#be more than this. now or never you guess.

[goatgoesmbe]

f!reader

Reader who always wear a mask, and was more secretive than Ghost who had no problem showing his face to the team once in a while.

And just like with Ghost, the others joked about you being ugly, which you similarly replied with confidence that's not the case.

When you were tired of keep getting questions about the mask, you'd respond with a joke.

Putting on your best act, you sighed with a solemn look, telling a story about how you used to be obsessed with Shrek and had him tattooed on your face, which you were ashamed of now.

"..Are you serious?" Kyle asked.

You simply shrugged "I guess you'll never know".

And they could never guess whether you were lying or not, being known as the master of psychological warfare and often sent for espionage because of your skill with people, manipulation.

And acting.

What they didn't know is that, you gained that skill from your previous job, when you were a big deal in the entertainment industry. A professional actress that started in many movies and got into a really big scandal that got you hiding.

And somehow ended up here.

That was the reason as to why you needed to hide your face, your identity. Not even your captain knows about it, only Laswell who knew a bit of your story.

Lounging around in the recroom, you silently observed the others arguing about a certain movie to watch before it somehow ended with them fanboying for a certain actress who played the main character.

You.

"Ah swear, Ah saw this porn where the lass looked just like her. Had folk arguin’ if it was really her or just a doppelganger… haud on, where is it—" You heard Johnny rambled as he fumbled with his phone.

You shifted in your seat and hid a smille.

Oh yeah, that side gig you took a long time ago.. almost forgot about that

Dropping this idea before class so i wont forget abt it

[frillsand]

Actor art dump

All of this is months old so excuse if it looks like it’s all random

Exhibit A: Beta Actor and Opposite Actor in a reference to GGBG

Exhibit B: Valentines thing

Mesmerizer thing I never finished. Sorry my tablet couldn’t handle it :(

Tried to make it more cutesy but it looks off, I guess that’s a good thing

Why are all of my drawings of Wally damn

Throwing all this at you two months earlier than the au anniversary cause I love u guys. And I’m so sorry I’m not active like I use to be :( I’m enjoying other fandoms right now

[satinprose]

letting pervy!loser!ellie touch you for the first time… inspired by this post. mdni. cw  ;  inexperienced!ellie,  loser!ellie,  perv!ellie  adjacent.  tit  play.  thigh  riding. for some reason, this is longer than i intended.

subtlety was never ellie's best natural ability. no, really, it's not. walking into poles on the footpath, laughing too loud when she shouldn't—especially if it was something you said—and well, it's mainly you that voids her of subtlety. ellie isn't the wisest, and when she's crushing hard, her brain dissolves into fucking mush.

ellie's never felt so... nasty. when it comes to you, she has the most utterly insane thoughts imaginable. she's even thought about trying to steal a pair of panties out of your laundry hamper, but knew she couldn't pull it off clean enough.

when she sees something she likes, ellie can't help it. can you blame her? you had to know what you were doing to her, surely... that tank top looks like a second skin on your body, it's obvious you aren't wearing a bra either. the outlines of your nipples are prominent, the low neck of the tank revealing a fucking heavenly amount of cleavage. considering ellie's only had her imagination to go off—and she's been imagining what your body looks like naked—this is the closest she's ever got.

of course, what ellie wants to do right now is take a picture and let this last forever. but what she wants to do even more, is pin you down against the couch and take a proper look for herself. ha, as if.

this poor baby. she's been staring for so long, thinking you won't notice. of course you noticed! she's working herself up so much, shifting and squirming in her seat, trying to subtly press her hand between her thighs, and her eyes dart from the tv to your tits over and over.

it's a little tricky to decide how to act in response. she's your friend, and she just looks so worked up that you can't help feeling a little bad, almost like you owe her some for being the cause of her current issue. and she's vehemently reassured you that she's totally fine, just a little hot every time you've asked if she's alright.

"els?"

this time, when ellie looks over at you, prepared to force herself to make eye contact only, she unfortunately fails immediately. because you're holding your top up.

her face feels on fire, red filling her cheeks. she gasps upon initial reaction, but she still doesn't flinch or look away. she's practically stuck. that doesn't stop her from stammering a concerned question, though.

"how— why— would you do this?"

"oh." you tilt your head, drawing your lip between your teeth. the lip biting, your doe eyes, and your current state of indecency, it has ellie fucked over. "i just, i guess i noticed you were staring n' i felt like i owed you a look!"

"ohh." no, ellie doesn't understand you at all right now, but that doesn't make her ungrateful. she's trying not to act on pussy-whipped sentiments, but it's extremely hard. and what does she say in response? "you got.. niiiice boobs."

"thank you."

"can i..." ellie trails off, wiping her sweaty hands over her jean-clad thighs. "can i touch?"

her voice broke saying that, and she feels ridiculous. but you? you've never had a girl be genuinely nervous to touch you before.

"of course you can," you murmur, feeling warmth spread into both your face and panties. "i want you to."

"okay." you don't think you've ever heard ellie sound like this before. but she's reeling. you want her to do this. "i've never touched.. a girl before, never touched any boobs before, sorry."

"oh, reaaally?" you ask, giggling. somehow that only made your panties dampen more. "it's okay! just c'monn..."

"yeah, okay." ellie nods as if to psyche herself up, and then she moves closer to you. she makes sure, one more time, that her hands aren't clammy, before cupping your breasts.

she takes pretty firm handfuls, and her hands are shaky but so warm. ellie herself has to bite back a whimper, feeling your plushness in her palms. your skin is soft as silk. she's slow with it at first, massaging the supple flesh with slender fingers. the longer it goes on for, the more she discovers she really, really loves it.

ellie starts squeezing. she's hit gold when she brushes her thumbs over your nipples, because your entire body shivers. she lets out a shaky laugh before rolling the hardened buds beneath her callouses, watching you start to breathe a bit heavier. she experiments; pulling, tugging, pinching. she's squeezing your tits so roughly, pulling on your nipples a little too hard and yet when she does so, it makes you moan.

prettiest sound on earth. need to hear that more. ellie wants to hear that in her freaking dreams at night.

this feels like a dream altogether.

ellie doesn't really have any concept of gentle versus rough. she's plainly new to this and just a little over-excited. especially when you start to whimper. she's gone when she notices you start to rock your hips against the air, and she licks her dry lips.

"h-hey, come.. sit.. on my lap if you want..."

when you do, and ellie feels your thighs squeeze around her own, she feels her breathing speed up. she has her crush perched on her lap, grinding against her leg, and she's playing with your tits.

you drag your clothed cunt over ellie's thigh, back and forth. to hold yourself up you grab her by the shoulders and hold your top up between your teeth so ellie doesn't have to worry about a thing. you only want her to have the most perfect time manhandling your tits, so you'll be good and make sure your body is completely readily accessible to her.

"ellie, ellie!"

said girl is completely winded. she's wide-eyed, looking up at you like you aren't even real. you're squeaking out her name so sweetly, she's starting to think she won't make it. all this blood is rushing downwards and she can feel her pussy throbbing against her boxers. it feels like she's going to pass out.

"w-what's wrong?"

"nothingggggg, just keep doing that, s'feels sooo nice."

"oh! okay." honestly, ellie was also not so confident in her abilities. so to know that she is, somehow, making you feel actual pleasure? she's ecstatic. can't stop grinning so dumbly, bouncing her knee to stimulate you further.

and the way that your tits bounce right in front of her face? it's just so erotic. ellie relishes in the sounds of your weak whining, the fact that you're starting to sweat a little, and panting like a puppy.

"you're so fuckin' cute," ellie rasps, looking up at you. "you're doing so, so good."

now, ellie is no expert, her only 'training' is just the copious amounts of porn she's watched (and pretended was you and her). but she can tell you're getting close.

she also thought she'd be a little more suave with her words. she's trying so hard, yet for some reason no good dirty talk can make its way out. it's just getting stuck, as if she's really afraid to say it.

your orgasm builds up so fast. you hadn't even intended for it, but it hit you like a freight train. so hard and fast that when you cum, you pull ellie close and effectively suffocate her against your chest (by accident, of course), squeezing her tight whilst high moans and shrill gasps leave your mouth.

you slowly come down from the high, now panting into ellie's ear.

finally, she feels brave enough to speak up. that doesn't stop her voice from cracking, however, her shock evident. bless her.

"th–that's a good girl."

[v6quewrlds]

reading through the dr wifey tag and thinking about how joe gets someone else to do the car and handyman stuff and what if wifey is the one that opens the door when the bug guy comes or something and I’m thinking one of two things

1. The guy refuses to believe she lives there/owns the home and keeps asking for the man of the house (has happened to me many times)

2. Flirts with her

I just know Joe appears behind her in seconds like 🧍‍♂️ we won’t be needing your services today, fuck off and bye

this concept is so delicious, i had to write it out

The shrill chime of the doorbell pierced the quiet afternoon air, echoing through the sprawling Cincinnati home. She had been nestled in the living room, engrossed in a medical journal article, blue light glasses shielding her eyes from the glow of her laptop. With a sigh, she set the laptop on the coffee table and padded towards the front door in her plush slippers. The house felt particularly quiet today; both she and Joe were engrossed in their own worlds.

As she swung the door open, the cool, fall breeze carried past her. The exterminator stood before her, a middle-aged man with a green polo and a cap emblazoned with a cartoonish bug. He took a moment to scrutinize her, his eyes flickering over her crewneck and leggings, glasses perched atop her head. "Hi, can I help you?" She asked, her voice firm but courteous.

The man's smile was forced, his eyes lingering for a beat too long before he finally spoke. "Yes, ma'am. I'm Reggie from Pest Patrol. Mr. Joe Burrow's expecting me." His tone was skeptical, as if her mere presence was a glitch in his day. She watched as his eyes traveled over her body, assessing and judging without a hint of subtlety.

Recognition flashed in her eyes as she introduced herself. "Come in," she said, her tone cooler than the breeze outside. "Joe is busy right now but I can show you around for the inspection." She stepped aside, allowing the exterminator to enter. His gaze lingered on the expensive decor, the polished floors, and the walls adorned with sports memorabilia and family photos. The disbelief was palpable, rolling off him in waves, but she ignored it.

He followed her into the kitchen, his eyes flicking around the space as if searching for evidence that she truly belonged. "So, Mrs. Burrow," he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "do you have any concerns about where the pests might be coming from?"

Her jaw tightened, but she kept her smile in place. "Oh, I'm not married," she began, her voice as sweet as sugar, belying the irritation simmering beneath the surface. "Just being proactive, no concerns at the moment."

The exterminator chuckled, a sound that grated on her nerves. "So, you're the housekeeper, then?" His smile never reached his eyes as he began setting down his equipment.

She felt a spark of anger but kept her voice calm. "No, I'm Joe's girlfriend," she corrected, her voice as smooth as silk.

The exterminator's smile didn't falter. "Girlfriend, huh?" He began poking around in the cabinets, asking questions about their kitchen habits and pantry staples, all the while keeping his tone lightly mocking. "Well, I guess you've got it made, living here with the big shot football player. Must be nice, not having to worry about bills, huh? Tough times and all." His gaze flickered to the white gold watch adorning her wrist.

Her smile was brittle. "I guess so," she replied, her voice tight. She didn't owe this man an explanation and she wasn't about to justify her relationship or her right to be in Joe's home - her home.

"I'm surprised you know this many details," he remarked once again as he checked the baseboards in the hallway, his eyes never leaving hers for too long. She felt a knot of irritation form in her stomach, his doubtful gaze feeling like a thousand tiny needles pricking at her pride. "Most of the girls I see with guys like Joe are more about the shopping than the home maintenance," he said with a smug chuckle.

Her smile didn't waver, but her eyes narrowed slightly. "Well, it's my home too, so I like to know what's going on." The exterminator grunted noncommittally, but his skepticism was as thick as the scent of the chemicals he carried.

As they moved through the house, her irritation grew. She'd faced assumptions about her relationship before, but the blatant disrespect was grating. Just as she could feel her couth begin to slip, she felt a strong hand find her hip, a warm chest press against her back, an even voice interrupt the man's probing.

"Everything okay here?" Blue eyes met hers, glancing toward the older man before leaning down to kiss her cheek. She felt a wave of relief wash over her as Joe stepped into the room, his demeanor revealing he had heard the tail end of the conversation. The exterminator, Reggie, took a step back, his smug grin fading as he took in Joe's broader frame and the firm grip on her waist.

"Just talking," she said lightly. "Reggie was surprised that I knew about the kitchen layout and our pest control needs."

Joe's eyes flashed with something that looked like distaste, but his voice remained calm. "I'm Joe," he said, extending a hand that the exterminator took with a hint of hesitance.

"Reggie," the man said, his smile forced. "She's smart, knows what's going on around here." He tried to cover his tracks, but the awkwardness lingered in the air like a bad smell.

Joe's gaze never left the exterminator. "Well, we're a team," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I'd even say she's smarter than I am."

The exterminator chuckled nervously, looking from Joe to her and back again. "Ah, I can see that," he said, his voice suddenly syrupy. "But maybe I should speak to the man of the house before I start the job."

Her eyes narrowed and she felt Joe's hand tighten slightly around her waist. "She's more than capable of handling this," Joe said firmly. "But if it makes you uncomfortable, I can reschedule for another day, have someone else come out."

The exterminator took a moment, his expression shifting from surprise to embarrassment. "No, no, I'm good," he said, his voice strained. "Just a little misunderstanding, I guess."

She could feel the tension in Joe's body, his protectiveness radiating through the fabric of his shirt. "Well, let's get this done," Joe said, his eyes lingering on the exterminator before turning to her. He leaned in to kiss her, deep and slow before murmuring against her lips, "You okay?"

She nodded, her face warm, and Joe gave her a gentle squeeze before releasing her. "Good," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You let me know if he makes you uncomfortable again." With that, he turned and strode back down the hall, his office door remaining open just a crack.

[iturmom]

fuck it i'll explain myself real simple like line by line so everyone can understand because i'm sick of thinking about this.

1 idk who anthony bourdain is. my tags are not in response to him as a person or his character but what he is saying in this snippet of an interview. i still haven't looked him up and it doesn't matter because i am not making a character judgement of him. i don't give a shit about his character. his words were a conversation starter for me, nothing more.

2. it gives off alpha male vibes. does that mean he's an alpha male? no. am i suggesting he's friends with andrew tate? never. again i am saying nothing about his character, just the vibes of his words. people are so much more than just one out of context conversation.

3. judging a woman for how she eats is inherently misogynistic. she's been literally trained like a fucking animal since birth to eat dainty and be ashamed of everything. and now you're judging women for the way they were socialized in a patriarchal society where boys are allowed to eat like animals but girls get shamed for it. now a man is shaming girls for the way they've been conditioned. he's not only talking about his wife he is talking about women as a whole as if women are a monolith. because when you say something in a public forum like an interview in a famous publication i assume that is obviously seen by many people, when you suggest things about women, it can be internalized by every woman or afab who reads it. he should know this when he is speaking in public platforms. any public facing person should know this, i mean they make money off this fact

4. no one seems bothered by this one thanks

5. or this i guess?

6 7 & 8 i think i explained pretty well? i can clarify further tho

9. i don't eat for a man's entertainment or lack thereof i don't eat for men! fuck anthony bourdain for the tiniest annoyance of the slight implication that women's eating habits have anything to do with a man. i'm sure someone has said fuck anthony bourdain before and got drinks afterward with him. i imagine that's how celebrities live sometimes idk? so yeah i think he can handle an internet stranger saying fuck anthony bourdain on a post he'll never see? i don't think he cares really he has a lot of money

10. the implication is there bc he gave many examples which were exclusively meat, and one cheese which is. idk not much better? cause like i don't eat meat so is he suggesting that when i go on a date i'm supposed to order a whole block of cheese and just bite straight into it like an apple? no he's not bc he's not thinking about vegetarians bc it's impossible to go feral over a vegetarian burrito, over a veggie burger, is what i'm kinda taking from where his focus lies. doesn't eat meat= dainty= unsexy= bad. not necessarily in that order but these things seem to be implied.

after that i just devolved into irrational anger for the drama. i thought that was pretty obvious by wishing he steps on a lego and not wishing actual suffering on him..... sorry it didn't play very well i guess

also never said it was a joke. i don't do comedy. i was exaggerating my emotions for the drama. if you don't like people who exaggerate their emotions sometimes then my blog is not for you and that's okay!

[internetpuppetgxrl]

Sleeping in the Shadows - a Shadow Milk x Reader One Shot

au where shadow milk is a sleep paralysis monster, kinda like the boogeyman

You couldn’t sleep.

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t sleep.

You had multiple instances of getting out of bed to get a snack, some water, go to the bathroom, or just do whatever. All in that order, over and over. Staring up at your ceiling, you let out a long and loud sigh. Your eyes fluttered a bit then you decided you’d try counting sheep. That always worked, right?

1…

2…

3…

4…

5?

Oh, wait.

You suddenly remembered an old urban legend you heard told multiple times in multiple different ways. It even had an episode about it on an old tv show you used to watch as a kid that was all about scary stories. The story was about a strange cookie called Shadow Milk. Legend has it he’d come for those who couldn’t sleep, and counting sheep was one of the ways to summon him. Depending on how many you counted before you gave up, he’d appear to you and ask you which of the sheep you counted is real, and which one is just an illusion. If you guessed correctly, you’d be rewarded. If not, you’d be dragged either in your closet or under your bed, into his spire, and he’d turn you into his puppet to dance in his twisted shows forever and ever.

Some versions of the story would have him come to those who played card games at sleepovers, in some he’d come to those who were up past their bedtime, which was the version you watched in the tv show. In some you could just summon him by putting a joker card in front of your closet door, telling a good amount of lies and then sliding it under, and of course the game with the sheep would begin, with the amount of lies being the same amount of sheep that were present. Sometimes, instead of sheep, you’d have to answer questions, and if your answer was a lie, his appearance would become more and more terrifying, before he finally took you and made you his puppet. But no need to reminisce on the past, that’s just a little legend anyways. It’s a nice story, but it’s not real at all!

Right?

You smiled remembering that show you used to watch and the one episode that actually managed to scare you, which wasn’t the one about Shadow Milk, oddly enough. Your sweet nostalgic thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a bleat. You jolted up in terror and looked around, only to see there was nothing there. You calmed your breathing and laid back down. “Maybe I should stop thinking about that, for now, at least.” You mumbled to yourself as you stretched your back in your bed. After a moment of silence, you heard the sound of a music box. Only problem is,

You don’t own a music box.

And you’ve never heard that melody before.

Peeking out over your covers, you were too afraid to even move. You had no idea where that music was coming from, and you did NOT wanna find out anytime soon! You covered yourself up with the blankets and laid under there nice and still, covering your mouth with your hands. A blue glow was coming from outside, but no matter what, you’d never take them off. The music came to a halt after what felt like way longer than the minute it was playing for. You peeked an eye out from your hiding spot, and there was nothing there. You shuffled out of hiding and went back to sleep as normal, convincing yourself you were just sleep deprived.

“Well there you are…~”

What… was that? WHO was that? You opened your eyes, and a man in a blue harlequin outfit sat in front of you on the edge of your bed. He smiled at you and your closet in front of you was full of glowing blue eyes watching you. “There’s no way…” you thought to yourself. “A-are you… n-no… no it can’t be… shadow-“

“Shadow Milk Cookie? The great and powerful? Who else?” You lay there, eyes widened. You could not believe it! The very urban legend himself, right in your house, right at your bed, right now! “Yes, yes, hold your applause. I heard someone can’t sleep. Someone’s been a bad, bad cookie, huh? Good cookies should be put to bed right away, but look at you, all wide awake like it’s nothing!” Your voice was shaky as you replied, “I- I’m sorry, I, I promise I was trying to g-go to sleep but I-“ He interrupted and held a finger up to you, “Shhhhh… I know, Y/N Cookie, I know. Which is why… we’re gonna play a game! Since you know me so so so so so well, I think you know what you’ve got to do, yes?” You nodded “Yeah. I gotta figure out the sheep that’s not fake, got it.” He clapped his hands, “What a smart cookie you are! Oh, you must be a HUGE fan! Let’s see… what number did you count to? Five? Ah yes, Five!” Shadow Milk snapped his fingers, and on cue 5 sheep came out of your closet. You didn’t really want to think about how this was possible, you wanted to focus on figuring it out. “Think reeeeeal hard, Y/N Cookie. You got this!”

You looked real hard at each one, eyes scanning over the herd. Their blue eyes eerily glowed as you tried hard to spot the odd one out, but they all just looked so similar, you had no idea. Your index finger began to tremble as a tear formed from your fear. You really didn’t feel like being turned into a puppet. The idea of being bound to strings and losing all your will was… everything but pleasant. “Awww~ There, there, Y/N Cookie.” He began to pat you on the head, “There’s no need for those crocodile tears! You’ve got all the time in the world! Unless… that is, unless I get too bored waiting!” You swallowed, and went with your gut and made a decision. “That one! That one there!”

“Oh?”

Your finger was pointed to the second sheep in the row. “I-it’s that one. I-I think that one is the real… sh-sheep…” You almost began to hyperventilate. There was no going back now. You looked to Shadow Milk Cookie, who was smiling. He stood there, watching you shiver with anticipation. The silence felt like an eternity till he began to slowly clap his hands and opened his mouth.

“So you HAVE been listening to the whispers of deceit!”

You sighed in relief. “So I… So I got it right?” He nodded his head, “Mmhmm, mmhmm, mmhmm! That’s right! Look at you! Such a good (girl/boy/cookie), doing the homework! I’m so proud of you!” He gave you a pat on the back, which made you flinch a bit. “Well, now that playtime’s over, I think it’s only fair I give you the sweet relief of slumber you crave.” He took a fistful of something out of his pocket, “But rest assured, I will be back, and I cannot wait to play with you again! Now then… Ready, Y/N?” You sighed and laid down on your bed, falling onto the pillow. “Heh! I’ll take that as a “yes” then!” He opened up his hand and blew a shiny blue powder in your direction. The blue dust made you sleepier and sleepier till you couldn’t help but drift off. Shadow Milk Cookie turned to exit from your closet into his Spire of Deceit. He turned his head to get a good look at how peaceful his new playmate looked all bundled up with their head in the dream world.

“I shall see you later~!”

[holylulusworld]

How to cure a grump (8)

Summary: You’re losing your job on Christmas.

Pairing: CEO/Boss!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: grumpy Bucky, mistaken identity, kinda fake dating trope, fluff, mentions of being cruel to animals (no description), idiots in love

How to cure a grump (7)

How to cure a grump masterlist

“The poor little thing,“ you sniffle on your way home. After you found the kitten, and the kiss making you weak in the knees, you weren’t in the mood for figure skating. “How could anyone throw you into a dumpster?”

Bucky is silent. He holds the kitten close to his warm chest and protects it from the cold with his warm coat. “People can be cruel.”

Your mind is racing. Everything happening not half an hour ago has you doubting your opinion about Bucky.

He defended you and punched your ex. And then, he kissed you again.

How could he kiss you again?

Your former boss is a mystery to you. One moment he’s the worst, and the next he’s a sweet man saving a dirty kitten from a dumpster.

“We need to go to a vet,” he says, breaking the silence. “Right?” He cocks his head to look at you. “I never had a pet before.”

“Let’s head home for now. Doc Carter is on vacation this year. I think the kitten needs food, warmth, and a place to sleep for now,” you glance at the kitten. It lifts its head to look up at Bucky, meowing loudly. “I bet the little furball is hungry.”

“Food. Right,” Bucky says as he looks down at his body to check on the kitten. “Poor punk. Who did this to you? Tell me their name, and I’ll get them arrested or worse.”

“I guess we’ll never find them,” you murmur as Bucky stops in his tracks. “That’s how things go most of the time, Bucky.” You carefully pat the cat’s head. “Sweetie got lucky we found them in time. It’s going to snow more and get colder tonight.”

“Sweetie,” Bucky wrinkles his nose. “That’s an awful name for a cat.” His features soften seeing the little kitten in his arms look back at him. “We will find a better one.”

“We will see,” you reply, determined to name the kitten yourself. Bucky has no right to name them. You heard them meow first.

“What a sweet little creature!” Your mother exclaims, watching Bucky carefully place the kitten he carried back home on a warm blanket. He checks on the creature, humming as the kitten nuzzles his hand. “Where did you find it?”

“In a dumpster!” Bucky angrily replies. “Can you believe someone threw this little kitten away?” He sniffs before carefully lifting the kitten. “Hmm…boy or girl?”

Your mother chuckles as he looks her way. “Let me,” she offers, and carefully lifts the kitten’s tail. “She’s a little girl.” Your mother smirks as Bucky moves the blanket and kitten closer to his side. “No wonder she wants to be close to you, Bucky.”

The kitten desperately meows and tries to climb onto Bucky’s hand. “Hey, slow down. You need food, and sleep.”

“I can prepare food for the poor thing. We found more than one stray kitten over the years,” your mother offers. “How about you go to the living room? It’s warm and you can sit on the couch. I’ll be right there with food for the kitten.”

Before you get the chance, Bucky carefully picks the blanket and kitten up, carrying it out of the kitchen and toward the living room. You huff. “Why don’t you give the kitten to me? You’ll go back to New York soon. I will stay here, and I can take care of them.”

Bucky squares his jaw. Again, you had to remind him of his mishap.

“You’ll have a job when you come back after the holidays. The kitten, though, is mine.” He states, not leaving room for arguments. “I save them.”

“You don’t even know how to take care of the kitten,” you argue, and snarl his name, ready to fight for the kitten.

“I know damn well how to tame a bratty creature,” he growls and steps closer, stopping right in front of you. Bucky's hands twitch to push you against the wall and kiss you again, but your mother walks inside the living room.

“Awe, don’t fight,” she coos. “You are going to take good care of the kitten, together.” She winks at you. “Let’s feed the kitten first.”

“Bucky Barnes,” you hiss, as you knock at the door of the guest room. “Give me the kitten.” You enter the room without waiting for an answer.

“I won’t give you the kitten,” Bucky grunts in your direction. He settled on the bed, the blanket with the kitten right next to him. “Her name is Alpine, and I already ordered everything she’ll need online.”

“Alpine?” You cock your head and huff. “What gives you the right to name her?” You growl. “James Buchanan Barnes just walks into town; kisses people he fires and claims their kitten!”

Bucky smirks. “Not so loud,” he replies as he slowly slips out of the bed. “I saved her and brought her here. She likes me, and I named her because Alpine is my kitten now.”

“You—” you huff, frustrated. Fighting with Bucky won’t get you anywhere. “Why do you want the kitten? You’re not the kind of man caring for a pet, or people or anything.”

“I care for a few people,” he argues. “Steve, my best friend since childhood is one of them. I don’t care about many people, but if I do, I do it unconditionally.”

“Sure.” You snap at him. “You care only about your buddy and money. I bet you’ll forget to feed the poor kitten.”

“Alpine,” he growls and pushes you against the wall, holding you there. “Her name is Alpine. I decided to take good care of her, and this means I will take good care of her.”

His lips are back on yours. He silences your protests and anger with his lips, swallowing every bad word as your fingers tangle in his hair. Bucky wraps his arms around you to lift you off your feet and help you wrap your legs around him.

“I hate you so much,” you growl against his lips before kissing him again. You close your eyes for a second, ignoring the voice telling you not to play with fire. You’ll get burned, but you don’t care…

[milkistar]

𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

can you take this spike? will it wash away this jet black, now? [ . . . ] please save my soul. [ . . . ]

i'll never let them hurt you, not tonight.

⤹ you can find pt. 2 › here.

you were sent on a mission to hunt a dangerous vampire, but when you finally find him, he’s nothing like the monster you expected - he doesn’t fit the stories you were told.

★:: sunghoon (enhypen) x reader.

tags:: gn reader, vampire au, reader should kill the vampire but guess what, blood, mentions of violence, mentions of murder.

you had been taught that vampires were evil beings, ruthless, heartless.

nocturnal creatures that, when they weren’t killing for hunger, did it for fun. much more like monsters than beasts, but certainly far from being human.

they were depicted as walking nightmares, and in the books you had read, it was already a miracle if the role assigned to them was simply that of the villain; usually, it was worse.

and yet, the boy in front of you had nothing monstrous about him—on the contrary, he seemed human, too human.

at the academy of supernatural study and regulation you attended, it was common practice to send some senior students on reconnaissance missions. you and a group of three other students had been ordered to capture—and, if necessary, eliminate—a vampire deemed dangerous, apparently responsible for several deaths in the vicinity of the city where the academy was located.

at first, you were happy to contribute to the mission carried out by your academy and to help the frightened townspeople who believed there was a feral beast roaming the streets, making them too scared to leave their homes.

but now, you weren’t so sure.

the so-called "beast" was actually looking at you in fear, curled up near a tree, and didn’t seem to have the slightest intention of attacking.

the moonlight filtering through the branches of the forest made his face appear even paler than it already was, and, considering that he was theoretically supposed to be dead, that pallor was almost unsettling.

you lowered the rifle you had aimed at him, aware that you wouldn’t be able to fire even a single holy water bullet at him. not if he was looking at you like a trapped animal.

you still hadn’t alerted your teammates, and since each of you had a specific area of the forest to search, it was unlikely that anyone would come to check on what you were doing.

deep down, you knew he wasn’t the monster you were looking for, and you wanted to make sure you got the right vampire before any of your teammates shot him on sight. you didn’t want to risk taking the life of an innocent.

but no vampire is innocent.

yes, that was something you had been taught as well. but, for some reason beyond your understanding, at that moment, you felt they were wrong.

you knelt down to bring your head level with his, still holding the rifle tightly in your hand.

he pressed his back against the tree, his eyes wide with fear. how could he possibly be a murderer?

"hey, don’t be scared," you tried to reassure him, though you were the first one who wasn’t feeling calm.

it was a strange sensation. despite that small, convincing voice repeating that everything was under control, that he was harmless; despite what your eyes were seeing... you were trembling with fear, every nerve in your body screaming ‘danger!’ ‘danger!’.

he slightly parted his lips, then looked at you, tilting his head slightly.

his eyes were dark red, so dark that, at first, you had mistaken them for black. from the small glimpse of his mouth that you could see, his fangs stood out against his red lips.

he was dressed entirely in black, so even from this close, the night’s darkness made it difficult to distinguish his outline or how his clothes were actually made.

"i won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt me," you said, placing a hand on your chest; the cold fabric of your hunting suit felt almost warm against your fingers, chilled by the night air.

he remained silent, but he didn’t seem as scared anymore. ‘good,’ you thought, ‘at least one of us isn’t terrified anymore.’

asking him directly if he was the killer of all those people wouldn’t do anything but frighten him, so you decided to take him somewhere safe from your teammates' bullets first.

"come with me, you’re not safe here." you extended a hand toward the vampire, who looked at it, bewildered. "they’re looking for you."

"you’re not safe." he replied, speaking for the first time.

despite the fact that he had been shaking in fear just moments ago, his voice was strangely calm and confident. and beautiful, extremely beautiful, it seeped into your bones more than the cold wind did.

before you could ask him what he meant by that statement, a scream shattered the silence reigning in the forest. the worst part was that you were fairly sure you knew whose voice it was—you had traveled here together.

"i’m not alone tonight." as he said this, his expression changed almost imperceptibly. you weren’t sure, but did he seem to be smiling? no, it wasn’t possible, you were certain…

"but you chose to show me mercy, and i always return favors. i wouldn’t want to be in debt to none other than a human." he took your hand, which in the meantime had gone stiff—just like the rest of your body.

at that precise moment, your brain managed to register only one thing: ‘it’s warm.’ weren’t vampires supposed to have ice-cold skin?

then, you registered something else about his hand: it was slippery, maybe a little sticky?

and then you understood; it was covered in blood, and it was still warm—he had just killed someone.

finally, you could see his clothes more clearly, as if a spell had just been broken; they weren’t black, they were simply drenched in blood.

you felt like you were about to vomit.

"let’s go, sweetheart, the others aren’t as kind as me." this time, the vampire truly smiled, and you finally saw his fangs clearly: it shouldn’t have surprised you, but even they were covered in blood... which explained why his lips were red.

but how had you not noticed?

you knew vampires were skilled manipulators, but to this extent… for god’s sake, he hadn’t even spoken to you! how had he done it?

you heard another scream, this time closer. another person you knew, another student on a mission in this forest like you.

"come on, y/n, get up. i’ll take you somewhere safe." you didn’t trust him, but what choice did you have? if you stayed alone, the other vampires in his group would find and kill you. but if you followed him, maybe you could at least hope to live until sunrise.

then, you realized something.

"how do you know my name?" you had never told him, that was for sure.

he smiled even more, to the point of looking unsettling. "i know a lot of things."

he stood up, and, pulled up by the bloodstained hand still holding yours, you stood up as well.

"but to be fair, i’ll tell you my name too." still holding your hand, he gave a half bow. "you can call me sunghoon. make sure to remember it."

he smiled again, then looked around cautiously. "follow me."

a few seconds later, you were running through the forest at full speed, hand in hand with sunghoon.

you were following a murderous vampire into the unknown, the rifle—lost in fear and cold slipping from your grip as soon as you started running—was abandoned under the tree where he had previously been curled up. if the others found it, they would be able to track you by your scent.

lost in your grim thoughts, you didn’t notice that he had stopped running, and you nearly crashed into him.

before you, partially hidden by the trees, stood an old church, clearly abandoned for years. there were several wooden planks where stained glass windows should have been, and some stones from the structure had fallen, scattered at the base of the building. you didn’t want to think about it, but they almost looked like small gravestones.

"no one has come here to pray in decades, but it’s still consecrated ground." he turned his head toward you, his eyes a shade redder than they had been minutes ago. "we can’t set foot inside."

you glanced from him to the small church, then back at him. you decided to believe him, you had to.

"hide inside and stay there until sunrise, then you’ll be able to leave safely. i’ll stay nearby to keep watch, just in case."

you nodded, then moved toward the church, but he tightened his grip on your hand. "i’ll come find you again one of these nights, sweetheart." he kissed the back of your hand, leaving a blood-red mark on your skin.

you didn’t know if it was a threat or not. you wanted to believe it wasn’t, but what else could it be?

and yet, he had been so kind to you…

before you could make sense of your thoughts, he had already vanished into the night.

"thank you, sunghoon." you whispered before stepping inside the old church, as the third and final scream was swallowed by the wind.

a/n : 'oh my god another vampire au enhypen fanfic?? 😵😵😵 that's so original!' ok, yes, i know that this has been done a thousand times, but, listen, i had a vision

( i don't know where it went but i had it )

[asneakyfox]

so let's talk about david jenkins saying the idea was that the crew would dump ed overboard in the mutiny before the writers changed their minds and had him kept in the hold.

he says they changed this for pacing reasons, so that the reunion could happen in 2x03 instead of being delayed longer, and i cannot argue with that, waiting any longer sounds excruciating. so i'm not complaining about this as, like, villainous interference from the WBD suits or anything, although it might be a decision forced by cutting the number of episodes. probably still the right call under the circumstances. BUT i'm interested in it because this explains a couple things that are weird about the plot structure of the whole season as it stands.

so first of all the crew throwing the body overboard just immediately makes a lot more sense because it doesn't actually require them to have failed to notice he wasn't dead. it would be pretty tough to carry the body into the hold and lay him out and cover his face with a lil washcloth and everything and not notice at any point during this that he's still breathing or that he has a pulse. and if they did notice you'd think they'd either finish the job quickly or try to treat him if they'd had a change of heart, not leave him to die slow. however the idea that they would beat him till he stopped moving then immediately chuck the body overboard, that totally makes sense, you wouldn't stop to check if he was already dead or not because one way or another he will be pretty shortly after you dump him in the ocean.

second the line from stede to izzy about "you were the one who kept his body onboard" always bugged me because it feels like it's meant to establish something about izzy but it's really unclear WHAT it tells us about him, in a way that doesn't seem like intentional ambiguity: i've seen people interpret it as a sign of his devotion and i've seen others assume it was a practical decision that the crew should keep ed's body around to claim the bounty on blackbeard. (and i've seen both interpretations from people both in and out of the canyon, so it's not even a normal izcourse divide.) i actually wondered at one point if the purpose was to foreshadow where izzy's arc is going to end by establishing that he thinks it's more respectful to bury a pirate on land than at sea, although if that was the idea it sure didn't work on the people who'd care most.

however this new info from djenks explains it pretty neatly, which is that the reason for the line isn't to establish character stuff about izzy at all it's just there to awkwardly patch a plothole. it's that someone in the writers' room was like "but it doesn't make any sense, why WOULDN'T they dump his body overboard once they'd killed him" and somebody else was like "idk uh maybe we can put in a line about how izzy stopped them or something."

now more interestingly! this also would change something bigger about 2x04. because i'm guessing the idea here would be that ed would have actually for real washed up on an island that looks just like the one in the gravy basket and just never actually gotten up off the beach, and stede would find him there, mermaid scene, and ed would wake up mad and storm off into the woods with where he meets mary read with stede already trying to follow him and the rest of the episode proceeds as normal from there. (and probably buttons would be just, like, hanging around following stede, or maybe he was already acting as a psychopomp and led stede to ed's body, idk, lots of possible ways to play that.)

this means you completely lose the beat of the crew voting ed off the ship. you wouldn't lose the idea of the crew being pissed at him; you could still have the kitty collar onesie probation stuff after he got back. but this is a BIG change.

first of all it solves a big obvious problem LOTS of people pointed out immediately when the episode aired which is that it makes no sense that stede would just stay on the ship after letting ed be exiled. reuniting with ed has been his driving goal for months and it's not even like ed has definitively told him to fuck off, he's just stomping off angry and incoherent and not even clearly in his right mind. but they couldn't let stede actually follow ed on his own initiative immediately, because it would undermine the later fisherman breakup if stede has already established that he's willing to leave his pirate career behind if that's what it takes to be with ed. so you end up with this awkward beat where he's just kind of passively standing there until buttons tells him what to do.

i think there's something even more important it does though! one criticism a LOT of people had about s2 was feeling like the crew all hated ed now and there was no clear sign they'd forgiven him by the end, and also some people had the impression that stede had just overriden the crew's decision (even though he does say he's going to ask their permission; it DOES feel weird we don't see that). now i've said before that i think there was probably going to be a reconciliation between ed & lucius, and by extension the crew as a whole, in the lupete wedding verision of 2x06, and i still think that. but regardless of whether i'm right or wrong about that. even without a reconciliation, this would seem like WAY less of a problem if the crew hadn't voted ed of the ship.

as it is, we have THREE scenes devoted to the idea that the crew as a whole (not just lucius & izzy, who both have more complicated individual relationships with ed) are uncomfortable with ed's presence on the ship - there's the initial one where stede's holding the meat on his face where they're all yelling at him, and then there's the actual walk of shame where they've just voted him off, and THEN there's the youtube apology scene where they're heckling him and stuff. and having three separate scenes like that makes it feel like the narrative is really hammering in this idea of a big dramatic rupture in the whole crew's relationship with ed. but only the last of those scenes was originally supposed to be there! the first two were just thrown into the plot to justify why ed ends up wandering around an island to run into anne & mary! if you only had the youtube apology scene, it would be much more clear that most of the crew weren't really all that mad - as it is, roach and jim explicitly saying they aren't mad feels like it's overshadowed by the weight of the earlier scenes.

(also a minor issue, but i've mentioned before that surprisingly often people think the vote was unanimous. this doesn't actually make sense in terms of the episode, because we know it was deadlocked and izzy cast the tiebreaker. but it is sort of weird, if the idea is that the crew is split on this, that we never get any sign of who voted which way; there's nobody but stede who is clearly presented as specifically not wanting ed to be exiled. which DOES end up making it feel like it's the crew as a unanimous block that wants him off the ship. but that makes sense if the whole concept of the crew wanting him exiled was sort of hastily written to patch a plot hole instead of being a fully developed idea.)

anyway. like i said i can't really complain about this as a pacing decision. but it is really interesting to me how many knock-on problems with the whole arc of the season were created by the change, and how much cleaner the original idea sounds like it would have been.

[palskippah]

Hi! The other day I thought of this AU where Nimona and Gloreth are girlfriends and uni students, and each got their own cat :]

Under the cut are more drawings and some ideas!

-Both Nimona and Gloreth study a career that is more about practical work than having to study theoric stuff (thinking about something like visual communication)

-Ambrosius is one of those white cats that are kinda blonde in some parts, and Ballister is that kind of black cat that is very ungraceful and has very big eyes

-Nimona found Ballister and befriended him when he was a street cat going around her old apartment's stairs, specifically around the banister. He had had a broken leg that healed wrong and he limped a lot. When she decided to take him in, she took him to the vet and she hurt more than Ballister did when they told her they had to amputate his leg for his own good.

>He benefited greatly from it and now has very good balance woo

-When Nimona finally had him at home she realized that he's really bossy, so his 'government name' is Ballister Boldheart (since she's Nimona Brightheart- imagine her going you were really brave :) so she wrote down his name like that instead of just giving him her own or leaving him with no last name) but the nickname she always calls him is Boss.

-Goldenloin is an entirely made up name, and Nimona laughed her ass off the first time Gloreth explained why she named him that, so much that they almost got kicked out from class where they were waiting for their turn to receive feedback from their professor.

-Ambrosius and Ballister are both young cats, like a bit over one year (with the whole Ballister and Ambrosius being just knighted and that, they must be young adults jdfkg)

>They're besties but also cats and they're always cuddling or fighting

-Also just because, Ambrosius doesn't really like baths but Ballister doesn't mind them

-They clean eachother a lot too, and that ends up with Ambrosius spitting black hairballs and Ballister spitting white/blonde ones

-Nimona and Ballister fight a lot, mostly because Ballister attacked her first, usually for no reason (being a young cat, I guess)

-But they cuddle a lot too :]

-Whenever Gloreth's doing skincare or anything spa related, Ambrosius wants to be included too and she usually indulges him, and then he's the prettiest cat

-Ambrosius isn't allowed outside like Ballister is, but sometimes he gets ahold of things when he's near the windows or the balcony, like cockroaches or small birds, and he always brings them as gifts for either Gloreth, Nimona or Ballister

-When Nimona and Gloreth started living together they all immediately started sharing the bed

-Also because I'm myself, there's going to be a cat Baby too jkfd

-When Nimona took Ballister to the vet and stuff, she was told that he was a sterilized male, and since they were both males, Gloreth wasn't in a hurry to sterilize Ambrosius, he never went out of the house too, so she didn't really worry about that.

-Anyways Nimona notices that Ballister's getting chonky but that's it, and then one day she gets home to her cat laying with five tiny kitties with him and cleaning one of them, and Ambrosius cleaning Ballister too and she's like 🧍

>She's still too surprised but also Ballister sorta forced her to sit so he could present their kitties one by one, and she had to go aw, wow! :D with each of them because otherwise he'd meow at her angrily for not paying attention

-Anyways they got seven cats now and Nimona and Gloreth decide to keep just one of the kitties, and that one they kept is Baby and they call him Kitty

-Baby's a black cat too woo

-Also neither Nimona nor Gloreth like folding clothes so sometimes they leave them there and Ballister and Ambrosius lay on top of them, and leave them with black and white fur that their humans must take off later

-Also they still use he/him pronouns with Ballister

-Both Nimona and Gloreth take their cat to the vet so they don't have any more kitties.

That's it! :D

[defat1]

You look to the Elytron Elemental, then back to the young adventurer. You're an ancient dragon, a creature of the Dungeon, a being beyond pity or remorse or death. The Dungeon wants tribute, paid in blood and mana, and you can feel even its dark influence shuddering in incredulity at the sight.

All throughout the depths of the Dungeon's deepest floor, those creatues capable of thought are asking themselves two questions: How did this human get this far, and what do we do with him now?

The Dungeon advises you directly, a dizzying act that makes you snort in irritation. The adventurer did not arrive by the previous floors. He has no mana to speak of. His gear is worth more than his life-force is, and even that is common trash the Dungeon would hide on its highest floors to lure humans into the profession of looting dungeons.

And yet, the Elytron Elemental has yet to land a blow on the adventurer. It questions you again, asking for guidance, and you tell it to try its second phase area attack. A waste of good mana, but the human is wasting mana every second the fight drags on.

It obeys without question, gathering the elements together on its back before detonating each orb in five successive waves. A devastating attack that had felled many an adventurer over the centuries-

The boy does the unthinkable, and shelters directly beneath the miniboss. Worse, the way he slides underneath it causes his cheap sword to kick up and wedge itself into an armor plate, and as the orbs detonate, each drives the dull steel deeper into the heart of the beetle, drenching the fumbling boy in hemolymph.

You and the Dungeon watch in disbelief as the Elytron Elemental is dealt a telling blow, and almost miss what happens next.

The goop-covered human narrowly avoids being crushed, but his cape catches on the sword and rips it sideways and out of the wound, worsening the injury and causing the great beetle's dominant limb to fall limp. The Elytron doggedly clambers to its feet, ignoring the wound and pursuing the prey. The boy attempts to run, but trips over his own cape just as the gigantic adamantine insect tries to retaliate with a wind-elemental dash.

There is a rumble in the stone of the Dungeon as the miniboss rams itself into a pillar, followed by another as the impact breaks a stalactite from the ceiling of the chamber to spear the Elytron Elemental through. The beetle dies in ignominy as the entire Final Floor listens in silence, the frustration of the Dungeon becoming palpable in the air. Reluctantly, it spawns the loot chest as normal, but you can feel its displeasure like the distant rumblings of a wild thunderstorm in your mind.

You snort in dismissal. The boy may have gotten lucky, but even with the high-end loot he's just gained, you are far too powerful to be vanquished by some mana-less whelp with a sharp stick. You are a dragon, no mere summoned creature, and the Dungeon would do well to remember that.

An hour later...

Chuck cautiously nudges the dragon's head with his shattered sword, making sure it was really dead.

"Geez, one hell of a tutorial, huh? Guess it beats being roadkill, at least." He steps back from the corpse, still radiating heat from the explosive fireball it had accidentally swallowed.

"And that goddess thought I was being a moron, putting all my stats in luck. That Demon King's never gonna know what hit them."

You are the end boss of a dungeon. You watch as your midboss fights a scrawny warrior with a 5 copper sword and a cape that says "adventurer in training." As the warrior attacks your minion with sad, pathetic strikes, it looks to you in a desperate plea for guidance.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Father's Heart: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge

Let me tell you, I sure confused that Beast when I returned. Have you ever seen a cat pounce on its own tail? That was the look of confusion the Beast had when he saw me in his palace. Only this cat was enormous—standing seven feet tall on his hind legs—black as soot, with claws this long, and a mouth full of teeth like butcher knives.

"Where is your daughter?" he asked me. Yes, that's what he sounded like—all deep and raspy, like he was growling and purring beneath his words.

"At home," I said.

"You did not bring her?"

“You told me,” I told him, "that I could return to be devoured or send her to take my place. I returned.”

"She did not wish to save you?"

“I never told her. Do you think I could lay that kind of burden upon my own daughter? What sort of father do you take me for?”

He had taken me for a cowardly one, I guess, because it took me a long time to convince him that my daughters were all safely at home, and I didn't plan to fetch any of them. He didn't seem to know what to do with me after that. He wasn't as bloodthirsty as I'd have expected someone with that many teeth to be.

"You will be my guest," he said at last—and he didn't seem too glad about saying it. No doubt he'd have preferred a pretty young girl as a houseguest to a weathered old sailor. But he gave me run of the place—I could help myself to anything, go anywhere I pleased. I didn't understand it. He'd been ready to kill me for a rose, and now he was giving me everything in the house?

I wasn't about to complain, though, so I set about to enjoy the place. The Beast encouraged me to enjoy the luxuries of the palace, but I've always been a working man—I didn't fancy living the life of an idle aristocrat. Before the week was out, I was working in the gardens—the place was overgrown like you wouldn't believe. When I wanted a rest, I'd explore the castle, and boy, was there plenty to see. He had rooms upon rooms of treasures—paintings, silks, wines, musical instruments, even an entire room full of exotic birds! I'd made my living selling such things, and my head swam at the sight of it—a tenth of it would have been worth more than all the riches I could have transported in ten lifetimes.

I didn't make my fortune by having dull wits, and I didn't lose it for lack of courage, so it wasn't long before I began to piece together the truth of this place and confronted the Beast with it.

"How long have you been cursed, your highness?" I asked him one evening at supper.

That great big cat was so shocked he knocked a wine bottle off the table. "Who says I am cursed?"

"Blazes, man, I'm not blind! This palace is worth more than most of the kingdoms of the world put together. If there was a king out there this rich, you can bet every merchant in the world would know of him. He'd have destroyed the world's economy. Fairy magic's the only way you get a horde like this, but you, sir, are no fairy."

Now the Beast seemed intrigued. "How do you know that?"

"A fairy would never have let me live—if he promised to kill me, he'd have killed me. No mercy among their kind. Only a human could have changed his mind like that—for which I'm very grateful, by the way."

"You're welcome," he said, seeming dazed.

I went on, "You're definitely more than a dumb beast; you walk and talk and dress like a man, so it stands to reason you were a man once—that furry coat of yours is just some fairy shell. Same way all these riches are probably just dirt and ashes once you take away the magic. Which means you must have run afoul of a fairy sometime in your past, who decided to curse you with an animal body and then trap you in a palace full of false riches."

I looked at the furnishings, the food, the Beast's clothes—everything spoke of royalty. "Fairies always meddle with royals, so you must have been a prince. The seventh son of the king of Gher went missing just before I went on my last voyage, so I'd wager that he is you. Am I right?"

The Beast goggled. "I…can't say."

"Which means I'm right. No fairy worth his salt would let you say you were cursed. Which means all I have to do is figure out how to break it. Those fairies always give you a way out—the more improbable the better."

I came around to his side of the table so I could walk around him and examine him from all angles. "You were disappointed when I came—you wanted one of my daughters, not me. When I did come, you didn't seem too keen on killling me—which makes me think it was an empty threat, trying to convince me to send my daughter instead. Which means she must be the way to break the curse. What can she do that I can't? Easy—true love. No fairy would think a girl could love a hulking monster like you, so that would be their impossible way to break the curse. You needed, what—true love? Marriage?"

"I can't say," the Beast said, but I knew by his face that I'd hit upon the right answer.

"That makes things simple. You let me out once before. Let me go home again and fetch one of my girls, tell her there's a prince waiting for her, and bring her back to join you in wedded bliss."

He seemed genuinely horrified by that. "I…can't say."

"Oh, of course. It won't count if she knows you're a prince. Well, I'll leave that part out. Tell her that the Beast who spared my life is in need of more company. With a bit of time and a bit of encouragement from her old dad, we'll have you back in human form by Christmas."

He thought it was worth a try, and something he could arrange with the conditions of his curse. So I went home to my children, convinced my sons not to follow me to slay the Beast, and made the castle sound intriguing enough that all three of my girls agreed to join me. I thought that maybe Hope would be the one to break the curse—she's always been the boldest of my girls—but it turned out that my quiet, gentle Beauty brought out the soft side of the Beast. It was the cutest thing you ever saw, the way they'd sit together reading in the rose gardens, that great big cat as shy as a schoolboy with her.

It wasn't three weeks before the Beast worked up the courage to propose—and my Beauty accepted without hesitation. Then there was blinding light and earthquakes, and when the dust cleared, the palace was gone. We were standing in a clearing in the woods—and a black-haired prince stood where the black-haired Beast had once been.

He's an excellent boy—I'll be proud to call him a son. He doesn't mind at all that his bride's the daughter of a failed merchant or that she once worked on a farm. We'll all be moving to his palace across the sea to live as honored members of the family.

Which is why we're moving out on such short notice—his highness doesn't want to be away from his kingdom any longer than he has to. I'm sure you'll find someone else to take the old place off your hands.

No, you don't have to believe me, but it's much better if you do. You'll look much less like a fool once it comes out that it's all true.

[jungkoode]

OFF-LABELS | O7

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Explicit, 18+.

→ DATE POSTED: February 26th, 2025.

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents, virgin!reader.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: House calls that go wrong, sweater weather complications, unexpected revelations that change everything, surgical precision used for mending more than just socks, and the kind of silence that speaks volumes. | emotional tension, domestic setting, power dynamics, moral crisis, medical ethics, complex relationships, emotional warfare, guilt and desire, medical authority questioned, professional boundaries, casual clothes, internal conflict, communication breakdown, ethical dilemmas, misunderstandings.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3,9k

→ MINI SERIES: PREVIOUS | NEXT

→ A/N: Okay, so FINALLY posting the drama chapter!! Before you dive in, I need to make something very, very, very (did I say very?) clear about what's happening here. This chapter is absolutely NOT about virginity or some gross purity kink. Like, I would literally projectile vomit if anyone suggested I was writing that kind of male-gaze "untouched flower" bullshit. We are not in Stephen King territory here, describing "pale creamy mommy tits" or whatever horrifying descriptors men think are sexy. 🤢 The actual issue is about psychological dynamics and consent. Throughout these chapters, Hoseok has been enjoying this cat-and-mouse game where Y/N is clearly attracted to him but constantly second-guessing herself. He's been deliberately keeping her in this state of "is he into me or am I imagining it?" because he gets off on her uncertainty. He likes the plausible deniability! He likes watching her squirm! The PROBLEM hits when he realizes she's a virgin, which makes his brain connect some horrifying dots: if she's never been with anyone before, she doesn't understand the psychological game they're playing. She's not pretending to be confused as part of the dynamic—she genuinely doesn't know what's happening. His visceral reaction isn't "oh no, she's pure and innocent!" It's "oh fuck, I've been psychologically conditioning someone who didn't even know they were being manipulated." He thought they were engaged in mutual psychological edging, but now he realizes he's just been breaking her down without her even knowing there was a game being played. And let me clarify something important—when I say "conditioning" or when Hoseok feels like he's been "grooming" her, this is NOT actual grooming in the predatory sense. These are two consenting adults (Y/N is 23ish? Hoseok is 27/28ish?) who have known each other for years (she's had a crush on him for FOUR years, and he's been playing this game for about two). She's in her first year of med school, he's a first-year resident. I've calculated these ages very specifically to keep everything firmly in legal, consensual adult territory. The issue isn’t the age gap—it’s him realizing she wasn't psychologically equipped to understand the mind game they were playing. He thought she was a willing participant in a psychological dynamic, but now he's realizing she was just genuinely confused and uncertain because she lacks the experience to recognize what was happening. THAT'S why he's disgusted with himself. Not because he doesn't want to be her first (he absolutely does), but because he thinks he's been essentially manipulating someone who wasn't a willing participant in the power dynamic. Anyway, rant over! Enjoy the angst! 😈​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

PLAYLIST

You’re standing on Hoseok’s doorstep.

Hoseok’s doorstep.

Like, his actual apartment. The place where he lives and sleeps and—

(No. Don’t think about that.)

Your fingers twist anxiously in the hem of your sweater as you stare up at the building. It’s ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a private balcony, a lobby that smells like wealth and white oak. This isn’t some cramped resident’s crash pad—it’s the kind of place reserved for surgeons who drive luxury cars, not first-years who live off caffeine and whatever snacks they can steal from the nurses’ station.

It doesn’t make sense.

But then again, nothing about Hoseok ever does.

Your phone screen still glows with the text he sent this morning, casual as anything, like this is normal. Like this is something you do—just show up at his penthouse on a Thursday afternoon. You’d spent twenty minutes drafting excuses, each one more pathetic than the last, until your brother had mentioned it over breakfast:

“Oh yeah, Hoseok said you’re helping him organize his research papers today?”

Your toast had frozen halfway to your mouth. “He… what?”

“For his residency portfolio,” Caleb had said, not even looking up from his phone. “Said he needs a fresh pair of eyes on it.”

The lie was perfect. Believable. Academic.

(Of course it was. Everything about Hoseok is perfect.)

“Right,” you’d managed weakly. “That’s… that’s why.”

“Want me to drop you off? I’m heading that way anyway.”

And that’s how you ended up here—heart thundering against your ribs as you raise your hand to knock. Before your knuckles can touch the door, it swings open.

Your breath catches.

Because this—this isn't hospital Hoseok or teaching Hoseok or even party Hoseok. This is... home Hoseok.

He's wearing soft gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a white t-shirt that's clearly been washed too many times, the fabric thin enough that you can almost see the definition underneath. His feet are bare against the hardwood floor, and his hair is slightly messy like he's been running his fingers through it.

It's so domestic it makes your knees weak.

"Come on in." His voice is warm honey, dripping slow and sweet down your spine as he steps aside. The movement makes his shirt ride up slightly, exposing a strip of skin above his waistband that you definitely don't stare at.

(You stare at it.)

Your legs feel like jelly as you step past him into the apartment. His scent is everywhere here—that clean, citrusy smell that haunts your dreams, but stronger now, mixed with something warmer. More intimate.

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft finality that makes your pulse skip.

You're in Hoseok's house.

Alone.

With him.

On a Thursday.

Oh god.

"Shoes off," he instructs gently, and you comply automatically, toeing off your sneakers next to his neatly arranged row of footwear. The sight of your beat-up Converse next to his expensive dress shoes makes something flutter in your stomach.

"This way." His hand settles at the small of your back, guiding you down a hallway lined with framed medical certificates. The touch is light—barely there—but it burns through your sweater like a brand.

You follow him in silence, heart thundering against your ribs as he leads you deeper into his home. Everything is exactly how you imagined it would be: minimalist but warm, all clean lines and rich woods and subtle touches of luxury. A doctor's house. A successful man's house.

(A house where your brother's best friend is about to—)

"Nervous?" His voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, tinged with something that might be amusement.

"No," you lie immediately, the word coming out too fast, too high.

His laugh is soft and knowing as he stops in front of a closed door. "Liar."

Before you can defend yourself, he's opening the door, and—

Oh god.

It's his study.

Of course it's his study.

The room is everything you'd expect: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive mahogany desk, leather chairs that probably cost more than your tuition. Late afternoon sunlight streams through tall windows, casting golden shadows across polished surfaces.

But all you can focus on is the way he's looking at you—head tilted slightly, expression gentle but hungry.

Hungry.

"After you," he murmurs, and the words drip like honey down your spine.

You sink into one of the leather chairs, the expensive material creaking softly beneath you. Hoseok settles into the chair beside yours, close enough that his knee almost brushes yours. Almost. The near-contact raises goosebumps across your skin.

"Notes," he says simply, voice steady and professional like this is just another study session. Like you're not alone in his house, surrounded by his scent, drowning in memories of his fingers and his voice and his—

"Right." You reach for your backpack with trembling hands, but the strap slips through your fingers like water. Before it can hit the floor, Hoseok catches it smoothly, his reflexes quick and precise.

(Of course they're precise. He's a surgeon. Those hands are trained for precision.)

"Chip." His voice is gentle—too gentle—as he steadies the bag in your lap. "You're trembling."

Your face burns as his fingers brush against yours, lingering just a second too long. "What's up?"

Everything. Everything is up. You're in his house. Alone. And all you can think about is the way his thumb had pressed against your tongue in the anatomy lab, how his fingers had curled inside you while your brother's party continued downstairs, how badly you want him to—

"Nothing," you manage, voice tight and unconvincing.

He hums—that low, knowing sound he always makes and somehow feels menacing—and suddenly his hand is gripping the edge of your chair. Before you can process what's happening, he's pulling you closer with one fluid movement, the chair sliding across hardwood like you weigh nothing at all.

Your breath catches sharply at the display of casual strength.

Because fuck—how can someone be this effortlessly powerful? This casually devastating?

Does he even realize what he's doing to you, or is this just how he is?

Just Hoseok being Hoseok, completely unaware of how every little thing he does makes you want to crawl into his lap and—

"Nothing?" he repeats softly, and now his knee is definitely touching yours, the heat of him burning through your jeans. "You sure about that?"

No. You're not sure about anything anymore, except maybe the way your heart is trying to escape your chest and the fact that you're probably going to die right here in this expensive leather chair, killed by proximity and the ghost of his fingers on your skin.

His gaze lingers on your trembling hands, head tilting the way it does during patient evaluations—assessing, calculating. 

“Your motor coordination's deteriorated since Saturday," he muses, leaning back in his chair with deceptive nonchalance. "We should address that first."

You open your mouth to protest, but he's already spreading his legs, the movement slow and deliberate. His sweatpants strain slightly over his thighs as he nods toward the newly created space between them. 

"Come here."

The command is velvet-soft, phrased like a suggestion but weighted like an order. Your heart stutters as his fingers drum once—twice—against his left thigh. A silent countdown.

"W-why?" The question comes out breathless, already defeated.

His smile could sanitize an OR. "Ergonomic alignment. You can't properly present your research if your hands won't stop shaking." He gestures to his lap like he's explaining a textbook diagram. "Center of gravity adjustment. Basic kinesiology, Chip."

Your feet move before your brain catches up, drawn by the gravitational pull of his casual authority.

The first brush of your knees against his inner thighs sends electric currents up your spine. He doesn't help you, doesn't touch you—just watches with that infuriatingly patient smile as you awkwardly try to straddle the chair.

"Proper support requires full contact," he chides gently when you hover uncertainly above him.

His hands finally land on your hips, guiding you down until every inch of you molds against him. The heat of his chest seeps through your sweater, his heartbeat thudding steady against your racing one.

"There. Better?"

You nod mutely, hands braced against his shoulders. His t-shirt rides up slightly under your fingers, exposing the warm skin of his collarbone. 

"Good." His thumbs dig into the divots of your hips—clinical pressure points that somehow feel indecent. "Now, synaptic transmission." His breath fans across your lips as he reaches past you, grabbing your notebook. "Start with glutamate receptors."

The pages blur as he flips to your highlighted section. His forearm brushes your breast—accidentally?—as he holds the notes up between you. 

“Focus, Chip. Unless..." His head tilts, smile sharpening. "...you need tactile reinforcement?"

His knee shifts upward beneath you, applying deliberate pressure where you're already embarrassingly warm. A gasp escapes before you can stop it, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Ah." His tongue clicks in mock disapproval. "Seems we've identified the distraction." The hand not holding your notes slides up your spine, pressing you closer until his lips graze your ear. "Shall we... desensitize the stimulus?"

His lips find the frantic pulse beneath your ear first—a calculated strike at your carotid artery that makes you sigh.

“Elevated heart rate," he murmurs against damp skin, teeth grazing the spot he'd marked days ago. "Persistent symptom since..." A suckling kiss that pulls a whimper from your throat. "...Thursday's assessment."

Your fingers twist in his worn tee as he works downward, each open-mouthed kiss along your jugular notch methodical. Clinical. Cruel.

"H-Hoseok—" 

"Shh." His hand slides up your spine, deft fingers finding your sweater's zipper. "Need to auscultate properly." The zipper parts with a predatory hiss, cool air rushing over your heated skin. "No extraneous layers." 

The sweater pools at your elbows before he tugs it off completely. Your arms instinctively cross over your chest—a futile shield against his darkening gaze. 

"None of that." He catches your wrists, pinning them gently against his shoulders.

His breath stutters when he sees the bra. 

Candyfloss pink. Lace scalloped with tiny bows. Straps straining over the swell of breasts he'd mapped through fabric days prior. 

His Adam's apple bobs. 

“Well." The word comes out rough, sanded down at the edges. "This is..." His thumb brushes a satin bow between your breasts. "...exceptionally thorough preparation." 

You squirm under the praise—the implication—but his grip tightens on your hips. "I didn't—" 

"Shh." His palm cups your breast through the lace, calluses catching on delicate threads. "Look at these." His thumb circles your nipple, watching it peak. "Like cherries dusted in sugar.”

"Hoseok—" 

"Merely observational." His other hand slips beneath the bra's band, blunt nails scraping your ribcage. "Soft here." A squeeze that makes you arch. "Responsive here." His mouth seals over the lace, tongue swirling the dampening fabric. "Sweet here." 

Your head falls back with a choked moo, nails biting into his shoulders. He hums approval against your breast, the vibration ricocheting straight to your clit. 

"Still trembling," he notes, fingers walking up your spine to unhook the bra. The clasp gives with a snick that sounds obscenely loud. "We should stabilize your core." 

His hands slide around to your front, palms flattening over your bare stomach. 

“Deep breath in." You obey shakily. "Hold." His thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts. "Now exhale." 

You deflate against him, breasts pressing into his chest. His groan rumbles through you. "There. Better." 

His lips find yours in the space between breaths—not a kiss but a shared exhalation. 

“Tell me you planned this," he demands against your mouth. 

"Planned wh—" 

His hips roll up, the thick line of his cock unmistakable through sweatpants and your thin jeans. 

“The bows. The pink." A bite to your lower lip. "This devastating little bralette." 

"N-no, I just—" 

"Liar." He sucks the word from your lips, hands cradling your face. "You knew." Another grind that steals your breath. "Knew I'd want to ruin you in it." 

His teeth close on a strap, dragging it down your shoulder. "Knew I'd need to see..." The other strap follows. "...how pretty you look coming undone in pastels." 

The bra falls away. His pupils swallow entire galaxies. 

"Fuck." The curse is reverence and ruin as he palms your bare breasts. "Should've known you'd weaponize cuteness." 

Your retort dies when he lifts you slightly, mouth latching onto a nipple. The suction is brutal—claiming, corrective—as his free hand slides between you. 

"Let's see..." His fingers find the button of your jeans. "...if your panties match."

His fingers still for a second as a wicked smile curves against your breast. 

“Coordinated sets suggest..." The button pops free. "...premeditation."

You can't deny it—not when his hand slips into your jeans to find matching pink lace waiting. 

His laugh ghosts across your damp nipple. “Knew it."

"I didn't—" Your protest breaks on a gasp as his thumb traces the scalloped edge. "It's just—"

"Just happened to wear a complete set?" His teeth graze your collarbone. "Just happened to pick the exact shade that makes me want to..." He tugs your jeans lower, exposing more pink lace. "...devour you?"

Your face burns as his fingers map the delicate fabric. 

"Look at these." He hooks a finger under a tiny bow at your hip. "Like sugar spun into thread." His other hand cups your breast again, thumb flicking your peaked nipple.

"Stop—" you whimper, but his palm slides lower, cupping you through damp lace.

"Why?" His smile is gentle poison. "When you clearly dressed for this?" His middle finger traces your slit through the fabric. "When you're already soaking through all this pretty pink?"

Your hips buck against his hand involuntarily. He tsks softly.

"Such a sweet little thing." His fingers press harder, making you mewl. "All wrapped up like candy." His teeth find your pulse. "Makes me want to unwrapyou. Slowly."

The word drips like honey as his hand slips beneath the lace. "See how many licks..." His fingers part your folds. "...it takes..."

Your forehead drops to his shoulder as two fingers slide home.

"...to get to the center."

You let out a shaky exhale at that. 

"Still so wet for me," he murmurs against your lips, two fingers pressing inside with careful precision. "Such a good—"

The rhythm of his movements changes subtly—no longer teasing but exploring. Something shifts in his touch, becoming more methodical. More... investigative.

You feel his breath stutter against your neck, the slight tension suddenly coiling through his body where it's pressed against yours.

His fingers curl slightly, pressing deeper, and you tense involuntarily at the unfamiliar pressure. It's different than when he touched you before—that night in your room when he stood behind your chair, his breath hot against your ear as his fingers worked between your thighs. This angle is deeper, more invasive, and your body responds with a reflexive resistance.

"Easy," he whispers, but the playfulness has evaporated from his voice. His free hand moves to your hip, steadying you as his fingers press more deliberately. "Relax for me."

You try, but your muscles tighten instinctively. The slight resistance—the way your inner walls grip his fingers—makes him go absolutely still.

His fingers withdraw so carefully it makes your chest ache. No teasing now. No slow, deliberate drag of his knuckles over your clothed heat just to watch you shudder. Just… absence. 

And when you open your eyes, his face is wrong. 

Too still. Too pale. His pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the brown. His lips part, then shut again, like he’s bitten through his tongue. 

The clinical terms evaporate. 

"Chip."

His voice is hoarse.

The nickname that always made your stomach flip—always made you feel small, breakable, something for him to toy with—now sounds like a curse.

Like a word he can’t take back. 

His thumb brushes your inner thigh, and—fuck, it’s trembling. 

"You’ve never…" The sentence trails off, unfinished. 

Your face burns as understanding clicks into place. Of course he can tell. Of course he knows. How many bodies has he been inside? How many women has he unraveled with those precise, knowing hands? Of course he can feel the difference.

"Not with—" your voice comes out too high, too thin, "I mean, I've done other things, but—"

"But never..." His gaze flicks down to where his hand still hovers near your thighs, then back to your face.

"I've used my own fingers," you blurt out, mortified but desperate to explain. "And that time in my room, when you—when we—"

"Different angle," he says quietly, almost to himself. "I was behind you. Not as deep."

You nod, humiliation crawling up your spine like ivy. Your thoughts scatter and race. Does it matter? Why should it matter? It's not like you're some precious untouched flower. It's not like you've been saving yourself. It's just—it's just—

(It's just that nobody has ever made you feel like you wanted to let them inside. Until him.)

"I didn't think it mattered," you whisper, the words tangling in your throat. "It's not like I'm—"

"Not like you're what?" His voice has gone dangerously soft.

"Not like I'm waiting for something special or—or saving myself or whatever stupid thing." Your words tumble out faster. "I just... nobody ever made me want to. Until now."

Silence stretches between you, taut as a surgical suture.

"Until me," he repeats, the words hollow. "Your brother's best friend. The one who's been deliberately blurring lines since the moment we met."

His face changes—like something has clicked into place. Like a puzzle snapping into its final, sickening shape.

But his expression. God. You've never seen him look like this. Like he’s about to be sick. Like you're the one who's done something wrong. 

"Don't." Your voice is barely a whisper. Your hands fly up to cover your face. "Don’t make it a thing." 

"It is a thing." 

His voice cracks. 

His voice cracks. 

And when you peek through your fingers, he’s staring at your thighs, at the damp lace beneath the unbuttoned denim. And his hands—fuck, his hands—are trembling as they move to adjust your jeans, tugging the fabric back into place like he can undo what’s already been done. 

"Christ," he breathes, hands fisting against the desk’s edge. "I’m your brother’s—" 

"Don’t." You sit up too fast, nearly headbutting him. "Don’t use Caleb as an excuse when you’re the one who—" 

"I know." The raw admission stops you cold. His knuckles blanch where he grips the wood. "I know exactly what I’ve done. What I’m doing." 

A short, bitter laugh punches out of him. 

"Manipulating your crush." His teeth click as his jaw clenches. "Abusing my position. Fucking my best friend’s sister in my—" 

"You’re not fucking me!" The words burst out louder than intended. "You’re—you're teaching me. Showing me. And I want it. I asked for it." 

His gaze snaps to yours, dark and devastated. 

"You don’t know what you’re asking." 

"Does it matter?" 

"It fucking matters!" His voice is jagged now, slicing through the space between you. "Because if I’d known—if I’d realized—" His throat works. "Christ. I let you choke on my cock. Made you take the whole thing. And you—" His eyes flick down, to your open legs, to the flush of your skin beneath the denim. "You didn’t think to mention—" 

“Say it.” Your voice is razor-sharp. “Go ahead. Diagnose me, Dr. Jung. What’s my prognosis?” 

His flinch is barely perceptible. 

"You’re actually—" His breath catches. His eyes squeeze shut. "Inexperienced."

The clinical term dangles between you, sterile and ugly.  

"So?" You lift your chin, daring him to look at you. "I wanted this. With you."  

His inhale is sharp. Like something being ripped out of him. His head tilts, his gaze drags over you—shaky, uncertain, searching. And then—

His face changes.

Like something has clicked into place. Like a puzzle snapping into its final, sickening shape.

"You don't understand what we've been doing." The words come out like they're being dragged from him. "All this time—the teasing, the ambiguity, the doubt—"

"I understand perfectly well," you snap, but he's already shaking his head.

"No. You don't." His voice breaks on the last word. "This whole thing—the way I've been treating you—it's a specific kind of dynamic. A power exchange. A mind game."

He pushes off the desk, runs his hands roughly through his hair.

"I thought you were playing along," he continues, voice rising with each word. "I thought you understood the game—that you were pretending not to know what was happening. That you were letting me seduce you, letting me make you doubt yourself because you liked it."

Your stomach drops as the implications settle.

"But you weren't playing," he says, voice hollow now. "You weren't pretending to be confused. You actually didn't know what was happening."

He staggers back like he’s been struck. One step. Then two. And then—

Oh, God.

He actually retches.

Bends over, a harsh, sick sound ripping from his throat, hands braced on his knees like he might actually vomit right there on the fucking floor.

Your stomach twists violently.

"Hoseok—"

"Don’t."

He doesn’t even lift his head. His shoulders are heaving, and the fingers pressed to his lips are shaking, and fuck, fuck, fuck, what have you done?

Why does it feel like you’re the one who did something wrong?

"You got off on it." Your voice is quieter now. Less rage, more—god, you don’t even know. "You liked making me doubt myself. Pretending this was all in my head. But now that you know I’m actually—"

"That’s the fucking problem!"

His voice breaks.

Loud. Raw. A guttural, vicious thing ripped straight from his chest.

His hands are in his hair, gripping hard. His chest rises, falls—too fast, too sharp, like he can’t catch his breath.

"You were doubting yourself," he grits out. "Actually doubting yourself. You weren’t playing—you weren’t teasing, you weren’t pretending to hesitate—you didn’t know!"

You don’t speak. You can’t.

"You weren’t letting yourself be seduced." His voice drops lower, ragged. "I was conditioning you."

The room tilts.

"You didn’t need coaxing. You weren’t fighting it. You just didn’t know what was happening to you." His eyes are blown wide, almost frantic. "And I liked it."

The breath punches out of your lungs.

"I liked watching you get flustered. I liked seeing you hesitate." His voice is hoarse, unsteady. "I liked watching you struggle to figure out if it was real or in your head."

Something in your stomach plummets.

"But it was never a fucking game for you," he rasps. "You weren’t playing along. You weren’t playing at all."

Silence.

Thick. Suffocating.

His hands drag down his face. His shoulders are still heaving, like his body is rejecting the words even as he says them.

"I wanted—fuck." His fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard at the roots. "I wanted to ruin you. In pastels, on your knees, pink lace soaked through because I made you like this. I wanted you pliant, desperate—mine—but I never wanted—I thought you knew this type of play—"

His next inhale is sharp.

"But you didn't know the rules at all. Because you've never even played the game before."

His face is ashen now, like all the blood has drained from it.

“Put your clothes on.”

The finality in his voice turns your bones to ice.  

And you realize—too late—that the real game is over.

You dress mechanically, fingers trembling on each button. He watches like a surgeon monitoring vitals—detached, analytical.

The car ride is silent.

Your phone buzzes at 2 AM:

𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙻𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔’𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍. 𝚄𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚐𝚕𝚞𝚎.

𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝: A photo of your sock, neatly mended.

𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢.

You stare at the message until the screen dims.

He’s lying.

He has to be lying.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[supernotnatural2005]

"I got you" - Drabble

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: You're feeling low and Dean is there to comfort you.

Word Count: 834

Warnings/tags: Mentions of depression, feeling low, fluff, sweet Dean.

AN: I've been feeling a little low lately and I guess this transpired into a little Drabble. Also this is for anyone else who can relate and would love a comfort cuddle from Dean ❤️

Masterlist

The bunker was quiet. Too quiet.

Dean had always thought of silence as a bad sign. It meant something was wrong, something lurking just out of sight. And right now, that something was you.

You had been with them for years now, a constant presence in their lives. You weren’t just another hunter passing through, not just someone they worked with. You were family. And for Dean, more than that, even if neither of you had ever put a name to it. He just knew that without you, things didn’t feel right.

For days now, you had been slipping away. Not physically, but in a way that scared him more. You weren’t talking much. You barely ate. You moved through the halls like a ghost of yourself, your usual spark dimmed into nothing. His jokes—the dumb ones that always got at least a scoff or an eye roll—didn’t even earn a glance.

At first, he told himself you just needed space. That maybe you were tired, or still shaken up from the last hunt. But then space turned into isolation. And isolation turned into something darker.

Even Sam had noticed, and if Sam was bringing it up, Dean knew it had to be bad.

“She’s not okay, Dean,” Sam had said the night before, voice low, concern written all over his face. “I tried to talk to her, but she just brushed it off.”

Dean had nodded, pretending he wasn’t already losing sleep over it. Pretending that every time he saw you drifting further away, it didn’t scare the hell out of him. Because it did.

And now, standing in the doorway of your room, that fear settled deep in his chest.

You were curled up on your bed, knees drawn to your chest, staring blankly at the wall. The lamp beside your bed was still on, casting a dull glow, but you hadn’t moved. Hadn’t so much as flinched at the sound of the door opening.

Dean had seen you hurt before. He’d seen you bloodied and bruised, stitched you up after hunts gone wrong. But this? This was different. This wasn’t something he could fix with gauze and whiskey.

He had known this was something you struggled with, something that had nothing to do with monsters or demons. You had told him once, in a quiet moment between hunts, that it wasn’t always about the job. That sometimes, your mind just turned against you. That there weren’t always reasons or triggers, just days when you felt stuck, when everything felt too heavy, when even breathing felt like a chore.

Dean had listened. He’d heard you. But he had never seen it like this.

He hesitated for only a second before stepping inside, shutting the door behind him. The room felt cold. Maybe it was just in his head, or maybe it was the fact that you had barely moved in days, barely been here even when you were physically present.

He wasn’t sure what to say. Dean Winchester, king of smart-ass remarks, suddenly speechless. But words didn’t feel right, not now.

So instead, he moved to the bed, toeing off his boots before climbing in behind you. The mattress dipped under his weight, but you didn’t react. Carefully, he eased himself closer, slipping beneath the covers and pressing his chest against your back. His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady, pulling you into him like he could keep you from slipping away completely.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Just silence. Just the faint sound of your uneven breathing. Then, finally, your shoulders trembled.

Dean felt it before he heard it—the sharp inhale, the way your fingers curled into the fabric of the blanket like you were holding on for dear life. And then the dam broke.

A choked sob tore through you, and that was it. He turned you in his arms, tucking you against his chest, holding you tight as your body shook with everything you had been holding back.

“I got you,” he murmured, voice low and steady. One hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair as the other rubbed slow, soothing circles along your back. “I got you, sweetheart.”

You gripped his shirt, your tears soaking into the fabric, and he just held you. No empty reassurances, no telling you that everything was fine. Because he knew that wasn’t how this worked. He knew you weren’t okay. But that didn’t mean you had to go through this alone.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Dean pressed his lips to your hair, lingering for just a second longer than he should have. But he didn’t care. All he cared about was keeping you here, keeping you with him, even if he couldn’t fight this battle for you.

And as he held you close, feeling your body slowly relax against his, he silently promised himself—whatever it took, however long it took—he’d be right here.

Because you were his. And he wasn’t letting you go.

AN: I know this is a little more dark and gloomy compared to what I usually write, I guess this is just an expression of reality in some fiction. For those who have experienced this or are going through something similar, you're not alone ❤️

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel @piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27 @idontwannabehere7 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith @zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse @impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88

[revelboo]

https://open.spotify.com/track/3xyEvGO095KCeM8IEgKVPi?si=H7SBuubXSO-LmBswXPyJYg

This gives off major Give up/Give in vibes

Give Up/Give In Pt 16

Earthspark Megatron x Reader

• Smiling when you laugh softly from your perch watching him fit the stairs into place and carefully welding them to the shelf, he glances over at you. Venting softly before frowning at his handiwork. Finding the metal staircase in a building slated for demolition had been a bit of luck. A junkyard had supplied a faded green couch that he’d had to pitch outside after you’d figured out that it had come with mice. Still can’t help but smile remembering the way you’d screamed. And he’d whipped around, cannon humming to life afraid Starscream or Soundwave had found him, that you were in danger, only to realize you were screaming about something small enough to fit in your hand. The rest of the furniture is stuff he’d stolen from Ghost. And it looks so spartan. Nowhere near enough.

• Legs swinging, you watch him assembling you your own space. And it’s adorable how serious he is about it. Know he’s got to have better things to do than play interior designer for you, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “I’ll see about liberating more soft things,” he murmurs and you smile. You’d already guessed liberating probably means stealing. “Try to make this a bit more cozy.” Something about the big, former warlord saying ‘cozy’ in that growling brogue of his twists through you. His voice just so soothing to you.

• “Really. It’s fine,” you say, face tipped up toward him when he straightens. And you smile at him to drain away all of his tension. “I don’t want to be a bother.” Reaching for you, he offers his hands and you cautiously slide into them, catching at a servo for balance. Cupping you against his chassis as he walks outside, he tells himself it’s so you feel supported and safe in his hands. Not because he wants to feel your heartbeat against him. Because holding you, having your trust feels like being forgiven for his past.

• “You never need to apologize to me. And you’re no burden,” he growls as he steps up to the edge. And your heart is racing as you look out over the rest of mountain range, wind teasing at your hair. You can see the town, but it’s so small. Far away and unreal seeming. Right now, you feel more free than you’ve ever felt in your life. Because all your responsibilities and worries are down there so distant they can’t touch you.

• “We could go flying,” you say and he smiles at that. Wants you to ask him for things, to let him know what you need. And he remembers the feel of you safely tucked inside his alt mode. There has been something so satisfying about having you there, felt almost intimate even though Dorothy and her family have been in his alt mode at times and it had never felt like that before. Cupping his hands around you, he leaps and you cry out when he transforms carefully around you, rumbling as he shifts around you so you end up in the pilot’s seat. “Never do that again without warning me, please,” you whisper with a shudder as he swings lazily over the mountains. Watching your fear shift to wonder when you lean forward to look out. Smiling again and he needs this. Needs your happiness because it feels like the forgiveness that he doesn’t deserve.

Previous

[nerdygirlramblings]

Ren gets something of Soap's (finally)

previous

This is by far the strangest field training you've ever experienced. And it's definitely not something you ever would have predicted. The pub is busy, even for the early weeknight hour. You stand against the wall trying to be as unassuming as possible while you wait for Price's voice in your ear to tell you your objective.

Earlier in the day, he'd said field training would be off base and to wear civvies appropriate for going out with friends. His eyes had giving you a quick once over, lingering on the patches at your neck, amending, "Nothing that would put your omega in danger, but nothing that screams military either."

You'd shown up at their barracks at 2000 in a pair of dark wash skinny jeans and loosely-fitted floral top, pretty pink heels on your feet. Walking into the rec room, your teammates gave you the kind of appraising looks you usually shunned. Your omega preened at their attention. There was more in their glances than you received during other trainings, and your omega reminded you that when Price invited you into the team, he said the pack would be open to courting you.

Before your racing heart could cause any problems, Price cut the tension. "Sometimes our intelligence recovery is finding things, like ya did in the hanger. But sometimes it's more personal subterfuge. Gettin' close to someone and gettin' them ta talk, takin' somethin' off 'em, distractin' their attention while someone else does the diggin'. I know ya've never done interrogation trainin', and we'll get ya some 'a tha' eventually, but tonight we're gunna practice some real world interrogation. How ya can get all people an' all designations ta open up."

Then Ghost dropped a leather jacket on your shoulders, muttering, "'S gunna be cold in th' pub." The brown leather shifted like butter; it was worn, not stiff, but smelled a little musty, like it'd been sitting around outside. Still, there was something familiar about its weight on your shoulders, and you felt safer about venturing out for this training.

Now here you are trying to guess who Price will make your target and for what. There's a pop of static in ear followed by his warm honey tone. "Right, Ren, the group by the pool table. There's one with a wedding ring. Get his mate's name." One glance across the bar shows your team in the corner booth at the back where they have a view of the entire room.

You wander over to the game and for fifteen painful minutes you try to get the man to share the information Price asked for. You try playing pool, talking about the footie on the telly. You try to look enticing then non-threatening. You play up the innocent omega bit. His friends are happy to entertain you, chat, teach you to play, get you a drink. After twenty minutes, Price calls it. "Head to the booth, Ren." Shame creeps down your spine. You heard the barely constrained laughter and hate that you failed.

You expect teasing when you get to the table and avoid eye contact with the others as you slide into an open chair. "Hey," Gaz calls softly, raising his voice just above the din of the pub. Your eyes flick to him momentarily before skittering off again, but from the glance, he doesn't look upset or amused. "That was a good first try, Ren."

"Sergeant's right," Price adds. "Didn't give ya an easy mark to start because I wanted to see yer gut reaction. Ya have good instincts. Ya didn't barrel in, weren't blunt. Ya tried several different angles. Now we're gunna teach you a few tricks, an' we'll try again wi' someone else."

You sit and listen as they give you some tactical pointers: how to read a mark's body language, how to use your body language, the impact of light touches touch, how verbal repetition can get someone to open up. The whole thing reminds you of the old show Leverage and how the con artist taught the others to be better con artists. Which leads you to the realization that this is all improv: put on your part, run your scene, work towards an established outcome.

You try to remember as much as possible, not wanting to disappoint Price or the team. Finally, he slides you a pack of cigarettes. When you wrinkle your nose and grimace, he says, "They're fer you but not." He jerks his head to the bar's far end, and you track the long walnut top down to a small gaggle of women by the bar. Based on how they're dressed and how they're behaving, they're here for a good time and have been at it for a while. After giving them a once-over, you turn back, clearly confused. Price looks you square in the eye and says, "Get one of them to go out for a smoke break with you."

You nod, mission focused, and snag the cigarettes off the table. Standing, you wind your way through the increasingly noisy pub. A tall man bumps into you, nearly spilling his beer on you, his retort about "watch it!" dying as he really looks at you. Sidestepping him, you squeeze past a few tables, accidentally brushing against the people standing there. The stares you receive remind you why you don't like coming out like this. By the time you get to the bar, near the women but not intruding, you feel like you could use a cigarette.

You lean on the bar, not quite obviously waiting on a drink. The group beside you opens slightly, the woman at your shoulder taking a half-step back as she laughs at her companion. You lean forward a bit, now edging into their bubble briefly, and point at the blue drink on the bar top. Just loud enough so the woman who was sipping from it can hear, you say, "That looks fun! What's it called?"

She shifts at your voice before turning her attention fully on you. You'd left the jacket on your chair, easier to seem unimposing. Her gaze is a little predatory but not as hungry as some of the men you've seen. There's no scent blockers or mating marks on her neck, so she's either an alpha or a beta. She must quickly deem you're not a threat because she smiles wide, leans close, and says, "'S a tipsy mermaid."

You tell her thanks and flag the bartender down. "One of those, please," you say, pointing at the concoction. A quick nod and he's sliding your card before heading to another well for the alcohol he needs. When you have the drink on hand, you turn to the woman and say, "Cheers!"

She watches you drink and smiles again, a little less appraisingly. "'S good, yeah?"

You return her smile. "Yeah. Thanks for that." You make to turn back to the bar and drink alone, but she's stepped a full length back and motions you to join her and her friends. You shift closer with grin, introducing yourself and thanking her again for the hospitality. They women introduce themselves in turn. You quickly learn Molly, a beta, is getting married soon, so her sisters, Annabel and your new friend Casey, brought her and her new pack's omega, Sydney, out for drinks.

Their conversation washes over you, but you make sure to leave gentle touches on Casey when you can, a hand on her shoulder when you lean in with a question, arm brushing against hers when you stand with your drink. Little things she can write off as innocuous or flirty. Either interpretation would suit your objective. When you slide your empty glass onto the bar, Casey is eager to buy you another. You decline, citing the need for a cigarette break. She loops her arm around yours and drags Annabel along, claiming the break is to give Molly and Sydney some "pack bonding time." You snicker with Annabel as Casey drags you out front. As the pub door closes behind you, Price's voice growls, "Nicely done, Ren. Make your exit and meet us at the truck. I've got yer jacket."

You want to protest it isn't your jacket, but right now the desire to be wrapped in its soft comfort has you devising all sorts of ways to leave. Not for the first time, you wish conversations had the same mission exfils, though you startle to realize that's exactly what this is. "Thank you for the lovely night, Casey, Annabel," you say, turning to them while you snub out your mostly unused cigarette. "I've got an early shift and need to get home." Before you can take more than two steps away, Casey grabs your wrist and tugs you in, dropping a kiss on your cheek. You feel pressure on your forearm and look down to see Annabel writing two numbers with hearts. One number has an A and a beta symbol, the other has a C and an alpha symbol.

"If you ever want company pub hopping," Casey says, "call us, yeah?"

They walk inside; you're too stunned to move for a solid minute. You don't have to meet the team at the truck because when they pour out from the door, you're still standing there. None of them could see you outside, but Price could hear everything. You feel like you should be embarrassed or ashamed, but your omega reminds you this was a job, a mission, and since you aren't part of any pack, entertaining an alpha isn't shameful.

Ghost puts the leather jacket around your shoulders, and that first deep inhale of the jacket's scent is immediately soothing. It warms you quickly and snaps you out of your stupor. Ghost's hand hovers behind you, like a sheepdog helping herd you to their vehicle. You climb into the back between Soap and Gaz, who both give you proud smiles. The drive to base is quiet, the only debrief was Price, again, telling you you'd done a good job.

next

~~

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