessarily need to dress up for what will essentially be a trek through a hidden grove, but both of them like to indulge both each other and themselves. 

“Alexander—” Magnus calls as he finishes the last touches of his craft and when he turns, it’s to find his darling watching him with soft, adoring eyes. 

Magnus manages to last an entire half-a-second before he’s crossing the room and rubbing his palms down Alexander’s shoulders and then kissing his cheek. 

“You look better.” He finally lets himself say, drinking in the sight that is a well-rested, fully healed Alexander. A kiss is pressed to his jaw and then his mouth, lips lingering with a subtle intensity that lingers almost wistfully. 

“You too, you have enough energy for this trip, right?” He’s asked carefully and Magnus can’t help his smile.

Alexander isn’t being doubtful, he’s being earnestly sweet and Magnus lingers in the languid feeling of being cared for. The last three nights have been full of portals and magic and healing and — while Alexander hunted down the ingredients needed and sharing strength — it’s Magnus who has been expending all of his energy and energy to the very brink. 

Well, Magnus and half a dozen other warlocks but only he and Cat worked the three days continuously. 

They were the only ones who could.

“I’m fine sweetheart. All I needed was a night of rest and you, safe in my arms.”

“I still think you should have let me give you a massage last night.” Alexander murmurs with a pout and Magnus laughs, pressing his fingertips to Alexander’s mouth in a gentle kiss.

“It either would have turned into something neither of us had the energy for, or you would have fallen asleep half on top of me, darling.” Magnus can’t help how soft his tone goes, “we were both spent, Alexander. You’re the only reason Cat didn’t insist on coming home with me, normally she puts her foot down when we encounter a disease like this.” Magnus winks, “she doesn’t normally trust me not to try and immediately research how it happened. However she trusts that you’re a sufficient distraction.”

“Still—” is all Alexander says, a deep yearning in his voice, “you deserve to be taken care of. Especially with how much you take care of everyone else.”

“You’ll find I take plenty care of myself, especially when I’m given a good reason to.” Magnus gives a playful smirk because Alexander knows that he’s the reason Magnus is alluding to and his boy laughs, tender and sweet and Magnus aches with it.  

“Then I’ll need to find a way to stick around then, just to make sure.” 

Magnus’ breathe hitches with want, because they’ve slowly been talking about this and Magnus can’t deny Alexander’s sincerity anymore.  No one who goes to talk to the Council of Elders and some of the oldest members of the shadowworld — who requested and paid the costs of asking to feel some of the best and worst emotions associated with immortality — is insincere. 

Alexander means it.

His devotion is steadfast and his love unwavering, his trust all encompassing when it comes to Magnus and Magnus feels both ravenous and also hesitant. 

Yet how can he disrespect the adoration and devotion that he’s invoked by merely being himself, when Alexander is so guileless about it. When Alexander has made lists of places he wants to visit with Magnus, the greenhouses and gardens he wants to tend to himself when he’s retired, the fact that Alexander wants to retire.

That his beloved wants to leave the clave better than before, but leave it all the same. The day when he will step away from the burdens and responsibilities of his people and family and belong wholly to himself and to Magnus.

Alexander wants to learn and study and travel and love but he wants to only do it with Magnus and that is a treasure Magnus never realized he’d been taught could never be his. Yet to dismiss it would be to invalidate the love given him and well, Magnus would be both cruel and a fool to do that. 

And while sometimes in his long life, Magnus knows he’s been both — though rarely at the same time. It would take an act of befuddlement from his own father for Magnus to act foolishly or cruel with something so delicate concerning both Alexander’s and his own heart.

“I suppose we will.” Magnus murmurs and he summons the flower crown to his hands and gently places it on Alexander’s brow. He admires how the lavender and mauve petals look against Alexander’s features and then he blinks.

Wisteria means many things but the colors Alexander asked for, the type of flower that he normally lets Magnus pick… they mean things.

Devotion that can transcend even death. 

Longevity which implies immortality, though all things can die no matter how long they’ve lived.

“You’re a sly man when you want to be, Alexander.” Magnus murmurs, voice unrepentantly indulgent as Alexander smirks at him. There is a pleased turn to his lips and his eyes gleam with both relief and love and Magnus wants to disappear with him for at least a week.

There’s a cottage in the grove.

Nothing too elaborate but comfortable enough — Ragnor would never have helped maintain it otherwise — and it’s the perfect place for a simple weekend of intimacy. Magnus can teach Alexander to fish as he learned as a boy and he can watch Alexander with amusement when his darling shadowhunter shows off and shoots the fish with arrows and then dives for them. 

Apparently, it was quite a habit for Alexander to go to the ocean in the dead of night with his runes activated, unseen by mundanes as he practiced hunting by shooting fish and then diving for them. 

They can replant the small garden around the cottage and Magnus can teach and show Alexander some of the hybrids he and Cat and Ragnor have created and tended to over the centuries. 

“Sometimes, my love—” and Magnus pauses, adding another layer of protective magic to both Alexander and his crown, “I cannot understand how we came to be.”

Alexander understands him, if the sudden sheen to his eyes means anything.

They’ve both been horribly broken by life and shattered by people supposed to love them yet somehow,despite all the odds they found and have kept and fought for each other.

It’s a beautiful but daunting mystery and one Magnus never needs solved. 

After all, no matter how or why they met, it’s the two of them alone that have made this work.

[waterloggedsoliloquy]

Carousel Waltz: A Primer

Since I talk incessantly about them and that frequency is only going to increase it's probably for the best that I give a bit of a rundown for my little OC verse!

Carousel Waltz is a psychological thriller young adult magical girl comic in the making. Its primary influences are Revolutionary Girl Utena, Twin Peaks, and Over The Garden Wall.

It's 1993. The town of Potter's Fields, Washington is the last bastion of civilization and has been for the past 25 years, for around the town and as far as anyone can walk in any direction grows a magical apocalyptic wilderness called the Garden of Sorrow, which threatens evermore to encroach upon the town in a war of attrition. With the population of the town dwindling and time standing still in the Garden's embrace, de facto town leader Midas Schiller, with the help of the town's only psychiatrist Thomas Hythloday, have reverse-engineered some of the Garden's very own magic to use against it. Somewhere within the Garden of Sorrow lies the source of its power, the Primordial Heart-- and if mortals can find it and destroy it, they can free the town from its clutches and find out if truthfully there is anyone out there.

Midas cannot use the Garden's magic himself, due to its vendetta against him, so he has scoured the town for proxy agents-- people who can rise to the occasion and fight back against the Garden of Sorrow and the monsters it spawns from its coiling depths. Magic requires harmony and accord to be employed most effectively, and so these magic wielders must fight in pairs. So they have come to be known as Dancers, armed with magical weapons and conditional immortality.

note: When referring to the genre/role as a whole, I use magical girl as conjecture-- referring to these characters as magical boy/enby/man/woman is for on an individual basis. it's just easier than saying "magical mixed gender group of varying ages" and remains true to the genre conventions i'm working under.

Sicely Tecuani - (they/them) The Protagonist. A jaded and socially awkward cowboy, they hide their shyness behind a wall of prickly fatigue. Sicely easily notices the strange and unusual, as well as the faults and foolishness of others. They’re of a practical mindset and enjoy things that work the first time without the bells and whistles. They're dependable and protective, savvy and eloquent, but they're desperate for guidance, yet habitually pushes others away. They're easily impassioned! ... But also easily impassioned into fits of self-loathing. Sicely is transmasculine agender and a closeted lesbian. Their weapon is a pair of bear-paw gauntlets, and their flower is the red spider lily.

Anthea Patel - (she/her) The Other Protagonist. A prodigious young girl, Anthea seems to excel at just about everything she tries her hand at. She's pleasant and romantically-inclined, and sees the world through rosy eyes. She carries a deep well of love and strength within her to meet problems, and she's always trying to cheer others up, but she tends to assume she knows what's best for others while avoiding communicating her own needs-- a girl who thinks she can do everything except admitting she's wrong. And like her namesake, she carries a deep wrath. Anthea is a trans girl and a lesbian. Her weapon is a pair of flintlock dueling pistols, and her flower is the calla lily.

Ariadne "Ari" Astra - (she/her) Ari is a mover and a shaker, and a top-class seer. She wants to know it all, uncover the secrets of the universe, and wield magic to the best of her discretion. She adores unexplained phenomena like cryptids and UFOs. Chipper, observant, and witty, Ari doesn't suffer fools willingly. She is, however, willing to suffer most anything for a mystery. Her infatuation with mathematically proving the afterlife, to reconnect with her dead sister, borders on obsession. She’s deeply lonely, and feels like she lost the only person who could possibly understand her, which has alienated her best friend, Lucerne. Ari is bisexual and would probably ID with the term gendervoid if she knew it. Her weapon is an armillary sphere, and her flower is sunflower.

Lucerne Lowe - (they/he) Lucerne is seemingly difficult to rattle and nonchalant, offering advice where possible and deflecting with a blunt affect away from themself. He enjoys a running commentary, as long as he's not in the middle of things. Lucerne dislikes being the center of attention, and keeps things to themself more often than not. He'd be a great friend to tell your secrets to if you need a listening ear or infodump about that niche interest of yours that no one else has the patience for, but you'd be hard-pressed to get him to tell you something back. Not after what they saw. While the advice they give is usually good, Lucerne is more likely to meddle in your own business than walk the walk. They are unlabeled. His weapon is a polearm, and his flower is rhododendron.

Opal Schiller - (he/him) Rare holographic dipshit. Next.

...

OKAY FINE. Opal is the morally ambiguous pale-haired tragic anime boy archetype. He believes he is being charming and friendly, but in fact his social skills leave something to be desired, often acting on strange impulses or operating on assumptions and rules beyond typical understanding. This makes him presumptuous, pushy, and ill-equipped for when things don't align with expectations. He's very flamboyant and self assured, as long as he feels in control. As soon as his power over a situation is questioned, or he behaves like a dorkass teenager, he immediately begins to flounder, and goes to extreme lengths to regain that sense of security. He’s really, really bad at not getting his way, a problem exacerbated by his father. He is bisexual but enjoys the rewards of heterosexuality too much to consider guys an option. His weapon is a scythe, and his flower is larkspur.

Jiro Kohaku - (he/him) If you asked what Jiro wants in life, he'd shrug his shoulders and say things are pretty good right now. He likes video games and tv and comic books and especially likes hanging out with Opal, because Opal gets to do whatever he wants. Despite his seemingly flippant attitude, he's easily excited and enjoys the spectacle of things, getting caught up in adrenaline rushes. He seems cosmically cursed to be forever in second place, which drives a deep frustration to his core that manifests as him wanting to impress and impose on his peers. Look at him, not Opal, not his older sister, just this once, look at him. Jiro is probably gay but covets girls anyways because of his problems and issues. His flower is nasturtium, and his weapon is a wakizashi.

Who else is there? Oh right, the grownups.

Araceli Levin - (she/her) is a Dancer that has betrayed Midas, gone rogue, and aligned herself with the Garden of Sorrow. She should be considered armed and dangerous. She killed her last dance partner to steal his power, and should not be engaged alone. 

...So Midas says.  

Araceli is a renegade Dancer. She is dangerous-- she’s had her powers for thirty years longer than anyone in the cast. But she didn’t kill her partner, she isn't aligned with the Garden of Sorrow, and she's not the betrayer here. She's a miserable old wretch of a woman whose social skills have deteriorated from the insanity of grief and the self-exile she's placed on herself. Before she was a Dancer, before the Garden of Sorrow closed off her entire world and Midas ruined what was left of it, she was a marine biologist and a cetacean specialist. Now she has no ocean, no husband, and no way out. Her only friend is a talking Canada Jay named Whiskey. Her weapon is a spear, and her flower is hellebore.

Jorges Beaufoy - (he/him) Araceli's late husband and fellow biologist, and Midas' best friend in life. He died a few years back. The immortality afforded to Dancers does not extend to adults. His hair used to be light blonde before magic turned it pink. His weapon was a sword, and his flower was star of bethlehem.

Thomas Hythloday - (he/him) An anodyne, denial-ridden scientist who works as mission control for the Dancers and is also their only psychological health monitor, which is great except for the part where I mentioned denial up there. He's a bit morally bankrupt, and willing to go too far sometimes, but he very rarely holds any true malice. He's polite in an off-putting way that holds little, if any, kindness to it. Politeness is easier because it's a social script that makes the other person more pliable and agreeable. It's pragmatism. After his twin sister Leda died, he threw his life into his work studying magic full-time to avoid the pain of existing. He was Midas' brother in law, but now they're lovers behind closed doors. Thomas is gay and gnc. He has no weapon, but his flower is hydrangea.

Midas Schiller - (he/him) The de facto leader of Potter's Fields due to a power vacuum and a dwindling population. Opal's father. Midas Schiller is fastidious and charismatic. He’s one of very few adult role models in Potter's Field, and thus a lot of children look to him for guidance. He genuinely believes he is a force for good in the town and is the only thing keeping it from falling to ruin. He’s terrified of what might happen if he’s no longer there to keep things going, and the safety of his flock. Naturally, this means he feels justified to do whatever it takes to his flock, even endangering them, if he thinks it will keep himself in power and therefore ascertain the safety of the whole. Midas believes that he's entitled to the Golden Life that (cis, white) men are supposed to be given and feels cheated that he has not been guaranteed it and thus is taking it into his own hands to build that illusion of comforting paradise. everything in its place. whatever he includes in his sphere must make him happy, must comfort him, must entertain him. anything that does not contribute 2 his identity of Nuclear Family Man Patriarch With A Good Satisfied Life And The Years Ahead Of Him must be trimmed away. He’s obsessed with Thomas Hythloday, due to looking extremely similar to his late wife Leda, and despite being in denial of being attracted to men Midas exploits Thomas’ crush on him and solicits him for sex to keep himself in Thomas’ life. While it wasn't the only reason the relationship deteriorated, Midas attempted to pressure Araceli into having an affair with him. He tried to get her to change careers and stay on dry land. After it was made evident that she could not be controlled, and that he could not guarantee her compliance as a Dancer, he attempted to have her and Jorges killed. Unfortunately, he only got the one, and made a lifelong enemy out of the other. His weapon is fire, and his flower is poppy.

[trashlama]

I feel like Raph would call his darling Mona /Mona Lisa since to him his darling is the most beautiful thing in the world 🥺 

Which can be sweetest thing in the world or the most scariest thing ever if he goes to yandere route ~ 

What are your thoughts on this ? 💗

(also hi I was wondering are we allowed to send in request? If you do are we allowed to send in LMK request/theories)

hope your doing ok and drinking plenty of water 💗

Brah, my dude your radical. You've been sending in some pretty fire ideas for me to brainstorm~. Also I love LMK, it's one of my favorite shows a part of the Mokey King fandom. So fuck yeah if ya' wanna send in some LMK req/theories l would love to write/draw/theorize for that fandom! Actually I already have some sketches/doodles for Monkey King.

Though one of them got messed up recently because of my clumsy ass....

Anyways—

I'm always open for all sorts of requests! It just takes me a sec to get through them since I got daily obligations I must attend to. Also I just want to let you guys know I never delete any reqs that are in my inbox unless they're straight up rude or don't follow the Tumblr guidelines. I like to try my best to full fill all the asks that in my inbox despite how challenging I might find some commissions however I like to believe trying my hand at them helps me develop as a writer/artist.

Also I just want to thank everyone for their support and kind words. They really help me get through some days. Thank you! I really appreciate all of you guys!

Sorry for all the rabblin' ! On with the show!

Raph calling his darling by an endearing name? I got'cha~

Since in the TMNT universe in general there is already a canonical Mona Lisa chick(who I might add actually hooks up with Raph acouple times in a couple verses~😏). Sooooo- I don't know about Raphael tryin'na pickin' you up/or addressing you with that pet name.

Thooouuugh a couple weeks ago I finally had enough cash to go see the Super Mario movie and I could TOTALLY see 2k12 and Rise Raph being like Bowser in his approach to his love interest.

SPOILER ALERT PEOPLE!!!!! DO NOT GO ANY FURTHER UNLESS YOU WANT SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT!!!

Non-Yandere Route

In a normal situation this could be applied to 2k12 as well. While I wouldn't really call Rise Raph a Tsundere; 2k12 is most definitely a Tsundere.

Like Bowser 2k12 Raphael would be all imposing up front to all his comrades though when alone/or with Spike/or Chomp (Kamek in this scenario) is all love struck for Peaches(s/o). I could see Rise Raph doing this too except he probably gush about his crush on his s/o with Buddy.

In both situations like Bowser, both Raphael's would refer to you by a nickname. May you be allies or fighting as enemies Raph would be the only one to call you by the nickname he had given you(much to 2k12 Dr. Name-stein's(Mikey's) jargon).

Normal route wise? It would probably just play out as an average slow burn story. 2k12 Raph being a Tsundere who eventually has to confess due to circumstances(like one of his brothers "accidentally" outing him).

Meanwhile Rise Raph just tries to play it cool kinda like Bowser in the fluffy moments in the film when he was acting out scenarios. Except in Rise Raph's case this soft boi would definitely perform these acts of adoration for real-zeez. Flowers? Check. Flustered pick up lines? Check. Though the love song might be a stretch. Idk if either version of Raphael would go as far as writing a whole song for his crush.

Yandere Route

Yandere route wise both 2k12 and Rise Raph would react in a similar ways when denied/rejected by their s/o.

Bowser to me in the Super Mario movie is a literal yandere for Princess Peach. Dude destroyed a kingdom, took the whole Donkey Kong Army/any infidels captive, AND to top it off tried to sacrifice all his prisoners in Peaches honor for their wedding. Which by the way he cohersed out of the monarch by choking the fuck out of her companion while threatening to destroy her whole Kingdom. Only to be shocked when Peaches doesn't just give in and retaliates against their union. Which of course pisses off Bowser especially when he sees Mario and Peaches holding hands all close and such~ Anyways—

Both Rise and 2k12 Raphael would definitely fly into a rage like Bowser during the wedding scene after Peach froze him and reunited with Mario. Between 2k12 Raph with his hair wire triggered anger and Rise Raph's sensitivity this is not gonna end well. Maybe you're really a villain and reveal you were just playing with him for kicks/or ulterior motives. Perhaps you're an ally who's just not interested or has a crush on one of his brothers/or comrades. Either way he's losing his shit. Hopefully whatever is holding the mutant back restrains him long enough for either version of Raphael to calm down cause if the red color coded Hamato breaks free it is a matter of how fast his brothers and comrades can calm him down before the turtle does something extreme...

Btw here's some sketches I did for another request that I'm working on that @ladydoe8 had asked for. It's a writing req but I always find brain storming designs by drawing them makes it easier to describe them.

Thank you everyone for looking and I hope you guys have a great week! Thank you guys again for the support!

Here's some memes I came across while at work.

Sorry this is long↓ I don't own these memes. I've never claimed to do so. I just come across them on Pinterest when I'm on break at work and think they're funny so I like to share them. If I mistakenly put one on here that I shouldn't have please let me know! I like to respect people's wishes. And if you could add the creator names too that would be great so the same mistake isn't made twice. Sorry for the inconvenience that my sharing may cause. I hope you have a good day.

The one in the top right is from TigerFrog's fan made comic Mutant Ninja Turtle Gaiden (MNTG). I was re-reading it online since it's been a couple years when I came across this beauty. There were more but, this is my favorite line. I really recommend it! It's a fantastic comic, pretty dark, I love the plot! More people need to read it. I would love to write some scenarios/fics for it for you guys.

Donatello bro. Donatello. That dude in MNTG is— just— Brrrraaaaaaahhhh!!!!!! The same thing goes for the rest of the brothers. I just can't emphasize how much I recommend you guys to read this it's soooo good. I wish there was more fanart/works for this series!