#and that this meltdown had been in the works and idk!!!!

[all-thestories-aretrue]

I had a little leaf sitting on my kitchen window sill from a plant i bought months ago, and it was growing roots slowly and they were starting to get a little bigger (like quarter to half an inch). I'm moving and I had my mom pack up my kitchen and I think she may have thrown away the little leaf that was slowly growing that I looked at every day. And im actually devestated by it. I texted her but she hasnt texted me back and im going to be really really sad if it is in the trash. I tried so hard to save that plant after killing most of it and i was succeeding! She didn't even ask. I really hope im wrong and she will text me back and say no i didnt throw it away i just moved it. And i know shes not going to get why im so upset.

[apocalypticdemon]

y'know. it really sucks to feel yourself back-sliding, mentally, when you know you've been doing pretty alright for a while

[toxooz]

also GOOD NEWS turns out the One Week Until Eviction scare was just a false alarm and surprise surprise ✨lack of communication ✨ where as i texted her back for clarification but she said everything is fine and i aint being evicted bc she lied to the higher ups??so fuck it we ball ig its good to know she rlly does have my back to some strange extent so im still girlbossin here for another year and will have more time to build credit and look into the science of buying a house sksks

ALLL THAT BEING SAID i will start the next comic section later this week 4 SURE

[cervinelich]

"Everyone always leaves/abandons/rejects me =C" is such a huge red flag for me. Saw someone saying this on social media the other day and knee-jerk instinct was "blockblockblock"

[the-doggy-diaries]

hello everyone i am moving back in with my parents after living away from them for nine months ... they are absolutely insane to me i have already had really shitty stuff happen and we have not even picked up my stuff from my house ... but at least i will be living rent free and i will be able to save up and try again

[altrxisme]

//

[pepprs]

also (this is it i promise) this is why i am so INSANELY excited to have my own room soon. like omg. it is definitely not perfect bc it’s at home and there’s a breaker box in it and you can hear footsteps really loud through the ceiling and also again *it’s at home* when i really need to not be living at home. but the quality of life improvement i am about to have is actually INSANE. i will be able to have a space far away from everyone else where i can sing without bothering anyone and play piano and decorate it (mostly) to my liking and have a desk and draw and paint and do whatever. finally!!!!!!!! that is going to fix me!!!!!

[autumnoakes]

trying to figure out how to say 'i think i'm depressed' without sounding like i'm trying to make a meme (i'm not. this is genuine. i don't know how to fix it)

[miamicommune]

another day another horrifying nightmare!!

[piplupod]

oh i think I'm going to throw myself into a ravine actually

[epsilontauri]

.

[nenoname]

Parallels and contrasts between Stan and Bill in the new book and website

Aka miscellaneous thoughts that I'm too lazy to condense into something comprehensible– what you see is what you get folks! (Book stuff, DVD commentaries! The website that came out when I was trying to write this out and is now making me pull my hair out! But in like a good way? That god damn poem!)

not necessarily same coin stuff but I sure am thinking about it.

It’s been said that a large part of Ford’s relationships with Bill, Fiddleford and Dipper was him trying to fill a hole that his estrangement with Stan had left, with none of them clicking in that same way. Dipper was directly compared to Fiddleford as someone who was completely charmed by Ford but is ultimately too anxious of a person to properly deal with the life he's offering nor pull him back when he starts going too far. Meanwhile, Bill is more analogous to Stan but to the extreme with all the doubts that Ford had been fed about Stan (that he was using him, he never grew up, he betrayed him, sabotaged the machine on purpose) turning out to be exactly true with Bill.

The book has Bill saying flat out that Ford wanted the charisma Bill had and then shows that at the peak of Ford's loneliness he was being envious of Stan's charisma, social skills and hands.

[STANLEY COULD HAVE MADE HER LAUGH]

(There’s an irony that Stan always thought that Ford was the popular twin even after doing embarrassing stuff like the kissing machine – if you haven’t seen the Swine Before Time Stan commentary get going, it’s great)

Then Bill swoops in with jokes and endless encouragement and the nickname only Stan used for him, all this in a way tailored for Ford to immediately like him while also reminding him of Stan but "better."

(The show rarely used it but Bill’s use of Sixer is extremely frequent in Journal 3 alone but the comics solidify it as being a pretty personal childhood nickname that kid!Stan used as his default way to call Ford.)

And then you see all of this working because Ford straight up writes Bill’s words using Stan's handwriting (and it turns out that Ford’s capital letter ‘for emphasis/angry’ font in general is the same as Stan’s handwriting too)

(It’s important to note that this is different from all the fonts that Bill uses for himself!)

All of this leads to the deja vu of Ford getting stabbed in the back by someone he was codependent on over a machine he thought was going to change his life for the better

Other things in the book that I’ve seen others point out and noticed myself:

Bill trying to reinforce that Ford would be alone without him, and threatening to tell Stan that Ford never loved him but the first thing Stan does in his letter is tell Ford that he loves him with their childhood code

Stan also only uses ‘Sixer’ in his letter when he normally tends to use a mix of nicknames post-Weirdmaggedon (sure it’s only twice but idk I find it noticeable)

Stan ripped a dollar in half when Bill taunted the reader earlier about how they wouldn’t do that

The promo photo vs the one in the book, Ford’s face being untouched vs Stan’s. While I initially interpreted this as “Bill’s book being a way to torment Ford” and then “him ending up having a meltdown at the thought of Stan”, the new poem kinda gives off an ominous vibe of "him moving on to focus on Stan instead whether he wants to or not"

Ford writing “miss you” in the bro code soon after arriving at Backupsmore which is shown in the Fiddleford photo, then Bill taunting Ford that he misses him

Bill and Stan now have another parallel of losing everything because of a genuine mistake but only Stan was willing to work to make up for it while Bill doubled down and became far far worse

The utter hatred Bill has for Stan being able to win in the end and get back his family

Both of them being institutionalized, with Stan’s mentioned in Guide to Mystery and Nonstop Fun (which has references to Bill liking Mabel for her chaos, silly straws, etc. Also Dipper basically came up with the Author theory but slightly wrong from theorising about the ink blot like a year before the Ford reveal)

(saturn devouring his son perfectly depicts my emotions when reaching this part of the book)

(EDIT: I was thinking about how Bill giving Ford three days to open the portal striked me as odd for some reason... and then I remembered;

Stan gave Mabel 3 days for their bet as well. Both of them specifically say 72 hours too.)

And now for the stuff we know from the website:

Bill having severe family issues with daddy issues implied since only his mum is mentioned directly with her trying to comfort him as a kid vs Stan having severe family issues with a definite focus on his dad while his mum was the only one to ask about Stan during that meeting with the principal and her being the only one to show up to his funeral

Both of them wear their dad’s hat despite of all of this

Bill starting a billion cults and has a lawyer called Multilevel Mark, Stan having his Scientology-esque cult being shot down by irl Disney and as a kid having his “technically a pyramid scheme” comic being shot down by a publisher

(I doubt that Stanentology would’ve gotten far but also you can see that a trend that the main way Bill gathers followers is by reading minds and revealing secrets only the victim would know, so let's hope that Disney-let-him-start-a-cult AU Stan never gets mind reading abilities)

Despite how we know how Stan is traumatised as hell from losing Ford, it’s noticeably isn’t referred directly in the Wheel of Shame (like you can’t tell me that the time between pushing Ford into the portal and starting the Shack isn’t as rock bottom as it gets, Bill literally recognises Stan in the first place by thinking about his brand). This probably is because Bill knows that they managed to repair their relationship and he’s fucking pissed about it.

There's further parallels between Stanley and Bill in poem; with lies and redemption and home, and further association with fire for the both of them

“Saw his own dimension burn.

Misses home and can't return.”

“Always dragged his family down.

One mistake, disowned, denied,

Only thing to do was hide.”

“One way out: the open road.

Reinvent, retry, reload.

A girdle, eyepatch, fathers fez,

"I'm a new man!" so he says”

“One way to absolve his crime.

A different form, a different time”

“His big break, it finally came,

Redemption from a life of shame.”

“Says he's happy. He's a liar.”

“Truth is just whatever sells.

When you've lost track of your lies,”

“Lie until you aren’t lying anymore”

Bill in a rotting corpse of a snake oil salesman

This triangle can fit so much self-loathing projection while being a hater

(Also it's funny that Bill is so insistent that Ford had to be the one who came up with the plan

Like look at this

See ‘em cogs turning in Stan’s head while Ford has clearly given up hope)

“How dare he dress up fancy when his jokes suck!!”

There's a parallel of Ford projecting onto Dipper in a way that makes him feel like kindred spirits with his nephew but Stan projects on Dipper in a way that causes him to be more harsh even if he has good intentions. Meanwhile Bill projects onto Ford in a more positive light in comparison to Stan, who in this case Bill wants to rip him and himself into shreds whenever he thinks of the guy. Bill’s shared love for fun/chaos with Mabel (despite them being so different at their core) is why he likes her the most out of all the Pines but that doesn’t stop him from trying to murder her (although I think most folks don’t know about that interview where Alex was like “yeah, I think Bill would’ve burnt Ford alive the moment he got the equation, he’s done playing with his toys at that point”)

Other tidbits:

I find it interesting that the full version of the Wheel of Shame has blue sparks and fades to grey scale (which automatically reminded me of his mindscape)

Stan signing off as Stanley in the book – this ain’t anything huge to chew on I'm just very over emotional about this… but also there’s Bill being called Billy by his family/in the codes

Ford thinking of Stan as childish/someone who never grew up and then we get hit by “yeah Ford always had some part of himself stuck at 18” oof

Ford underestimating Stan’s control over the mindscape, not knowing that he’s able to hide memories in Dreamscaperers, manipulate the layout of his mindscape enough to trick Bill and memory!Stan telling Dipper how to use the mindscape which Bill was genuinely surprised by

I'm headcanoning that Stan doing so bad at that history test is due to some latent bs from what Bill knows which is all crazy conspiracy level stuff

I think it's also intensely funny that all of the Pines promise that they'll murder Bill if they ever see him again and then they immediately turn to Stan and go “now it's your turn to write a letter! :D!!”

(I feel like the main requirement that the Theraprism has for Bill before he can reincarnate is mainly acknowledging his family idk which honestly would fit even better if his soul becomes Stan’s)

EDIT: I FORGOT TO MENTION THE OUROBOROS PASSWORD (or... uh oroborous which is a typo when theres a suspicious amount on the site which may mean somethng but i digress) anyway that leads to the Shack Axolotl lore where it bluntly states that Ford released it despite it showing up 30 years later anyway

and theres....

[shaesinflames]

🌥️ Rainbow Factory Infection AU🌥️

Hello everypony!! Ive been loving the infection stuff and wanted to jump onto the trend myself with an AU that came to me very suddenly. I'm gonna try and get all my thoughts out here:

☁️ Scootaloo fails her flying assessment by getting disqualified for checking on her injured friend who had crashed during their turn. The two of them get taken to the Rainbow Factory as a punishment for their failure, and quickly realize the deadly situation they're in.

🌈 There are few dozen pegasi there already. All of their wings have been torn off of them, their cutiemarks are branded over, and chains are fastened around either their legs or neck. They all seem so... dull. As if the color has been stolen from them.

☁️ Rainbow Dash enters to examine the new sacrifices, and is mortified when she sees Scootaloo. She had trained her every day to prevent this from happening; she never wanted the pony she thought of as a little sister to end up here. Dash had to quickly decide if she was more loyal to her career, or to her friends.

🌈 She chooses Scootaloo. This does not go over well. Whether you enter the Rainbow Factory as a prisoner or an employee, you were not allowed to leave until you died. Rainbow Dash grabs Scootaloo and attempts to flee with her.

☁️ A chase ensues. She realizes that even if they do escape, they wouldn't be free. They would be hunted for as long as the factory existed. The answer suddenly seems obvious. Dash veers away from the exit and heads deeper into the building, straight for the core.

🌈 Because of her high status in the company (and a lot of kicking), Rainbow Dash gets into the restricted access room and corrupts the core, sparking a reactor meltdown. Her and Scootaloo manage to escape seconds before the core collapses, and the Rainbow Factory is lost to the rainbows it created.

☁️ Not long after, ponies begin to emerge from the ruins. Well, they seem to still be ponies. Mostly ponies. The Inital Victims. The pegasi who had been deemed useless and dispensable in one way or another, and had been put through torture for weeks or months in order to drain them of their very magic and soul.

🌈 The Victims seem to have a symbiotic relationship with the Rainbow Infection in their body. They live just out of reach of death; gaunt and hollow, yet somehow surviving. Blind, weak, and terrified, they seem to believe they're still trapped in the factory, and will viciously maul any living being they sense with a newfound strength. So far, they don't seem to be curable, or killable.

☁️ The Infected pegasi have a much more unpleasant experience. Every waking moment is nothing but agony as the infection consumes their magic and feast on their vessel, reducing them to nothing more than another fluffy white cloud looming in the sky.

🌈 The Infected aren't hostile, and seem to still be lucid up until their death. However, they are incredibly contagious, and the final stage of the infection seems to be designed specifically to further the disease.

☁️ Unicorns and Earth ponies are completely immune to the Rainbow Infection. Alicorns are not. The princess's have been barricaded in Celestia's castle to protect them all.

🌈 Without any pegasi to moderate the weather, it has become increasingly unpredictable and harsh, making typical farm work almost impossible. The Survivors are getting low on rations, and they're getting desperate and hungry.

I think thats about it. Idk at the time of writing this its 3am lol.

[lollytea]

Please, your finale Huntlow thoughts, my liege. We poor peasants beg of you, our bowls are empty and your tables full; if we might have but a crumb of your succulent meal to fill our bellies in these cold December nights.

ASGCDHBDJNK JESUS FUCKING CHRIST OKAY

I got a few asks about this but I guess I'll answer this one cuz it's phrased the funniest. I just wasn't too pressed about giving my Thoughts about finale Huntlow because I am fully a part of the Huntlow hivemind. Like I feel the way everyone else feels. I'm ecstatic, I'm delighted, I'm overwhelmed, I'm emotional, I'm so happy for them, I got everything I could have wanted. I won. We won.

(I HAVE TOO MANY PICS. I'LL RB WITH PART 2)

First of all this scene is so special to me, you have no idea.

It isn't inherently romantic but it's still so sweet and shows how much these two care for each other. Here's Willow, who's spent the last special Atlasing and repressing and refusing to rely on anyone else. But then she had her breakdown in front of Hunter and he realized just how stressed and scared she's been this whole time. She's visibly anxious and upset here, likely worrying up a storm because she hasn't found her Dads yet. And Hunter is right here beside her. He's seen her meltdown, he's felt her pain, he's heard her cry. He knows that Willow is in a fragile state at the moment. He knows she's been holding in a lot. He knows she's scared. I love that he's not only standing by her side and helping her search, but holding her too. It could be that she vocally expressed how worried she was to him, or maybe he just saw it on her face, but he probably placed that hand on her back to comfort her, let her knows he's right here, grounding her. And Willow, who's still learning how to depend on others, is letting him.

The way Hunter lights up when he sees Harvey and Gilbert, thrilled by how happy he knows she's going to be and his soft smile when he points them out to her. And then THIS!

Like Hunter is devastated. He feels alone and out of place here. He really thinks he has nobody. But Willow being happy can still bring a smile to his face. He just loves her so much!!!

And I know I already talked about the grom photo but UGHH!!!

I got a pic in better definition. I'm pretty sure this is Hunter's first grom. So likely a few months after the events of WAD. And it's so cute to think about Hunter and Willow very awkwardly but eagerly navigating a romantic relationship. I love how grabby and flirty Willow looks here, messing with his bowtie. She clearly LOVES the floral suit, thinking he's like the hottest man alive. She needs to smooch him and NOW. Or she's just like "Oh my, what a nice collarbone you have!!" Idk the ambiguity of what exactly Willow is doing here but the vibe and general intentions being very obvious is my favourite part of this pic. You can speculate for years on this. Oh and Hunter's face, I love it so much. His dumb little blush is like an old friend. He's fucking THRILLED that he's getting so much attention from her. He's very excited about where this is going. But he's also like. So nervous he's gonna pass out. But overall he's having the time of his life. Bi rights!

Also epilogue Huntlow....guys....guys epilogue Huntlow....are you guys still listening to me at this point?

God I love this scene. Its so natural and smooth, giving the characters a chance to breathe and exist and providing a glimpse of how they go about their daily lives. It's soft and lighthearted but it establishes so much about where Willow and Hunter are currently at in their relationship. They've been dating for like....3 years at the very least. And they're clearly very happy together!!

The way Willow casually slides on to the scene, giving the impression that she's often dropped in on him while he's working. And why wouldn't she? That's her sweetheart. What if she requires emergency smooches? What then? And of course, there's Hunter beaming at the sight of her. Seems he never gets tired of his girlfriend stopping by to visit. Or maybe he's sick to death of Willow the menace showing up to distract him while he's trying to work and he's just excited about the prospect of Luz's party. Either way, it's an adorable expression.

Something else I love about epilogue Huntlow is how equally distributed the affection is between both of them. Back when FTF dropped I gushed about how sweet it was to see Hunter taking initiative with Willow and the significance of something as simple pressing his backhand against hers during the pinky hold. And God, this sequence here says it all. From what I can tell, as Hunter runs towards her, they both reached out at the same time and linked hands immediately, implying that holding hands has become the automatic gesture for them whenever they meet up. They're in love, you're honor.

I love the huge carefree grins as they skate down the hill (still holding hands). They might have grown a lot since we last saw them but they're still young adults, they still love to have fun doing dumb reckless stuff. And even better, they love to have fun doing dumb reckless stuff together. All the handholding and fluffy cuteness is wonderful but I also love knowing that they seem to genuinely enjoy just hanging out and spending their youth with each other. Zeno was right, they ARE besties. Who knows how much shit Hunter and Willow get up to together? Being a pair of thrill seeking athletes, it's probably a lot.

This part is just so silly and ridiculous. After they go stumbling, Willow's first instinct is to grab Hunter and hold on for dear life. Her intense scrunched up expression is just so funny. "I will protect you, my love. No big dumb hill is going to harm a hair on your pretty head. Your girl is here." And Hunter barely acknowledging it (it probably happens a lot) because his life is currently flashing before his eyes. GOD they're just such nerds.

Oh and this frame is just SO adorable. The way Willow's hold on him lingers for a moment before he walks towards the grave, Hunter's heart eyes. They're clearly still so soft and touchy with each other. And this is after three years. I know they were insufferable when they started dating as teens.

[wongyuseokie]

Stitches | l.sm

Summary: Seokmin is nothing if not the perfect boyfriend, so he decided to manscape a little to spice things up. Unfortunately, he wasn’t paying enough attention, and he’s been stitched up for a week. He’s determined not to let you in on why he’s rejecting your advances, but all it’s doing is making you think he’s not interested. Seokmin sees that you’re upset, but he just doesn’t know how to tell his girlfriend that he accidentally cut his penis and now has stitches in it. 

☆ 18+ minors dni |☀︎fluff | ♕ implied smut |  ☁︎ mild angst | ♥ completed works 

Word Count: 1486 words 

Pairings: Lee Seokmin x Female Reader

Genre/Trope(s)/AUs: fluff, mild angst (but it's me so idk how long it’ll stay mild), new relationship au!

Content Warnings: mentions of razors, stitches and blood (nothing graphic). Mentions of food.  

Smut Warnings: none, but just implied smut

Authors Note 1: thank you to my lovely seoksluts @the-boy-meets-evil @wooahaeproductions @highvern and @kwanisms for encouraging this <3  Taglist: @aaniag and @dkluvrsclub and @thegirlwhoimagined @ressonancee and @tomodachiii @bitchlessdino @onlyseokmins @gyuminusone because why not <3

“So, you’re telling me you have a cut on your dick?” Mingyu repeated as he wiped away the tears from his eyes. He had been laughing at Seokmin ever since he confided in Mingyu. 

“Shut up, I was right. I should have gone to Jeonghan hyung,” Seokmin whined, and Mingyu laughed more at his comment. 

“No, he’d probably upload your bleeding penis to the group chat,” Mingyu teased, making Seokmin throw a towel at Mingyu’s head. 

“Can you help?” Seokmin pleaded. 

“I think that Y/N would prefer to help you when it concerns your penis,” Mingyu joked, making Seokmin reach for the hairbrush on the bathroom counter to throw at Mingyu’s head. 

“Okay, calm down. I’ll take you to the doctor, and after that, we’re going to discuss why you think throwing things in an argument is a solution,” Mingyu offered, earning a glare from Seokmin. 

“Stop whining, it could be worse. You could, I don’t know, have severed your entire dick off. All you did was let a tiny little cut, which after a week will be fine,” Mingyu scolded as Seokmin went on his third meltdown of the day. 

“What do I tell Y/N?” Seokmin wailed; he had been a mess after the doctor told him that he’d stitch up his cut, but he’d have to abstain from any activities that would exacerbate his cut–which included sex. 

“Just tell her the truth?” Mingyu offered, confused, wondering why Seokmin couldn’t be honest with you, his girlfriend. 

“No, she’s going to think I’m an idiot,” Seokmin mumbled. 

“I think she already thinks that, ow!” Mingyu yelped as Seokmin smacked his head. 

“Dude, it’s not that serious. Tell her you wanted to make your penis pretty and accidentally sliced a bit of it,” Mingyu suggested earning a glare from Seokmin. 

“Or you could say that you wanted to attempt an “at-home” circumcision,” Mingyu joked, his suggestion earning another smack from Seokmin. 

“No, I know what I’ll do. I’ll ignore her advances; it’s just for a week, and I’ll make it up with the best sex ever,” Seokmin said determinedly.

“Okay, first ew, second, don’t because you’ll ignore her, and she’ll think something’s wrong with her,” Mingyu warned. 

“No, she won’t. She knows I think she’s perfect,” Seokmin argued. 

“Okay, genius, you do what you think is best. Just try not to slice up your dick again. Besides, you could go to a salon, and they’ll manscape you nicely,” Mingyu teased, making Seokmin whine again and lie back down on the hospital bed. 

“Baby! You’re home!” You exclaimed, running to greet your boyfriend, who held out a hand, stopping you from hugging him. 

“Sorry, I'm sore. I fell during practice,” Seokmin lied, hoping you didn’t catch his tone. He was a terrible liar. 

“Oh baby, should I get you something? Ice? Or maybe I can draw you up a warm bath to soothe your muscles?” You offered, and Seokmin shook his head furiously. 

“No!” Seokmin yelped, confusing you. 

“I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry,” Seokmin said, calmer, and you just shrugged. 

“Well, I hope you’re not too sore for me to kiss you,” you asked, hopeful. 

“Uh, no, I’m not,” Seokmin grinned. 

You walked towards your boyfriend, and you were about to kiss him when he moved his face away. Your lips landed on his cheek. 

“Seok?” 

“You wanted a kiss, right?” Seokmin asked, grinning, and hoped you wouldn’t question him further. 

“Yeah. I guess,” you mumbled. 

“I’ll go change, and we can cuddle and watch a movie?” Seokmin offered, making you smile. That sounded more like your boyfriend. 

“Sounds good.” 

You both weren’t cuddling as you watched the movie. Seokmin had his hand on your thigh but still kept at least a couple of inches of space between you. You were confused, but you did want to cuddle him, so you reached out your arm. Before you could place it on Seokmin’s thigh, he inched away from you, yelping. 

“What the hell?” You asked. 

“Why are you touching me?” Seokmin asked, exasperated, hating how the words sounded and hating how your face fell after hearing his words. 

“I just wanted to get a bit closer to you,” you mumbled, embarrassed. 

“Well, I’m not always in the mood,” Seokmin said defensively. 

“Well, you’re the one who suggested a movie and cuddles?” You argued. 

“That doesn’t mean we need to be stuck together like glue; sometimes I don’t want you cuddling me,” Seokmin spoke quickly, the words spilling out of his mouth before he could even think. 

“Oh,” you said quietly, looking at your hands. 

“Baby, that's not what I meant,” Seokmin said, trying to backtrack. You looked up at him, shaking your head. 

“No, it’s fine, um. I have some work to finish, so uh, I’ll catch you in a bit?” You said as you got up from the couch and walked off to the bedroom, not giving Seokmin a chance to speak and stop you. 

Later that night, you decided you’d get ready for bed without Seokmin, even though you two liked doing your night routine together. You figured he needed space, so you gave him just that. 

“Baby?” Seokmin called out, and you pretended to be asleep. You felt the bed dip as he lay down next to you. 

“I’m sorry,” Seokmin mumbled as he wrapped his arm around your waist. You placed your hand over his. 

“It’s fine,” you mumbled, turning to face him. This made Seokmin gasp and inch away. 

“What the hell, Seok?” You asked, now annoyed. 

“Baby, it’s just that I need to keep my distance from you right now,” Seokmin admitted, and you glared at him. 

“Fine, keep your distance,” you huffed, grabbing your pillow and heading to the door. 

“Wait, where are you going?” Seokmin asked. 

“The guest room. I don’t know what is wrong with you right now, but you’re not making me feel very wanted, and since you want space, I’ll give you space,” you ranted, walking out of the bedroom and slamming the door behind you. 

Seokmin knew better than to follow you, but he knew he needed to fix this. He grabbed his phone and started texting Mingyu. 

The following morning, you decided to ignore Seokmin until he told you why he was behaving so funny, and while it was incredibly petty of you to do so, you were hurt. 

You emerged from the guest room after you took a shower, and the only thing you could find to wear was one of Seokmin’s shirts since you were determined not to go into your bedroom. You pouted, put his shirt on, stepped outside and made your way to the kitchen. 

“Baby!” Seokmin greeted, and you saw a lavish breakfast spread on the kitchen island. 

“What’s all this?” You asked, gesturing to the food. 

“This is my attempt at apologising for my atrocious behaviour last night,” Seokmin mumbled, looking like a sad puppy. You let out a giggle, sat on one of the high chairs next to the island, and took a strawberry and bit into it. 

“Why are you laughing?” Seokmin asked. 

“I wouldn’t call your behaviour ‘atrocious’ just odd,” you said with a grin and patted the seat next to you. 

“So why were you so skittish?” 

“Don’t laugh, okay?” Seokmin pleaded, and you nodded, allowing him to continue. 

“I wanted to, uh, I guess, groom myself a bit. I think the term is manscaping, and I got distracted and accidentally nicked my penis, and I had to get stitches, and I can’t do anything for a week,” Seokmin explained quickly, and you pressed your lips together to try and not laugh. 

“Hey, you said you wouldn’t laugh,” Seokmin whined, and you giggled and placed your arms around his neck. 

“Oh, my sweet baby, why did you think you needed trimming?” You asked, placing a kiss on his cheek and making him smile. 

“I don’t know to make my penis more appealing.” 

You let out a laugh pulled away, and placed your hands on Seokmin’s pouty face. 

“Baby, I think you have the prettiest dick in the entire world. I’ll yell it from the rooftops if I need to,” you comforted him, making him smile at you. 

“You’d yell it?” Seokmin asked. 

“Yes, baby, I understand, and I respect that. You can always be honest with me. I’ll never judge that,” you explained further, and Seokmin pouted as he nodded. 

“I’m sorry about last night,” Seokmin apologised. 

“It’s okay. Can you at least give me a proper kiss?” You asked, and Seokmin nodded. He leaned forward and captured your lips in the softest kiss ever. 

“Mm, 100 more of those today, and you’re forgiven,” you offered. 

“Done!” 

“Uh, babe, what would you yell about my dick?” Seokmin asked as he walked away to fix you a plate. 

“Oh, simple, I'd say that Seokmin has a very nice DK.” 

[ciphykiss]

incubus >

blade x f!reader; nsfw, mdni somnophilia (does it count if its in a dream idk), slight dubcon, light “claiming” elements

You’re going to resign tomorrow.

This is what you tell yourself when the siren of your cell blares Jingyuan’s ringtone at 3 AM on a weekend, a mere two hours following your last shift at the general’s personal slammer (you’d applied for an administrative assistant position, dammit; you were supposed to be serving the slick bastard tea and going on lotus cake runs, not wiping prisoner spit off your cheek). In the beginning, you’d attempted to balm the degrading lifestyle with girthy checks, cruising into salons like clockwork every Friday with your hair up and eyes cucumber’d, lovely Foxian ladies attending to your nails and worn muscle (you’d try to ignore their comments about how you’d aged fifty years in half of one but just end up crying), flirted with the latest designer dresses, and found yourself zombie-clicking add to cart whenever you were on the verge of your bi-weekly meltdown.

No amount of flashy makeup, a piled vanity, and three grand miniskirts are convincing enough for Tingyun, however, and the Foxian would only glance over in pity as you threw yourself at your weekend prize in attempts to forget whatever near-death experience you’d suffered from grooming Jingyuan’s latest charge before their trial.

Your holidays always ended in one of two ways: the ambassador consoling you by observing her nails while you threw your guts up on a clubside of the red light district, remarking on how you should’ve just worked under Yukong like she’d told you to (it wasn’t your fault you’d been seduced by the sleeping general enough to delude yourself into thinking you’d had a shot at a postgraduate office romance), victim to you screeching obscenities of “that bastard” while vomiting a day’s meals (five shots of espresso, a chicken wing, and offbrand Lexapro). Then, you’d spy grime under your nails from previous altercation and wail louder, because you were wasting your prime in fucking prison cells.

It was either that, or being rudely interrupted at approximately five-thirty the next day (a holiday, mind you) to a string of texts that had bypassed warnings of “do not disturb” in favor of bitching about how a true friend wouldn’t let you sleep with a negative four. The true miracle was you not ending up on Tingyun’s blocklist (she’d added you indefinitely once until you’d bombarded the Sky-Faring Commissions with love letters begging their amicassador for “one more chance pls :’(( </3”).

“Why don’t you just quit,” Tingyun had asked on an average Sunday afternoon while stirring her margarita; the Foxian looked a picture-perfect beauty next to your rat-haired, hoodie-clad figure, makeup from last night melting off your face. 

You’d ceased licking hollandaise sauce off your upper lip to stare at her. And instead of arguing about how you’d likely never procure a salary as high as your current one (nothing was worth the cost of your youth and beauty), or how Jingyuan could, quite literally, ruin every one of your future job prospects if he deemed you necessary (you’d find a way to murder him; hell hath no fury like a woman scorned), you could only muster a single thought.

“Tingyun, you’re a genius.”

The paperwork (because he is the bastard, Jingyuan had purposefully orchestrated his resignation process to be thrice as lengthy as the average Luofunian businesses, complete with word-limit essays detailing the exact reason for departure and a five-year timeline on future posts) is stashed under a vase on your nightstand; you make a mental note to litter expletives along the margins to finalize the word count. With the shit he’d just pulled, the general would be in no position to even raise a brow.

“Where’s the newbie,” you grit, slamming your receiver and thumb print over the holographic lock of the Cloud Knight’s maximum security cells. Your companion, a Vidyadhara accountant-turned-night watch guard (because Jingyuan’s ever-growing penchant for tossing civil servants into the line of criminal apprehension remained steadfast even before your recruitment), sweats nervously, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Miss [Name],” Danyin stresses, wincing at the sight of weeks-old inmates clawing at his fabrics for scraps of food, money, and flesh; you ignore him, walking onwards with an air of pissed-offery not even the most seasoned of inmates would dare inflame; your hair hangs behind you, perfumed and damp from its midnight shower, face void of the traditional rouged eyes and thick liner you’d adopted since entering Jingyuan’s court. “If I may speak—”

“You may not.”

“—the general was adamant you meet with him first before apprehension of our newest inmate. He seems… quite ruffled.”

“As he should be, because the next time I see him, I’ll rip him a ne—”

“It is evident that this criminal is naught like the others, [Name], and this is the first time we’ve had to quarter anyone in Cloudford’s maximum security ce—”

You whirl around to face Danyin, eyes ablaze. The guard withers under the brunt of your glower.

“I will see to it my duties are performed,” you say evenly, “and then, I will clock out, return to bed, and enjoy the rest of my weekend with my cell muted. You can let that scoundrel know I will be unavailable for the next 48 hours.”

And with that, you jerk the handlebar of the deepest cell in Jingyuan’s fort shut, your last sight that of Danyin with his mouth hanging open.

The maximum security cells of Jingyuan’s prison are surprisingly less unkempt than the bustle of the commons; it is dark and smells distinctly of a new, unused apartment complex. There are neither guards nor cellkeepers, no windows to speak of; only a dark, winding hallway leading to your destination.

It’s the first time you’d been allotted clearance; originally, you’d presumed the general lacked faith in both your combat abilities and the unwavering loyalty shared by his retinue (both are correct), but now, you realize it’s simply due to a lack of occupants.

(And rightfully so, because you’re having a terrible time imagining what dangers would have Jingyuan paranoid.)

You stop in front of a glass cell; it is tempered, element, bullet, sound, and magic proof; you glance down at your wristwatch and realize it has lost its signal. A neon red “O” flashes on top of the door.

Hesitantly (because despite your lack of sleep and the fact that you’re moving on sole hatred), you touch the glass, peering into the darkness for any sign of movement (any sign of life).

There are none.

Chewing your bottom lip, you decide to adopt the usual “fuck it” mentality you’d been ailed with after more than a few double-digit near death encounters in these halls and press the pads of your fingers over the lock.

It churns, once, twice, thrice, before responding in a robotic monotone; “high-risk individual detected; please exercise caution.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave your hand. “Just get it over with.”

A pause. “Searching database; clearance confirmed. Please confirm entry command.”

You click your tongue. “I do.”

A soft, buzzing sound. “High-risk individual detected; please reaffirm entry command.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, yes!”

The algorithm grows silent. The cogs behind the seemingly innocuous doorway bluster for at least ten seconds, winding open in a rigid, clumsy gait.

Inside, it is darker still. It smells of the preserved glaze used all over the Luofu to seal unused buildings, and a hint of dust; metallic odors assail your nose. Your eyes adjust to the blackness, and you peer long enough to spy the end of a conversation table.

“...uh, hello?”

No response. Annoyed, you search the walls for the lightswitch—your hands dart blindly until it finds the lever.

Dim, blue hues glint off the corridor, bathing the cell in an ominous, funeral-morning light. Your eyes train to the end of the table, and there he sits—still, unmoving, a mane of raven hair cascading down his back, a flesh-and-bone composition of some western Dracula. He is unlike any other inmate you’d laid eyes on before, something incorrigible, clandestine about him; it’s as if he’s frozen in the intersection of immortality and death, one foot through the door, never fully on either side. Distinctly, it reminds you of some late-stage cases of mara-struck individuals that would eventually be sent for termination (the grim fate of all Xianzhou natives).

He is as strong as he is imposing, and nearly as tall as the general himself; this, you can ascertain by the muted rise of his chest, the cling of Xianzhounian fabric over battle-hardened muscle, and knees that hit the bottom of the table. 

He can kill you, you realize instantly; a part of you screams that he not only can, but will. It is a primitive fear, one you hadn’t thought you’d face in the closely-guarded Luofu ship, especially under the watchful eye of the Cloud Knight’s general; it’s enough for you to stop breathing, and render you frozen in your tracks.

You force yourself to exhale, dragging the chair on your end of the table back to situate yourself.

“Good evening,” you manage to utter, cringing at how it comes out a half-squeak; you bite your tongue, willing yourself to harden. A killer this man might’ve been (a professional one, if your screaming gut instinct had anything to say), you didn’t power through half a decade of amicassador training and Jingyuan’s bullshit to flail at the sight of a wanted criminal. “I’m [Name], associate-assistant of General Jingyuan of the Cloud Knights, acting director-in-command of Cloudford’s maximum security center; my duties include, but are not limited to, prerequisite questioning of inmates following admission, collection of bio-data, and basic care of inmates that are unable to groom oneself.” You spy the etherous shackles bound at the wrists of his gauze-covered hands. “Do you consent to the precursory collection of bio-data?”

No response. Not even the slightest tilt of a head, not a single hair moving out of place. A little paler, and you’d presume him dead. You chew the inside of your mouth.

“Would you be willing to provide your legal name? Planet of origin? Species?” Each question is followed by another inch of silence, widening the sea between you and the stranger; though you’re simply following protocol, you can’t help but shiver at the thought of offending Jingyuan’s newest specimen. “...that will conclude logistics. As per duty, and due to current physical restrictions, I am, by law, required to provide basic grooming; this will include a wipe-down of the face. You may vocalize any additional requests; if deemed appropriate by the Cloud Knight Codex, I will comply.”

Silence.

You decide you’d rather the world swallow you back into its womb and spit you back out so you might choose another path in life. Anything to prevent the development of that stupid crush on the scoundrel-general that had left you moon-eyed enough to brush off Tingyun’s recommendation of bannering under Yukong’s Sky-Faring Commission, where you’d entertain foreign investors and tryst with exotic artists instead of dancing with the stink of death every workday.

“...I’m going to touch you now,” you murmur, the scrape of your chair filling the cell. “Please excuse me.”

It’s like diving head-first into a guillotine; every live-wire nerve in you is shrilling for you to run, dignity and Jingyuan and the peace of the Luofu be damned. Leave the goddamn cell door open if you had to; anything to save your own skin. You don’t, of course; instead, you waver in front of the man, still a sitting statue, and tear open the sterile clothpack you’d pocketed.

Slowly, you kneel—and suddenly, you’re having to look up at him, all harsh lines and dark hair, and you thank the Aeons he’s blindfolded and you can’t see his eyes, because you know you wouldn’t have been able to perform any duty under the brunt of a killer’s stare.

He smells of incense and the bloodied scabbard of a sword. Specifically, the woodsmoke used in funerals. Hesitantly, you press the damp end of the satin to the stranger’s cheek.

The result is instantaneous, and you would’ve missed it had you hadn’t been seasoned by years of dealing with the most insidious of criminals; his mouth twitches, his nostrils flare; the actions are subtle, not at all assuming to the naked eye, and would, when performed by any other inmate, be brushed off as involuntary fidgeting;

But not this man, not death himself.

You nearly drop the cloth in alarm. But you don’t, and you try to look anywhere but him (because looking at him hurts as much as it would staring into the core of a non-artificial sun), climbing over the bridge of his nose, the flesh of his lips, the dip of his brows and the cuts of his hard, narrow jaw.

He is handsome.

The thought is both funny and terrifying; it helps you function, albeit more normally, though a part of you knows you shouldn’t find a national security threat anything more than appalling.

“Done,” you murmur, pulling back until you’re no longer drunk on the scent of orientals and woodsmoke. You pause, affirming just how pretty he is up close—a word you’d seldom use to describe men, and though he is absurdly handsome, there’s something flowery about the drape of his hair over his shoulder (another sign of danger, you now realize, as Xianzhounian warriors only cut their hair after defeat), the fullness of his mouth; like a carnivorous, night-flowering jasmine, you muse, blooming a scent so elusive it would only attract the most macabre of victims into its maw.

Aeons, the wanted criminal had you waxing poetry. Had your perpetual sleep deprivation toed its way to insanity?

“...do you require any further assistance?”

It shouldn’t shock you, it really shouldn’t; and yet, his response has the same effect as being struck with a killing blow from the general’s lightning lord itself;

“No,” he rasps, and the sound shoots right down to your core.

Fuck. Maybe you should’ve convinced your Foxian friend to take that old geezer up on his threeway offer last weekend, because it had clearly been too long since you’d gotten laid. For a wanted criminal you’d just laid eyes on to have such—

No. There’s no way. You make a mental note to ask Tingyun what self-care devices are trending and hide the pang in your nether regions with a shuffle of your thighs.

“Alright,” you squeak, scrambling to your feet—and protocol be damned, because there’s nothing in this godforsaken intergalactic universe that can stop you from crawl-dashing out the door as fast as your stupid work heels will carry you.

You need an intervention (an orgasm). Stat.

ꨄ︎

The Jingyuan that haunts you at dusk is as capable as the one you loathe during the day, thrice as inflamed, and so deliciously pliant. Your vision is obscured in the pewter-gray of his mane, teeth scraping the naked flesh of your shoulder, wet and warm and hard.

You dig your nails into the roots of his hair, as always, and yank. In response, he lets out a muffled groan—you imagine the sound reverberates under your skin like ripples along a lake, and feel his (your) hands dip below the hem of your dress. He would be careful, you think—considerate, despite his bastardry, barely bruising, just harsh enough to leave you wanting, just how you like it (or so you think).

“I hate you,” you gasp, to no one; Jingyuan chuckles, lips soft over the juncture of your throat.

“Me?” 

“You,” you moan, the rake of your nails along his back coaxing him into littering a thousand kisses over your neck. “I hate you, I hate you—you and your stupid hair and lackadaisical, know-it-all attitude, and—fuck, I deserve a raise!”

“You don’t sound as though you hate me,” he hums. “In fact, you sound… rather pleased.”

Of course the Jingyuan in your hallucinogen-inspired wet dream is as cocky as the one in flesh; you scowl, landing a good one across his left cheek. He laughs, then, which spurs you to lock your legs around his hips and push him into the plush of the many pillows of your dreamscape.

“Shut up,” you order, “and put that mouth of yours to use for once.”

He doesn’t need any further instigation; dream-Jingyuan (somehow just as insufferable, despite being the byproduct of YOUR imagination) grabs you by the thighs and splits you open like his last meal. You gasp, hips moving of their own accord—reality blurs with the walls of your dreamworld, your own fingers replaced with the general’s calloused ones, and you sway to build the peak of your climax to your heart’s desire, lips coaxed open by his tongue, clit brushing against the bridge of his nose.

It’s all too much, really; you don’t remember the last time you’d had a dream so vivid, despite having remedied your insomnia quite often with visions of taming the sleeping general. There’s a strange sense of liminality; the thick fog separates to make way for cracks that closely resemble your bedroom wall, silk sheets fading into the strewn blankets you’d received as a New Year’s gift.

And then, Jingyuan does something completely unscripted—he slides you off his face, throws your leg over his hip, and grinds into your core.

You let out a whimper, something small in the back of your mind screaming that this isn’t normal—that a fabrication shouldn’t be chasing after his own pleasure, that the teeth along your neck feel harsher, more volatile;

But you can’t be bothered to care, whining for more—because suddenly, his mouth isn’t enough, and you need him, you need to be filled—had your vision been less blurry, and had you been even a smidgen less wanton, you wouldn’t noticed the shock of white hair fade into ink, the bare chest replace itself with dark fabric, and the fog of your dreamscape turn to overhead skies and a bed crowned in a million spider lilies.

And then,

“Jingyuan?” The forbidden, familiar baritone husks into your ear, and Aeons, you’d never crumbled faster—your eyes split open, still hazy, glittering with unshed tears—of frustration, of want, of hatred, everything in between and more, and you feel yourself getting even wetter. “Of all men, him?”

“What’re ‘ou doing here?” You babble, incoherent; your arms are still wrapped around his neck, and slowly, the inmate you’d been acquainted with mere hours before rises, shrouding your world in a curtain of black hair.

He smells the same—incense and blood and rain. Great. Now you’re hallucinating scents.

“That won’t do,” he says, lowering his face; the fabric of his blindfold touches your forehead, and you’re not sure why, but the fact that you can’t truly see him is even more erotic than any fantasy you’d ever conjured up before.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you mumble, the last shreds of decency slipping away to the cloudsmoke of his perfume and the flush of his hardened body against yours. “This isn’t—mmm!”

His mouth is on yours, and it is nothing like any mirage store-bought fantasia can conjure up; he is nothing like the men you pick up at clubs, nothing like the teasing Jingyuan in your dreams. He is taking you, commanding your lips to part to make way for him; his tongue searches yours, feverish and so ravaging that it should have you fleeing the planet.

Then, he moves, and you feel the brush of something hard against your mound, near corporeal; the threads of rationality snap, and you’re arching, using your hooked leg as leverage to melt into the dream-criminal’s body, because now, a dream isn’t enough—you want to feel him, warmth and muscle and the cage of his arms, and become one; a mouth isn’t enough. Suddenly, nothing is enough.

He pulls away to latch onto your neck, and you cry at the loss.

“No,” you wail, hooking your remaining leg over his waist. Slender, moreso than Jingyuan’s. “Kiss me more—gimme more—I need—”

“Take it yourself,” he says, working on the welts now littering your collarbone in what an absurd part of you assumes is an attempt to replace any remnants of the dream-general. “Do you really think yourself deserving?”

Tears brim at the corners of your eyes. “So—so mean,”

You lay there for a minute more, frustrated and so stupidly wet, aching for his touch while he seems content to deliver his punishments in the form of mouthing along every inch of your throat and breasts.

“You demon,” you accuse, fisting his shirtsleeve pathetically. Your lips twitch into a frown when he continues to ignore you.

Take it yourself, huh?

And then, because it’s a dream and you would rather die than be left unsatisfied in your own un-reality, you grab the stranger by the face, part your lips open, and finish what he so rudely began.

A part of you expects a nightmarish turn—one where he lashes out to skewer your gut, or worse; instead, he indulges you, fingers steadying your hips as they attempt to grind into a rhythm.

“You’re in my dream, aren’t you?” You whisper, scattering pecks along his cheek—he is, after all, so pretty, too pretty not to dote on. “Take responsibility. Jingyuan would.”

It’s like smelting a firecracker; his mouth bends into an almost-scowl, and the grip on your hips turns bruising.

Bandaged fingers curl into your heat, building atop an existing pressure—your reaction is visceral. A gasp, then an involuntary swivel of your spine with the heels of your feet digging into the bed; and just as you think he’s going to build a staccato, his ministrations halt.

It’s devastating, and it has you wailing into the crook of his pale, unforgiving, not-quite-embrace; frustrated, you knock your fists against his chest. If it were reality, it would hurt you more than it hurt him.

“You bastard.”

“I could ruin you,” he haunts, an echo in your ear. “I could make it burn. You would dream of me in the waking world, cry for me in the dreaming. A slave to passion, day and night; hardly sleeping, hardly eating, merely breathing, finding relief only when I move inside you.”

His lips graze over your own.

“But I won’t.”

It’s a strange, humiliating experience, coming undone from a mere kiss; your heat throbs, neglected, still sobbing to be touched, be soothed, put at rest; but the way he holds you can be mistaken as loving, and the curl of his mouth against yours is almost kind; it’s like grasping at the shadow of a man that never existed.

And then, you wake up.

Your walls are sepia and no longer skies, there are no lilies at your feet. Your cheeks are tear-stained, and there’s a hand under your skirt, the other cupping your breast in poor mimicry of your dream demon.

Something red catches the mirror on your nightstand.

There, splintered across the previously unmarred expanse of your throat, lies a canopy of bruise-colored kisses.