#but he sometimes wrote good poetry

[victusinveritas]

Rudyard Kipling wrote the poem My Boy Jack in honour of the 16 year old Boy Seaman / former Boy Scout - Jack Cornwall, who was killed in action during the Battle of Jutland in 1916 manning one of the guns on the cruiser HMS Chester when the rest of the guns crew was dead or wounded.

"Have you news of my boy Jack?”

Not this tide.

"When d'you think that he'll come back?"

Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

"Has any one else had word of him?"

Not this tide.

For what is sunk will hardly swim,

Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

"Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?"

None this tide,

Nor any tide,

Except he did not shame his kind—

Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,

This tide,

And every tide;

Because he was the son you bore,

And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!

Jack Cornwell was the youngest Victoria Cross of WW1.... In Kipling's mind also, was undoubtably his son who went missing in action the year before, Jack often being used as a nickname for people named John...

The poem echoes the grief of all parents who lost sons in the First World War, therefore it's also been attributed to John Kipling - although there appears little evidence he used the name Jack. John Kipling was a 2nd Lt in the Irish Guards and disappeared in September 1915 during the Battle of Loos in the First World War.

The poem was published as a prelude to a story in Rudyard Kipling's book Sea Warfare written about the Battle of Jutland in 1916. The imagery and theme is maritime in nature and as such it is about a generic nautical Jack (or Jack Tar), though emotionally affected by the death of Kipling's son.

The HMS Chester during WWI, before and after Jutland. The gun that Jack Cornwall would die firing is on the foredeck. It was later salvaged and placed in the Imperial War Museum.

[swampthingking]

tw: self harm and SA talk

headcannon that andrew takes up writing as a coping mechanism and actually turns out to be really fucking good at it

as the trial approaches, andrew’s arms begin to itch. the horrors he experienced are going to be torn apart in front of a jury, and he’s going to have to testify in front of a full courtroom about things he almost killed himself to hide.

neil knows andrew is struggling. he barely speaks, he barely eats, he’s missing class, and he dissociates through practice. it had crossed neil’s mind that andrew was close to breaking, and he supported andrew however he allowed it. a week before the trial, andrew’s nearly vibrating with the urge. he suddenly unsheathes his knives and hands them handle first to neil, his voice icy as he says, “hide them.”

so neil does. andrew wears them in public, but as soon as they get back to the dorm, andrew hands his knives over. neil always hides them. makes sure andrew eats and drinks water. makes sure he’s not falling behind on school. runs his fingers through andrew’s hair and rubs behind his ears when andrew drops his head onto neil’s stomach.

andrew brings it up in therapy, and bee and him brainstorm new coping mechanisms. andrew used cutting to take back control of his body; of his hurt, his physical pain. it grounded him. bee suggests writing to take back control of his brain, of his emotions, since that’s what’s been bothering him. the memories. the waiting.

andrew scoffs when he hears it at first, but agrees to try, almost out of humor. but that night, with the memory of the smell of his sheets at cass’s house stuck in his nose, he chainsmokes until the smell of the first bedroom he felt comfortable in is replaced with smoke. he opens a new journal and writes until his hand cramps. he writes about the sweet smell of hyacinths and powdery dryer sheets, the dichotomy of something so sweet being tainted by such horrifying events. how the ugliest lies are disguised in floral and the beautiful, freeing truths are wrapped in sooty, acrid smoke.

when he first read it back, it sounded like shit. there was no rhythm. it wasn’t enjoyable to read. it wasn’t supposed to be. he distantly thinks he should tear it up and shove it deep in the trash can where nobody else can see the remains. but he doesn’t. he pours over it, scribbling over the pages and replacing words, restructuring sentences so it flows better, mumbling to himself to see how the stanza feels on his tongue. when he’s done, the page looks abused and as angry as he is.

he rewrites it cleanly on the next page, the finished product. it’s easier to read without all the scribbles and angry, scratchy pen. the tension in his chest has eased. he didn’t remember when that happened, but he can breathe a little better. as he rereads it, he huffs a bitter laugh. him, “the monster,” the one who ruins everything, creating something with the same hands that almost killed four men. putting pen to paper and creating. all his life, he’d been fighting, ruining, maiming, and here he is, reading the product of something he felt… vaguely proud of.

his brows furrow. he turns to a blank page. he repeats the process with that thought.

the destroyer. the creator.

[jymwahuwu]

Inspired by @hunnieknight art 🐾💖 quickly wrote something

cw: hybirds AU, puppy hybrid! reader and puppy hybrid! Capitano, mating mentioned but no detailed description

Morning is the moment you wake up smelling the sunny-side-up egg. You lie on the comfortable bed, your hands gently clenched into fists, your consciousness is blurry, but…it's the fragrance. You climbed out of bed and rushed to Mavuika's position with excitement. While she was frying eggs, she rubbed your ears and patted your head. "You can sleep a little longer," you responded by rubbing your cheek against her leg, giggling.

Hmm… there's an unusual smell in the air… what's that?

You searched the carpet and looked toward the window. There was one of its kind covered in a black mask - it was a large dog. His black ears and tail are imposing, and his chest and arms are muscular. Just by looking at it, you can tell that he is much stronger than you. Oops! He noticed you.

Mavuika glanced there casually. Isn't he much bigger than her favorite puppy? The next door neighbor is Tsaritsa from Snezhnaya. She turned down Venti’s poetry sharing party, declined Ei’s meditation course, and had no interest in Focalors’ aquarium. Among the six neighbors in the community, she lived a solitary and unique life. Oh, now she knew she had a loyal companion. She inevitably became wary, like a mother guarding against her daughter being asked out by a man.

"I don't trust that dog, don't go the fence." she ordered. "Be a good puppy."

Capitano stares at you more intently.

You tilt your head to look at her innocently. What is she talking about?

Mavuika doesn't stay at home all the time! She needs to work in the gym during the day. You whimpered and bit the edge of her dress, "Don't go out…" She sighed, coaxing you and promising to bring you snacks when she got home. You cheered and nodded, promising to look after the house and be a good puppy. You run and play with a ball in the living room and chat with your puppy friends on the Internet.

Uh, someone knocked on the window! You arched your back in fear, alert. Hey, he was the neighbor that day…you asked him what happened. Capitano asks if he can play with you. He has his family at home but they are all weird, especially the little fox named Dottore. You agreed, opened the window, and invited him into your home. You chase each other, run in circles, play with tails and ears, and watch TV shows. The two of you also swam and walked around the neighborhood together when Mavuika wasn't home.

One day, Capitano solemnly asks you if he can mate with you. You shyly waggled your tail and agreed. He gets close to you, bites your back gently, and rides on you…

And then…your belly swells. Mavuika took you to the hospital and the doctor said you were pregnant. You watched nervously from behind the door as Mavuika "interrogated" Capitano. You said you'd be fine. Capitano sent more gifts. He is there for you, even though sometimes it is necessary to watch you from the window.

The babies are born. You know what Capitano originally looked like now. Most of them are not like you, but like papa. He is still affectionate, holding your cheek and kissing you 🐾💌

[slaggeduppoetrey]

"Starry nights are few and far between.

The atmosphere is usually too thick to let you see the universe above us.

But those sparse nights

It's like all the glory of God came and smiled at you.

That's how she was.

Filled with fog and storm

But once in a while she opened up, like the great sky parting

To let me see her insides

Glittering like stars."

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Hey. Hi. Hello. Today I learned about the existence of 15th century Welsh poet Gwerful Mechain and that she apparently has a surviving work of erotic poems.

Please. For Christmas. For Yule. Please tell me more because I can't read Welsh.

Heh heh. Oh, Gwerful Mechain is the absolute best.

(Quick housekeeping to keep the post manageable - I previously wrote about things like cynghanedd and cywydds and englyns and such here, so check that if you need an explanation.)

What's fun is that we don't know a ton about her, because not a lot got written down about people in her time. Her surviving work covers a 40ish year span at the end of the 1400s to just into the 1500s, but we don't know when she was born or died or anything like that. We know her parents' names? And that she was from Mechain, hence the bardic name. And that she married a guy and had a daughter, something which actually does mark out her body of work as different from her contemporaries; being a wife and mother, she couldn't do the usual bardic role of travelling the country to spread news and play at courts. This means she doesn't have any of the praise poetry that a lot of male bards produced about the lords that hosted them.

But, there's stuff we can piece together about her. For one thing, she was not just literate (not a universal skill for anyone at that point, but especially for women), but she was astonishingly well-read and had what appears to be a classical education, given her poetic references and traditional Welsh meters. For another, her work often had recurring themes of religion, sex, and women's rights, sometimes all at the same time.

At the point Gwerful was active, Welsh bardic culture heavily featured ymrysonau. An ymryson is like... well, I hesitate to say "sort of like a rap battle" after the way everyone and their dog now thinks that's what the Mari Lwyd does, but they were like a cross between a rap battle and the publication war between two rival academics. A bard would write an englyn and publish it in the local parish newsletter. Another bard would see this, and write their own englyn about how stupid the first bard's englyn was, and publish it in the same newsletter. The first bard would see this and retaliate. The second bard would retaliate to that. And on and on it would go, like a printed tennis match for all the parishioners to enjoy, until someone wrote a conclusive verse OR until someone went "Lol, you got me good there" and bowed out with dignity. Sometimes, these things were fucking vicious; but other times, they were just banter between two bards who knew each other and were enjoying the chance to keep their poetic skills in tip top condition.

Now, Gwerful was an active and enthusiastic participant in ymrysonau. We have many examples of her work from these. There are two of particular note that I'll list here, each against a different bard:

Dafydd Llwyd o Fathafarn. Mathafarn and Mechain are not so distant from one another, so no real surprise that these two locked horns a lot, but the impression I always got from their ymrysonau is that they were good mates, actually. These fell into the 'banter' category more often than not. Dafydd was a Welsh Nationalist who was hoping for a Welshman to rise up and throw off the yoke of English oppression, and most of his work is about that, but he turned up the filthy erotic shit for any ymryson with Gwerful because BOY HOWDY was that her specialty. IIRC she did occasionally poke fun at his Welsh Nash leanings, especially his obsession with Mab Darogan (OLD Welsh idea that translates to the Son of Prophesy - the Arthur-style figure that will one day drive out the English overlords), but mostly their ymrysonau were incredibly beautifully-written odes that could be summed up as "Dafydd, my man, my good friend, I mean this sincerely: suck my entire clit".

She often won.

Ieuan Dyfi. God, what a fucking asshole. This one was not banter. Gwerful played for blood with this prick.

We actually would know nothing about Ieuan Dyfi if not for Gwerful Mechain, because it was her poetic response to him that meant his only surviving poems made it to the modern day; that, and the record of him being brought before a church court where he admitted adultery with Anni Goch, a married woman. Oh, and the record of him being brought before the law courts at Liverpool, accused of domestic abuse and gambling? If I remember right?

Two things to know that set the scene for what came next:

One of Gwerful Mechain's surviving poems is an englyn considered to be possibly the oldest extant poem about domestic violence written by a woman: I’w gŵr am ei churo (To the husband who beats her)

Dager drwy goler dy galon - ar osgo I asgwrn dy ddwyfron; Dy lin a dyr, dy law’n don, A’th gleddau i’th goluddion.

There are a lot of translations for this one to try to keep its poeticness, but this one is pretty good:

Through your heart’s lining let there be pressed, slanting down, A dagger to the bone in your chest. Your knee smashed, your hand crushed, may the rest Be gutted by the sword you possessed.

She has others, too, that deal with sexual assault, and something scholars often note about Gwerful is her remarkable knowledge of the law as it pertained to women's issues. So she was not, you see, a woman with a high view of a man accused of domestic violence anyway.

But then Ieuan Dyfi wrote five poems about Anni Goch, the married woman he'd fucked, each more "Wow dude, she said no" than the last, culminating in I Anni Goch; a full cywydd of misogynistic Medieval-incel bullshit about how false and evil women are, which listed all the false and evil women of history including classical and mythological figures.

And. Well. Gwerful had some views.

Her responding cywydd - I ateb Ieuan Dyfi am gywydd Anni Goch - basically blasted the guy back into his own impact crater and disintegrated him. What she did with it, essentially, was to mirror his cywydd. Where he'd gone "Isn't it so true how great men throughout history have always been brought low by women, amirite lads? Here's examples", Gwerful went "Isn't it so true how 'great men' throughout history have behaved appallingly and fucked up through their own actions and then somehow managed to blame women, amirite lads? Here's examples." Where his examples had been historical figures, so were hers. Where his had been classical, so were hers. Where he went Biblical, so did she.

And what's so interesting about that last one is how pointed she was with it - for some reason, in his big list of evil women, Ieuan Dyfi did not go for the most obvious and low-hanging of fruit (no pun intended) - he doesn't cite Eve. In response, Gwerful also sidesteps the most obvious and low hanging of fruit - she doesn't cite Mary. In so doing, she makes it clear that she doesn't even need to.

There is no record of him responding to her. IIRC, there is a record of him doing three years in prison.

But! Outside of all of that, the big thing Gwerful was known for was her erotic poetry. You'll be unsurprised to hear that it wasn't written for shits and giggles - much like today, women of the time were told that most of their value was in their looks, and they had plentiful insecurities about their bodies. Gwerful wrote her erotic stuff to confront those insecurities and shine a light on the issue. There are so many examples of this, but far and away the most famous is definitely Cywydd y Cedor - roughly translated, 'Ode to the Vulva'. Though I have also seen it titled Cywydd y Gont - Ode to the Cunt. It's such a shame that the English language is literally, physically not capable of cynghanedd, because it means unless you learn Welsh you will never understand the beauty and the lyricism of the piece, and how it elevates and undercuts the content at the same time; but it's a joyful, masterful, irreverent work that uses the fancy language male poets were forever dedicating to the rest of a woman's body and applies it squarely to the vulva. In fact it basically opens with "Men are cowards, describe more cunts or gtfo" before launching into its main subject matter. The last line is pro-pubic hair, too, like I really must stress how much Gwerful Mechain would have to offer Tumblr if you could speak Welsh. This is probably her most widely translated piece, though, you can definitely find English versions. Although you can tell how blushing and reticent the translator is - and therefore how sanitised their translation is - by whether they've called it Ode to the Vulva/Cunt, or Ode to the Pubic Hair.

Needless to say, the original is not sanitised.

(Actually, I should also say - this one is also a response piece, probably, but in this case to a bard who lived a century earlier - Dafydd ap Gwilym, the absolutely legendary and uncontested king of Welsh romance poetry. He wrote a poem called Cywydd y Gal - Ode to the Penis. I have only just put two and two together on that.)

As a final note, I should say that my personal favourite Gwerful Mechain poem on this subject, mind, is actually I'w morwyn wrth gachu - to the maiden who is shitting. It's an englyn written in Gwerful's customary high poetic form, but it is what it says - it describes a woman taking a shit, and farting as she does. Beautiful and magical and disgusting and banal, all in one go:

Crwciodd lle dihangodd ei dŵr - ’n grychiast O grochan ei llawdwr; Ei deudwll oedd yn dadwr’, Baw a ddaeth, a bwa o ddŵr

Funnily enough, it's hard to find a good translation for this one lol.

My attempt:

She crouched where her water escaped - creased From the cauldron of her heat; Her two holes were arguing, Shit came, and a bow of water

Eh. It's so bland in English. Honestly, if you could read Welsh...

Anyway, if anyone reading this can read Welsh and wants to read some of Gwerful Mechain's stuff - including some of the pieces she was responding to in the ymrysonau - you can find a load here. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed!

[inkskinned]

yesterday while feverish i wrote about how boats can moor next to each other like pigeons, cooing with the gentle rap of water against their hull. you once said that that the way i see things - birds in the water, feathers in marina paint - was "childish and naive." you said i'd been misdiagnosed - "it can't all be adhd. you might be just kind of stupid and lazy."

i still do certain things like how you taught me - turn the pillow case inside out before putting it on. drive defensively. hate myself entirely.

the prompt for this poem is "mahler's fifth." i wish it wasn't, but mahler's fifth was our song. it ended up in my book. every person that knows your name has promised me they'll give you one swift rabbit punch, right to the face. dean read the book and showed up on my front porch, drenched in sweat from running the 8 miles at 4 in the morning. he was shaking. pacifist and gentle - he works with children - i'd never seen him furious. a punch isn't going to do it, he said, and then said i'm sorry. i had to come to see if you were okay.

mahler's fifth was mine first, like my girlhood. i like the way each movement piles onto the next movement, each instrument bleeding into the next. i like the horn version the best. before i met you, i danced to it on grass still-wet from sprinklers.

later you would tell me that the way you heard it was somehow better. you understood something in it that i couldn't quite wrap my fingers into. once, on our anniversary, you asked the classical music radio station to play it for us. we missed hearing it because we were fighting. one of the things people get wrong about abuse is that sometimes victims are, like, brutally aware of the stupidity of our situation. what do you mean that you thought i wasn't good enough for you? you? you're just... nothing.

sometimes people can pull the poetry out of your life. i watched my words become clothesline, and then thin out into kite twine. i watched you chew through every good syllable of me. so many good songs and places and moments were ruined. i am glad you didn't like most of my music - less to tie back to you.

but still mahler's fifth. the music swells, and i am 21 and throwing up in a bathroom on my birthday. a woman i will later refer to as lesbian jesus runs a cool hand down my back, her perfect pantsuit starch-pressed. she told me to leave you. she said - and this is true, and not an invention of rhyme or fantasy - i'm you from the future.

i am 22, and i got home from an award ceremony, and i remember you telling me - you act so proud of yourself when you're actually so fucking embarrassing. i took you to disney world. you took my virginity. i gave up visiting spain for a week with my family - i instead choose you, to spend the time just-cuddling. you called it "our fuck week." the music swells. it probably should have been a red flag that for about 3 years - i just gave up on crying. my grandfather died and you said nothing. my uncle died and you ghosted me for 3 weeks. you said i need to protect myself from your ongoing tragedy.

every so often i come back to the memory of one of our last afternoons in person. i had just told you that i wasn't going to law school, despite the free ride - i was going to join a creative writing program. master's in fine arts. i was going to finally do it - i was going to follow my dreams. this blog was already internet-famous. however reluctantly, i would occasionally refer to myself as a poet. i got into umass amherst's writing program for fiction authors. it is one of the the top 5 programs in the country.

wait are you seriously considering actually attending that? dumbfounded, you turned completely towards me in your seat. for the 3rd time in our relationship, you almost crashed the car. you actually want to be a writer?

the first time i went viral, it was for a poem i wrote about you:

he wants to say i love you but keeps it to goodnight because love will take some falling and she's afraid of heights.

every time i see that, i want to throw up. you weren't in love with me, you were in love with the control you had over me. a little truth though: i am afraid of heights. you caught a rabbitgirl and skinned her alive.

mahler's fifth still makes me sick.

give me that back. give me back music. give me back everything i had before you. give me back fearlessness. give me back bravery. give me back a scarless body.

give me back what you took from me.

[xoxochb]

— here comes the sun ꣑ৎ‧₊˚.

warnings: just headcannons pairing: riordanverse boys x daughter of apollo

percy jackson loves how good you are with your bow and arrow. he sucks majorly at archery so when you found this out you did everything in your power to teach him to be just as good as you were. this took four months. but! the good thing was that he learned eventually. it took this long solely because every time you were explaining something his eyes would trail down to your lips and he’d zone out and one thing leads to another now he’s kissing you and now you’re kissing back and now you’re not even in the archery field anymore— it’s a whole thing. during the fourth month you got sick of his nonsense and forced him to finally listen to your words and he ended up finally learning basic archery (he later earned a reward for his obedience). besides your great archer skills you’re also skilled at painting. like usual, percy loves to fool around. you’ll have your canvas out and paint sprawled along your pallet but this dumbass takes a finger of paint a spreads it over your face. you both end up covered in paint and your work long forgotten. you made a mental note never to let him paint with you again, but knowing percy and his gorgeous sea green eyes you had no choice but to let him join you again. though you do warn him not to play around with your paint or he’d wake up blue (he probably wouldn’t mind this though)

jason grace is utterly obsessed with your singing voice— most to all nights this is the only thing that can soothe him to sleep. but not even just during the evening, it’s basically mostly throughout the day when you’re singing to him. sometimes you even play a variety of musical instruments to add onto the factor (he ended up learning how to play piano thanks to you). and!! another thing he loves about you is your poetry, especially when the poems are about him, those make his knees go all weak and his cheeks flush pink and he’s such a school girl, it’s ridiculous. but he loves your poems regardless if they’re about him or not, he likes listening to your sweet-like-honey voice and your extremely high vocabulary (gods, he loves your high vocab). along with your love for poems you also share a love for reading, often you’ll find old books to read together, whether it’s together, or separately then you talk about them later, he adores talking about nerdy books together. and since writing is something dear to you and your siblings you wrote your own novel some day with the help of your boyfriend (he’s your number one supporter), including a sweet dedication to him as a thank you and an I love you

leo valdez takes advantage of your healing abilities. every hour he shows up in the infirmary with a new injury whether it’s a small cut or something serious. after a while you started to realize he was purposely hurting himself so he could see you during your work. you scolded him for this and told him you’d much more appreciate his visits if he wasn’t hurt all the time. so after you told him this he started spending less time with his trinkets and getting hurt and more time bothering you in the infirmary (additionally bothering your patients). you’ve found, though, it’s not so easy to care for your patients when your boyfriend has permanently attached himself to you, you eventually had to restrict him from seeing you during your working hours. but do you think this would stop him? no it did not. every day he would wait for you outside as you work, your siblings scold him and tell you to take care of him so that resulted in you getting kicked out of the infirmary too. though with this new free time and all your siblings busy you were able to get the cabin all to yourselves!!

luke castellan is pretty sure every room you walk into instantly brightens up with beams of sunshine (not even figuratively, he really does believe this). your aura is enough the blind the regular man— but lucky for luke he is no regular man, he’s your boyfriend. unfortunately, this does have its downsides, which includes you waking up at the literal ass crack of dawn watching as the sun rises. slowly and carefully you slip yourself from his arms to sit on the porch of cabin eleven as you watch the sky switch from a dark purple/black hue to various colors including orange, pink, or yellow (sometimes all three if your dad is feeling generous enough). over time, though, luke realizes you aren’t in his arms anymore— the first time this happened he was confused and searched frantically for you, but eventually he gets used to you waking up early. on some mornings he will sit outside with you (he loves the way your irises get all bright and yellow at this time of day), he likes how everything is quiet and tranquil and this is one of the only times he’s able to spend alone time with you. he savors these moments over anything else in his life

[revelboo]

On my knees pleading for more Invisible Monsters…. that sad old man needs love and 80 million kisses

He does-he has to deal with Rodimus and Whirl

Nah, you’re good. It’s just a bit of plot convenience nonsense to get them where I need them for that arc- Brainstorm made a highly unstable mini gate that accidentally targeted humans instead of objects and brought them to near a Cybertronian’s spark signal. Figured most of them just black out from the stress because getting ripped through space and time probably doesn’t feel awesome. Probably a big strain on the body and the ones that aren’t coping likely has an underlying problem already.

Invisible Monsters Pt 6

MTMTE Megatron x Reader

• Servos pressing against his helm as he tries to make sense of Rodimus’s rambling report, he vents tiredly. And wonders if maybe Rodimus is the universe’s punishment for everything he’s done. Because, honestly, it seems a bit much even for his sins. Movement from the corner of his optic draws his attention to you as you sit crosslegged on the screen of an old datapad and scribble with your fingers. Drawing again? As much as he likes to respect your space and privacy, he needs a distraction from Rodimus so he leans a bit to see what you’re up to. Realizing you’re writing. Is that- poetry? About him?

• Bent over the tablet, you write a line, erase it, and revise it. Oblivious to everything else as you struggle to get down all the things you can’t actually say. The wonder of hands meant to destroy that can cradle you so gently, be so warm. Of how your heart aches for him sometimes when he gets lost in thought, wanting to ask but feeling like a trespasser. Of how every innocent touch has begun sparking through you, shifting to something new and frightening. And then there’s a shadow falling across you and you freeze, heart racing. Fingers frantically flicking at the screen to get it to blank as your face reddens, because you know he saw some of your embarrassing love letter to him. Can’t make yourself look over your shoulder to see his expression. Can guess it’s pretty much horrified, though. “Need a shower,” you mutter, standing and all but running for the rigged together tiny, enclosed wash rack the scientists had made for you. Needing to hide in there for the rest of your life because he’d seen.

• Spark warming as you run and hide, he wants to reach for you, but understands that you hadn’t meant to share that yet. Maybe never would have. Retrieving his stylus, he bends over and begins to write an answer. Trying to convey that he sees you, that his life is better for it. That he hadn’t expected you or any form of forgiveness for his sins. Your warmth against him keeps the past at bay, keeps the nightmares from seizing him by the throat and he can’t explain how much he loves you for that. For accepting him without reservation. Pausing, he leaves it for you to find later. Because he’s no better at this than you are. Can’t say the actual words out loud.

• Hiding in the heat, you tip your head back into the spray and want to cry. Why had you wrote all that? You know you’d never actually show it to him, but you’d wanted to get it out because it’s driving you crazy. Because you have a crush on a giant, former warlord with gentle hands and sad optics. And now he knows it. It’s not like you aren’t aware of his past, the horrors he’s committed, but he’s trying to be better. Trying to amend and maybe he can’t. But you want to watch him become someone he hates a little less. When you finally suck it up and grab a polishing cloth to dry yourself with, he’s gone. And your chest aches even as it’s a relief you don’t have to face him. Making your way across the desk, you blow out a breath and pause. There’s something new on your datapad. In your language, the characters painstakingly precise as you read what he wrote you.

• Returning to his quarters with an energon cube, he freezes as he spots you and you tip your face up toward him. And you’re crying. Primus, is his poetry that bad? “Little one,” he growls, reaching out his cupped hands and you launch yourself into them, his spark constricting with fear that he might not catch you. Then you’re warm in his palm, head down as you reach up both hands and gesture for him to come closer. “I didn’t meant to upset you.” Leaning his face down, you stand suddenly, a small hand warm on his chin as you go up on your toes and press your soft mouth against his bottom lip. That brief contact a shock that leaves him speechless as you just sit in his hands with your back to him and scrub at your eyes. But you’d answered him and it spreads warm through his spark, a tenuous hope that he can have this. That he’s allowed this happiness.

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[happy74827]

Burning Bridges

[Dexter Morgan x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Upon an incident that was out of your control, Dexter comes to the realization that it wasn't just a coincidence.

WC: 1951

Category: Slight Angst, Hurt/Comfort

I forgot how much I missed this show (him), so I decided to write another. It's been so long since I last wrote for him that I actually see the difference in my writing. It's wack.

『••✎••』

Dexter was many things… a brother, a son, a pro bowler, a serial killer… but what he lacked was being a good friend.

He didn't understand friendship or its value. It was something that he simply couldn't grasp. Sure, he was able to fake it well enough in order to make sure that people liked him and didn't find him too creepy or strange, but there was never any real emotional connection. In his mind, everyone was either someone he needed or someone he didn't need, and he would treat them accordingly. The only exceptions to this rule were his sister, Debra, and you.

The two of you had met back in college, having been assigned to be each other's partners for a group project. It was a poetry class and a course that Dexter hadn't really wanted to take, but a general education requirement and the promise of an easy A convinced him to at least show-up and suffer through it. Well, for a guy who had to fake every single aspect of his personality in order to fit in with society, it turned out that poetry didn’t come quite as easily as he thought it would.

He had always found the art form to be rather silly, with all the emphasis on metaphors and flowery language. There was no purpose or goal other than to be creative and artsy, and it bored him to no end. The first time you had sat down with him to discuss the project, you could tell how much he didn't want to be there, and the look of complete disinterest on his face as he tried to figure out what your poem meant was the most hilarious thing that you had seen in a while. You couldn't help but laugh, the sound of which made him sit up and give you a quizzical look.

"What?" He asked, tilting his head slightly, confused.

"Nothing," you replied, still giggling. "It's just that I can tell that you don't like poetry."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you haven't said a word; you're just sitting there, staring off into space and twirling your pencil between your fingers," you told him, and he glanced down at the utensil as if he didn't realize that he was doing that.

"Oh. Sorry, I guess," he apologized, his tone making it clear that he was actually a little annoyed at having been called out on his inattentiveness.

"That's okay. I like poetry, so I'll be happy to do most of the work," you offered, smiling sweetly, and his eyebrows raised.

And that you did. In fact, you loved it so much that you majored in English and planned on getting your Masters, while Dexter got his degree in criminology. It was a nice trade-off because while he struggled in poetry, getting down into the debts of his feelings that were nonexistent, you struggled with chemistry, unable to wrap your head around the subject no matter how hard you tried.

So, the two of you had a mutually beneficial agreement. You did all the work for the poetry class, and in exchange, he tutored you in chemistry and made sure that you got a decent grade. Once the class was over and done with, the two of you stayed friends, though you had very little in common. Dexter had no interest in books, and you had no interest in criminology. He was a loner, and you had plenty of friends. You were a romantic, and he was completely unromantic. He didn't even have a girlfriend, and you had been in three different relationships over the course of the two years that you had known him.

Still, the two of you got along well enough. You were one of the only people that Dexter could actually stand for more than five minutes, and he was the same to you. So you went out to the bar sometimes, hung out with his sister, and did your best to keep him company while also doing your best to try to set him up on dates, hoping that one of these days, he'd actually find someone. It eventually did work out when you found him Rita, but as of right now, she had broken up with him, and he was back to being a lonely bachelor which it didn't bother him much until now.

You were in the hospital, your head wrapped and bandaged like a mummy. You were apparently attacked outside the grocery store, and if it wasn’t for the small instructions he had given you for self-defense, you most likely wouldn’t have survived.

At first, Dexter didn’t think of it as anything important in terms of his line of work. He believed it to be a coincidence, a random crime in the night. But it turned into something more the night he decided to visit with some cake.

“How’s the head?” He asked as he came inside, seeing you propped up reading. Of course, you were reading.

You shrugged. “Like I’m wearing a sweater hat, but it doesn't hurt, so there's that." You paused, setting down your book and glancing at him. "I’m still salty about my groceries. Almost two hundred dollars I spent on that stuff. Gone. Wasted. Poof."

Dexter had to chuckle a bit. "Hey, I can't do much about the food, but I brought you something," he said, revealing the white box.

"Is it chocolate? If it is, I love you," you joked.

"No, it's just vanilla. But, here."

He opened the lid and showed you, and you immediately lit up.

"Awww, Dexter! You are the best friend ever," you gushed, giving him a warm smile.

He smiled back. "It's the least I could do."

He was cutting it up for you when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. You didn’t seem to notice, but out in the hall, a shadow passed by the window. His body went on alert, eyes flickering towards the door. He couldn’t see much, but he could make out an elderly man with gray hair and a beard.

Dexter's face remained unchanged, though his body language betrayed him as he sat the cake knife down. He knew that look. That look in a man's eyes when he was looking at prey. This was a predator.

"Hey, uh, what was that description again? Of the man who attacked you," Dexter asked, his tone a bit distracted.

"You mean Santa Claus on drugs? That pretty much sums it up. Why?" You looked up, confused.

"I don't know. It's probably nothing."

But it was something. The man had apparently come back to finish the job, and Dexter's jaw clenched at the thought. He was already planning his death in his mind. It wouldn’t be pretty. He gave you a piece of cake, swearing that he’d be back soon before going after the man. He stopped at the lobby momentarily, informing Angel to keep an eye on you, which, of course, the cop complied with.

Angel was a good cop. He was loyal, smart, and a damn good shot. But there was one thing that made him a great cop. He cared about his city and the people in it. He would protect the innocent no matter the cost, especially when it came down to those he was closest to. He was the kind of guy who would risk his life without a second thought if it meant saving others.

This is why Dexter liked Angel and why he was the only one that he trusted with this job.

Finding the man was extremely easy on his part. Dexter already knew what the guy’s plan was, so he stuck around outside the parking lot, watching the shadows. After a few minutes, the man appeared, heading towards the entrance once again.

He never got that far.

A hand was clamped over his mouth while the other dragged him away from the double doors and towards the side of the building. Dexter didn’t pull out his knife, though, only resorting to his arms as he applied pressure against his throat. The man fought, trying to break free, but he didn't get the chance. Dexter didn’t kill him, no, not yet, but his arm was still strong, and he had no plans to let go.

“Listen closely. If you so much as look the wrong way, I will rip your heart out and shove it down your throat. Understand? Nod if you do," he threatened, his voice calm and even. The man nodded, terrified, his eyes wide.

"Good," Dexter replied, “Why are you here?"

The man was quiet, but he was breathing heavily, and his eyes were watering.

"Talk. That girl, why are you after her?"

"I’m not—”

"You attacked her, and now you came back to finish the job, did you not? Who sent you?"

The man was sweating; his face was flushed and red. Dexter was pressing too hard, and his victim was starting to lose air. He didn’t care.

"Who?" He repeated.

The man choked, unable to speak.

"Last chance. Who sent you? And don't lie to me."

The man didn’t answer, and Dexter tightened his hold. That finally did it. The man began to squirm violently, trying to break free, but it was too late. His face started to turn purple, and Dexter had to adjust his grip and pull him closer.

“It wasn’t personal! I had to! I didn't have a choice! It was just a job!" He gasped out, struggling for air. “I got paid to do it. I was just doing what I was told! Please, please, don't kill me."

"Who was it?"

"I—I don’t know. It was some lady. I met her at a bar. She didn’t give her name, but he wasn’t American. She gave me ten thousand dollars and told me that the job was to attack this chick in the parking lot and make it look like an attempted robbery. Said it had to be done in a couple of days. Listen, man, I didn't want to do it. But the money—"

"What did she look like?" Dexter cut in.

"Dark hair. Young. I don't know! I don't know, I swear. She wore sunglasses the whole time. Please, don’t kill me. Please."

Suddenly, it hit him like a ton of bricks. The Dark Passenger was roaring, the realization washing over him like cold water.

Lila.

Everything made sense now. The way she had suddenly showed up out of nowhere, the incident outside the bowling alley, her sudden interest in you. It all made sense. She was behind it. She had done it.

Dexter wanted to snap the man's neck. He wanted to rip his throat out. He wanted to take his knife and stab him over and over again, to punish him for what he had done to you, but he refrained. He had the answers he needed, and the cameras around were still running.

He dropped him and watched him collapse, gasping for air. He didn't move, too scared and in shock to do so. Dexter didn’t say a word; his anger was silent, but it was boiling beneath his skin.

He was going to kill her. He was going to hunt her down and end her, and there was no place on Earth where she could hide.

“You ever, and I mean ever, come near her again; I will tear out your spine and make you choke on it. Understand?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I understand."

Dexter didn’t say anything else; he simply walked off, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He had a lot to think about.

[loumandforyou]

how I think want 70s-80s Devil's Minion is going to be (unpopular?). An essay, by me. (edit: apparently I do have to make it clear that these are all my own headcanons and I'm aware that they are not a healthy couple)

The "chase" lasts a couple of months instead of years

they start as the popular fucked up sex

Armand takes Daniel on a hunt, to show him how he plays with his food sometimes, how look I could be doing the same to you. But Daniel very loudly thinks fuck that's hot

Daniel starts picking up on how Armand behaves during sex (even how dissociates sometimes), since most of the time it's when and how Daniel wants (the normal thing for Armand). He starts checking on him more, like you sure, we can do something else // are you comfortable with that? // are you okay? it's just sex for them, sure, but there is this change.

but... they also start dating. once, for fun, they are curious. more dating. Dates are Armand using his mind gift so they have the restaurant by themselves. Taking Daniel to the top of a building so he can have the best view. Museums, galleries, movies...

And Armand brings him flowers, chocolates and poetry and Daniel playfully rolls his eyes and then giggles and kisses him and he even keeps the now dried flowers. Daniel returns the favour, and Armand looks at him as if he brought him the most exquisite and most expensive gift in the world.

Daniel makes Armand laugh for the first time (Armand smiles, smirks even grins, but he doesn't easily laugh) and Daniel realizes he is in love with him. He loves how Armand can be ruthless, cruel, cold with the humans he hunts before giving them an easeful death. He loves how excited with simple things like a phone, a microwave, a blender. How he lets his mask slip sometimes (more and more as time passes) and he sees the real him, the vulnerable side he rarely shows, the anger towards the world he thinks he doesn't deserve to feel.

Armand realises he is in love with Daniel earlier, in little moments, like how human Daniel is and how for the first time in centuries that is fascinating and not indifferent. And he loves Daniel because of how excited he is when he writes something or when he wants to read to Armand an interesting book/article/something he wrote, how clever he is, how he can be cold and compassionate at the same time...

And they talk about little and big things, from a good restaurant that Armand saw pass from generation to generation, to philosophy. And Armand reads Daniel's mind to see if his mind wanders and... Daniel is fully invested. Like I love getting to know you, how you think, what you think, who you are, tell me all about you. And Armand does. He tells Daniel the most.

they are in love and explore the world together and all its fascination and simplicity, and they are really happy.

but... Daniel doesn't want this to end, he wants to stay young forever, he wants to spend forever with Armand. How can't Armand see that this is not just because Daniel wants to be with him for eternity?

Armand sees how his own darkness but lure Daniel in... a bit too much. How he thinks that watching someone die and getting a life is the same thing, how he romanticises vampirism. How maybe he focuses on Armand a lot, and misses a deadline at work. A work that he loves. Maybe one day he catches a fleeting thought of Daniel wanting children someday. But he doesn't bring it up right away. He doesn't want to lose him. And he just can't understand how Daniel can love him unconditionally.

Then Daniel proposes to him in Paris. He has a ring and a romantic little speech to go along with it. But does it really mean he loves him? Or that he wants for Armand to make him a vampire? Isn't that what marriage is, after all, a promise of forever? How can Daniel just love him? So he says no.

Daniel is hurt, he is angry that Armand doesn't really trust his love and he tells him that yeah maybe he does want kids, a family, normality. And maybe a part of him does. They break up.

Daniel meets a girl, Alice. He doesn't fall in love, she doesn't really fall in love either, but they like each other. They get together. She gets pregnant.

Daniel needs Armand's blood (he needs Armand) but he can't have that, so he turns to his old comfort, drugs. It gets bad, he goes back to Armand, asking to get back together, asking for his blood, Armand says no and Daniel storms off to get his high somewhere else. He comes back a couple of days later, apologising and promising he won't ever do it again, he will really get clean this time. Again. And again. Until he comes very close to overdosing, and Armand takes care of him until he can actually go to a rehab facility, even though Daniel just begs him for his blood, to just turn him or let him die.

And this time, he knows what to do. Daniel can't have his normal life if Armand is still in his mind. So he just... erases it all. It's the only way. He couldn't see another way. And Daniel understands what Armand intends to do and he is crying, asking him not to do it, that he can get over this on his own, but Armand doesn't trust him, so he just tries to calm him down, telling him how great his life is going to be, with a brilliant career, a family... happiness. An easeful breakup.

thank you for coming to my ted talk

[iwillneverforgiveyousunghanbin]

bully⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

thursday, sung hanbin— poetry ii

⋆˙⟡ zbully1 smut series masterlist! hanbin, jiwoong, hao, matthew, and taerae included. game day (group) chapter here. all 7 endings here.

⋆˙⟡ wc: 3.5k (it's a doozy but it's worth it i literally am so happy with this one)

⋆˙⟡ reader: femme afab (listed first, she/her are used) // gender neutral (alternate version listed second, no pronouns used at all to describe reader— scroll down)

⋆˙⟡ series summary: five bullies. six days. it's gonna be a hell of a week, babe. stay hydrated.

⋆˙⟡ thursday summary: thursday. good news: the week is almost over. bad news: you're stuck in poetry class with sung hanbin as your desk partner. it's weird. sometimes you play off each other so well, you're nearly blindsided by his sudden flipping of the switch. if only you could steal a glimpse at his journal.

⋆˙⟡ warnings: explicit smut. 18+. minors do not interact. please read specific smut warnings under the cut! swearing. angst. slight dub-con. bullying. very toxic softboi/popular soccer star hanbinnie. guys THE LORE. you very well may not survive til the end of the week but we're already on this journey together so let's see it through!!! smut in gn and fem versions are slightly different due to logistics/circumstance. also there's two parts i wrote in here that made me laugh way too hard okay bye. xx

⋆˙⟡ bully scale: ★★★★☆(4.5)

EXPLICIT SMUT 18+ WARNINGS: choking (reader receiving and safely executed lmao), chest groping/brief nipple play (reader receiving; reader is wearing a bra and hanbin refers to you as having 'tits'), heavy petting (reader and hanbin receiving), fingering (brief, reader receiving), erotic humiliation and degradation (towards reader; about looseness of pussy after this week/disappointing chest but not the size of it he's just being a dick am i making sense), slut and whore used to describe reader, one slap across the face (reader receiving), slight dub-con but we know how reader rolls now lol. hanbin is insanely toxic. enjoy.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

scribble. scribble. scribble. 

the scratchings of your pencil in your poetry journal are growing increasingly violent. you don’t really care. you’d stayed up all night: tossing and turning and thinking and plotting. 

“hey, uh... you okay?” hanbin asks, tapping you gently with the end of his pen. your pencil falls from your fingers as you’re jolted from your anxious thought spiral. 

“huh?” you reply, blinking at the star of the soccer team. “oh, um. yeah. i’m okay.”

hanbin’s brow raises slightly at your answer as if it surprises him. “you sure?”

“yeah,” you reply as nonchalantly as possible. “why?”

you follow hanbin’s line of sight to the open page of your poetry journal. you’ve absentmindedly ripped a significant hole through several pages with your vortex of nervous scribbling.

you breathe an awkward laugh, closing your journal and putting your pencil down flat on your desk.

“you had a rough week,” hanbin says, grabbing his journal from his bag and placing it on his desk. you bite your cheeks to keep from grinning at the sight of your target. “or so i’ve heard.”

“i’m sure you have,” you mumble, glancing at the tile floor. “i’m sure everybody has.”

“they haven’t,” he replies definitively and you know he’s telling the truth. “i promise they haven’t.”

hanbin was a tricky one. the star of the soccer team and undoubtedly the most popular boy at your university, it comes as no surprise that he was also the makeshift ring leader of his stupid group of friends. keeping that spotlight also meant keeping up appearances. while your other bullies made their distaste for you known whenever possible, hanbin had a different preferred method of torture.

he liked to play nice. compliment your poems. share a laugh... reel you in.

until you were so close, you couldn’t escape. that’s when he’d flip the script on you. 

like when he sent your poem about the boy you liked to the entire university’s mailing list last year. you’d insisted you didn’t feel comfortable sharing it with him. you recoiled with embarrassment at the thought of junseo, your senior lab partner, finding out. but he pushed. made you think you could trust him.

the next day, it was pinned to every bulletin board across campus next to a picture of you that hanbin had taken on your class trip to the national library. like some sort of sick calling card.

junseo sunbae-nim never muttered more than a word to you ever again.

so that’s how all this started. hanbin recruiting his three (and then four) asshole friends in a sudden and violent quest to become the bane of your existence. 

sometimes you still can’t help but wonder if you’d done something to upset him. but you shake off that thought each time. you won’t let him get in your head again so easily.

you’ve about mustered the courage to give hanbin some snarky response when your professor’s chalk hatchings across the blackboard send a hush over the classroom.

“good afternoon, everyone,” professor choi greets happily, underlining today’s date on the board. “let’s jump right in today and start with our weekly journals. please share with your desk partner the poem that this week so far inspired you to write.”

your eyes fix on hanbin’s journal again, anticipation stirring as you think about the clues that could be hidden in his poem this week. could the answers you’re looking for really be inside that black, leather book?

“you should go fi—,” you start to suggest a bit too quietly before hanbin unknowingly cuts you off.

“do you wanna go first?” he asks brightly, smile lines illuminating his soft features. you know you shouldn’t indulge him, but you can never stop the corners of your lips from involuntarily turning up in response. no matter how much you hated him, his fairytale prince looks were undeniable.

“oh, uh,” you stammer, grabbing your journal and flipping it open to your entry from this week. you look at the poem you wrote, eyes scanning over the emotional stanzas as you bite your lip uneasily. “i dunno. i kind of got a bit too... personal this week.”

“oh, you know i don’t mind,” he replies calmly. “that’s what poetry is, right?”

“i’m well aware you don’t mind me spilling personal details to you,” you reply with a glare. “but i mind.”

“(y/n)-sshi,” professor choi’s voice suddenly rings over your shoulder. “let’s get reading, okay? time is limited.”

you swallow hard, looking down at your journal shamefully. “yes, professor-nim.”

“so what’s it called?” hanbin asks as professor choi makes her way back up to her desk, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back into his chair. “your poem?”

“the bird,” you answer softly. “it’s called the bird.”

he nods pensively before gesturing for you to start. you look back down at the page, fingers shaking as you try to hold your journal steady. clearing your throat, you recite:

“from her perch at the window, she will never be much. the vultures jeered at her as they circled above. then one flew down— with taloned-hand, he did touch. and a meek little finch turned into a dove. if a dove she can be, she will be it as such. til another vulture fell to his knees with a glove. parted her feathers and took her in his clutch. and from the fair bird, made a raven thereof. she needs to change back, so she tries to stay hush. but a third brash vulture throws her off with a shove. the reluctant truth is she’s filling with lust... and she’s growing quite scared of the bird she’ll become.”

you blink back tears as you close your journal and place it on your desk in front of you. maybe it’s your lack of sleep or the mentally and physically jarring week you’ve had, but reading your poem aloud had left you feeling quite vulnerable.

“that was beautiful, (y/n),” hanbin says suddenly, prying you from your regret. you turn to him, eyes wide as he nods thoughtfully. “i really appreciated the metaphor of the bird. the vultures are considered bad birds, but somehow they changed the subject from an unassuming bird into the more beautiful bird she seemed to want to be... but never thought she could.”

you stare at him as he glances up at the ceiling, those handsome smile lines crinkling his cheeks again.

“funny how things we could perceive as wrong or immoral can actually have a positive effect on us,” he muses with a chuckle. “but it’s only natural for the bird to question that change. she’s done more of that ‘bad’ thing and now she’s afraid it’s turned her into a raven. a bird that frightens her. or maybe a bird she can’t recognize anymore when she looks in the mirror.”

“it did,” you assert quietly. “it did change her.”

“but it sounds like she likes that change. at least part of her,” hanbin rebuts, meeting your gaze. “perhaps if she embraces that and sheds her own guilt— or molts, if you will— she’ll realize the raven is another distortion of her own making, just like the finch was. she’ll realize she is the dove and she always has been.”

your lips part as you gape at hanbin in awe. it was hard not to let your guard down with him when he always dissected your poems so intuitively like this. memories of intense public humiliation are the only thing that can keep you grounded.

“or,” he adds, a small smirk upturning the corner of his lips. “i guess she could also realize that ravens and vultures aren’t the bad birds she thinks they are. maybe she finds that, after all this worrying, she was meant to be a vulture, too.”

“under a minute left,” professor choi calls out from the front of the classroom.

shit. hanbin had talked so much about your poem that he barely had any time left to share his— the poem you desperately needed to be shared in the first place.

hanbin’s still rambling on about vultures, but you’re not paying any attention as a wave of panic rushes over you. 

“you should share yours still,” you prompt a little too eagerly, cutting him off mid-sentence. trying your best to dial it back, you add, “i’m sure it’s very interesting, what with the big game on saturday and all.”

hanbin smiles, holding your gaze for a moment too long. it’s suspicious, but his eyes give nothing away.

“if it’s okay with you, i’d rather not share this week,” he says, throwing his journal back in his bag. “i got a little too... how did you put it? personal.”

you blink at him. “but—. but that’s what i said and you—.”

hanbin mutters something under his breath that you swear sounds like, “not like you’d listen to me anyway.”

but you must’ve misheard him.

your heart sinks, your plan crumbling to ashes before your eyes as professor choi launches into a lecture about wilfred owen’s 20th century use of assonance. hanbin had to have written something about what his friends had been up to. that’s why he used up so much time focusing on your poem. 

your pencil moves across your paper, absentmindedly taking notes until you reach the only possible conclusion: you can’t give up. you’ll just have to amend the plan.

after class, you hurriedly gather your things and run out the door, pulling your phone out and typing vigorously as you make your way to the bathroom.

WHEN DOES THE BOYS’ SOCCER PRACTICE GO UNTIL TONIGHT!? mina: ??? NO QUESTIONS. JUST ANSWERS. mina: jiwoong oppa is picking me up at 7. so i assume about 6:30. THANK U BYE and... please be careful around him. mina: yeah, yeah, yeah i’ll use protection ily

totally not what you meant. and you’d hate to break it to her, but after his little stunt on monday, you’re not sure how fond her jiwoong oppa would be of that request.

6:30. practice would start soon, giving you plenty of time to slip into the boys’ locker room, read hanbin’s journal, and slip out undetected. 

you catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror.

a raven’s beady eyes stare back.

~

you kill some time in the library, waiting until practice is well underway before making your way across campus to the gymnasium. your heart is already pounding in your ears just thinking about the little heist you’re about to pull.

but your legs keep propelling you forward.

pulling open the building door, you step inside cautiously. the women’s badminton team is stretching in the atrium of the building, but there’s no sign of anyone else. you head right down the hallway, walking past the cardio fitness center and the weight-lifting gym until you’re in front of the boys’ locker room door.

you put an ear to it, hearing nothing but the whirring of a fan on the other side.

fuck it.

you pull open the door and step inside, white and grey tiled walls and rows of blue lockers surrounding you. your heart races as you look back at the door, wondering if it’s not too late to abandon your mission.

you shake your head. no. you need to find that journal.

with a steadying breath, you begin to walk through the first row of lockers. when you don’t spot hanbin’s bag, you proceed to the second row. and then the next. and then the next until you finally spot it.

tucked under the wooden bench running down the middle of the aisle is a familiar brown, leather messenger bag. you run to it, picking it up from the floor and setting it down on the bench. you unclasp the latch on the front of the bag and lift the flap, opening it up and reaching inside it.

your hand hits something... fluffy. you grab the fuzzy item and pull it out, squealing when you see that it’s a tiny, cream-colored hamster plush. it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen in your whole goddamn life. 

and you are disappointed to find yourself thinking it bears a striking resemblance to its owner.

you stuff the little hamster back into the bag. as cute as he is, it’s not what you came here for. you gasp when you feel the cold leather-bound journal in your hand, pulling it out hurriedly and examining the cover.

you open the journal, flipping through the pages rashly until you locate an entry with today’s date at the top. it reads:

“if one is a vulture, it’s assumed they’re no good— despite all the research that they’re helpful to earth. does the finch know that if that vulture could, he’d hunt for a mirror and show her her worth? if that finch is a dove, there’d be something that would still keep her away from achieving true mirth. it’s the vultures, she’d cry before she understood: the vulture has always been a sign of rebirth. a dove, raven, vulture, or finch from the woods, the vultures will find her and double their search. but for someone who claims they feel misunderstood, it’s repulsive the lengths she would go to unearth... something that does not belong to that bird. seems the dove was a raven afterall.”

“pretty good, huh?” the sudden voice behind you makes you jump. “wrote it in, like, ten minutes after class. what can i say? i was inspired.”

you don’t turn around. your face is already on fire from how mortified you are. of course, you’d considered the possibility of being caught. but you hadn’t really realized the weight of that consequence until this moment.

“actually, i think it might be even better than the original,” he continues, footsteps echoing against the tiled floors as he draws nearer. “i mean, you really should’ve thought to flesh out those vulture characters a bit. and you didn’t even consider looking up the well-known symbolism behind them.”

a hot breath fans across the back of your neck, causing you to shiver as a hand wraps around the leather-bound journal and pries it from yours.

“i have to admit, i didn’t really think you had it in you,” he says with a chuckle, fingers suddenly hooking into your waistband and turning you around to face him. he’s in his red and white soccer uniform, skin glistening from the practice meet he should be at right now. “but just in case, i wanted to be prepared. write you something worth reading.”

“h-how did you know?” you stutter quietly. “that i—”

“well, you weren’t exactly subtle, now were you?” hanbin smiles but the light doesn’t reach his eyes. “‘you should read your poem, hanbin. i’m sure it’s exciting with the big game coming up’. like you give a fuck about my poetry.”

that last sentence reminds you of what you thought you’d heard him mumble in class today: not like you’d listen to me anyway.

what was that about?

“aw, don’t get sad now that your plan didn’t go your way,” hanbin coos, lifting his hand to caress your cheek. “i thought it was kind of cute. i can forgive you for stealing, right? you just wanted my attention so badly that you had to play a bit dirty.”

you shake your head quickly. “no, it’s not like that! i swear i wasn’t trying to get your attention, i just—”

“well then, jesus fucking christ, what do i have to do to—,” hanbin snaps before promptly cutting himself off. there’s something in his eyes you’ve never seen before: desperation. 

a large hand wraps around your throat in an instant, shoving you up against a blue locker. the motion knocks the wind out of you and you find yourself gasping for air. your hand flies to remove his from around your neck, but he catches it in his free one and brings it gently back down to your side. 

“i told you in class that if you needed help calling off the vultures, you should ask me while you still can,” hanbin rasps, rubbing his thumb up the left side of your throat. “but you weren’t listening, dove. the gulper got first bite. the rippers tore you apart...”

you breathe shallowly, glancing from side to side for some route of escape.

“but now the king has landed,” he says, tongue flitting across his teeth. “and he’s fucking starving.”

you blink at him, lips parted in stupid shock. “i—... i honestly had no idea you knew so much about vultures.”

“THAT’S WHAT YOU TOOK FROM THAT ARE YOU KID—,” he yells, finger pads digging in tighter to the skin of your neck. his gaze falls to your lips, supple and pretty even in fear. he trails down to your shirt, a button-up front that seems to entice him. “take it off.”

“b-but—.”

“take it the fuck off, (y/n). you should know by now how this goes,” hanbin snarls, grabbing your hand and bringing it to the trail of buttons. you start to fiddle with them, but you have some trouble under the pressure of his gaze. “can’t even undo a button? hm? too fucking stupid, dove?”

you find yourself nodding against all odds.

“need binnie to do it for you?” he coos, smile lines illuminating his face again.

you just nod. it seems to be what you do best.

hanbin unfastens the buttons one-handed and with ease. once your shirt is open, he undoes the center clasp of your bra and exposes your chest. then, he sighs with dramatic disappointment. “seriously? that’s it? got me all excited to see your tits and this is what you have to show?”

you look down at your incredibly normal and attractive chest. you’d never really doubted the allure of that part of your body before. should you have?

the humiliating comment causes a lump to form in your throat... and an embarrassingly intense ache to shoot through your heat. 

he tugs the center hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric further off your shoulders. “it’s a good thing the other guys didn’t see them. they’re far more superficial than me. you should be grateful you found a guy who can look past the disappointment. ”

hanbin’s free hand gropes your chest, thumb rubbing circles around one nipple and then the next as you let out a soft whimper.

“mm, i heard that,” he breathes with a smirk. “even though you never hear me. probably didn’t even fucking clock the first line in that stupid poem. but i hear you, dove. so let me give you what you want. all you have to do is ask.”

you gulp, softly responding, “w-want you to... touch me.”

“yeah?” hanbin affirms, finger trailing down your stomach.

you nod again, this time more assuredly under the guise of his encouraging smile. that is, until a harsh slap stings your cheek.

“well that wasn’t a fucking question, was it?” hanbin hisses, rubbing soothing circles into your cheek with his thumb. “you’re in an advanced poetry class and you don��t even know how to form an interrogative sentence? just must be doodling all the time, huh? about all the boys who’ve made a mess of you this week? like the dumb little slut you are.”

hanbin’s free hand slips under your skirt, fingers brushing over your clothed core before pulling it out again. you gasp when you see his fingers already covered in your arousal.

his eyes darken as he reaches up your skirt again, tearing a hole right through your lace panties and stuffing two fingers inside of you immediately as you cry out. 

“oh, dove, why would i wanna put my cock in here, hm? can already feel how much those other assholes have stretched you out,” hanbin says with another sigh of disappointment. 

another bout of worry clouds your mind. was that true? was matthew right? you thought he was just being a misogynistic pig, but... had you really been physically tainted from the events of this week?

“so fucking lucky, dove,” hanbin whispers, removing his hand from your heat and taking one of yours. he brings it down the front of his athletic shorts and then wraps it around his impossibly hard length. you look up at him, wide-eyed. “where every other man would see damaged goods, i see prime real estate.”

“what—”

“gonna fuck you now, m’kay?” hanbin interjects, pulling his shorts down and exposing himself to you. you hadn’t really seen the other boys up close or at all like this. hanbin’s cock is pretty, long with just a few visible veins and a pink head that’s leaking a bit of pre-cum. it makes your mouth water. maybe you are a dumb slut.

maybe you like it like that.

or maybe it’s just hanbin’s large hand covering your throat, pressing at the sides tenderly that’s making you start to feel a bit high. he brings himself to your entrance, lining up the tip and coating it in your juices. he’s about to push himself inside of you, when he suddenly freezes.

“you want me to, right?” hanbin asks, tone suddenly much softer than it was before. his eyes are locked with yours, holding you there with him against the wall of lockers. “you want me inside you? just me. not those other guys? not junseo hyung-nim or—”

BEEEEEEEEEP. BRRANG. BRRANG. BRRANG. BEEEEEEEE....

a fire alarm rips through the locker room, loud and annoying as ever. you try to jump out of hanbin’s grasp, but his hands stay fixed around you. 

“let me... let me go!” you assert, hitting his chest with your palm. the pressure on your neck that felt so good just a few moments ago is now filling you with fear, “are you trying to kill me or something!?”

his brow raises slightly, as if he only just noticed the alarm. his grip loosens and you take the opportunity to scramble away from him. 

“of course i’m not,” he replies dejectedly, re-situating his shorts before huffing, “like you have a body worth going to jail for.”

“oh, shut up,” you retort, rolling your eyes as you race to re-button your shirt. “this is all YOUR fault. whatever’s going on this week, i know you’re behind it. you’ve run out of ideas to keep me small. but i’m not small. in fact, i’m a much bigger person than you are! so... i’m sorry for whatever i did that made you hate me so much in the first place. now, please, let’s get out of here.”

you start to run down the aisle of lockers towards the exit door, but a lack of footsteps behind you causes you to stop and turn back.

“come on,” you urge as hanbin continues to stand in place and stare at you, unmoving. it might be the most infuriating thing he’s done all day. “oh, fucking burn then.”

the tangible anger in your voice startles both of you. hanbin blinks quickly back at you, wide-eyed as if you’ve just slapped him across the face. whoever gave him the right to feel that way is sorely mistaken. you turn back around, throwing over your shoulder:

“are there birds worse than vultures?”

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

gender neutral version below

EXPLICIT SMUT 18+ WARNINGS: choking (reader receiving and safely executed lmao), chest/abdomen groping (reader receiving; no anatomical descriptions or gender specific language), heavy petting (reader and hanbin receiving), finger penetration (brief, reader receiving), erotic humiliation and degradation (towards reader; regarding looseness of hole (non specific) from desperation and disappointing chest/abdomen region (not related to gender or anatomical gendered parts he's just being a dick to you i hope this makes sense)), slut and whore are also used but not in a gendered context, one slap across face (reader receiving), slight dub-con but we know how reader rolls now lol. hanbin is insanely toxic. enjoy.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

scribble. scribble. scribble. 

the scratchings of your pencil in your poetry journal are growing increasingly violent. you don’t really care. you’d stayed up all night: tossing and turning and thinking and plotting. 

“hey, uh... you okay?” hanbin asks, tapping you gently with the end of his pen. your pencil falls from your fingers as you’re jolted from your anxious thought spiral. 

“huh?” you reply, blinking at the star of the soccer team. “oh, um. yeah. i’m okay.”

hanbin’s brow raises slightly at your answer as if it surprises him. “you sure?”

“yeah,” you reply as nonchalantly as possible. “why?”

you follow hanbin’s line of sight to the open page of your poetry journal. you’ve absentmindedly ripped a significant hole through several pages with your vortex of nervous scribbling.

you breathe an awkward laugh, closing your journal and putting your pencil down flat on your desk.

“you had a rough week,” hanbin says, grabbing his journal from his bag and placing it on his desk. you bite your cheeks to keep from grinning at the sight of your target. “or so i’ve heard.”

“i’m sure you have,” you mumble, glancing at the tile floor. “i’m sure everybody has.”

“they haven’t,” he replies definitively and you know he’s telling the truth. “i promise they haven’t.”

hanbin was a tricky one. the star of the soccer team and undoubtedly the most popular boy at your university, it comes as no surprise that he was also the makeshift ring leader of his stupid group of friends. keeping that spotlight also meant keeping up appearances. while your other bullies made their distaste for you known whenever possible, hanbin had a different preferred method of torture.

he liked to play nice. compliment your poems. share a laugh... reel you in.

until you were so close, you couldn’t escape. that’s when he’d flip the script on you. 

like when he sent your poem about the boy you liked to the entire university’s mailing list last year. you’d insisted you didn’t feel comfortable sharing it with him. you recoiled with embarrassment at the thought of junseo, your senior lab partner, finding out. but he pushed. made you think you could trust him.

the next day, it was pinned to every bulletin board across campus next to a picture of you that hanbin had taken on your class trip to the national library. like some sort of sick calling card.

junseo sunbae-nim never muttered more than a word to you ever again.

so that’s how all this started. hanbin recruiting his three (and then four) asshole friends in a sudden and violent quest to become the bane of your existence. 

sometimes you still can’t help but wonder if you’d done something to upset him. but you shake off that thought each time. you won’t let him get in your head again so easily.

you’ve about mustered the courage to give hanbin some snarky response when your professor’s chalk hatchings across the blackboard send a hush over the classroom.

“good afternoon, everyone,” professor choi greets happily, underlining today’s date on the board. “let’s jump right in today and start with our weekly journals. please share with your desk partner the poem that this week so far inspired you to write.”

your eyes fix on hanbin’s journal again, anticipation stirring as you think about the clues that could be hidden in his poem this week. could the answers you’re looking for really be inside that black, leather book?

“you should go fi—,” you start to suggest a bit too quietly before hanbin unknowingly cuts you off.

“do you wanna go first?” he asks brightly, smile lines illuminating his soft features. you know you shouldn’t indulge him, but you can never stop the corners of your lips from involuntarily turning up in response. no matter how much you hated him, his fairytale prince looks were undeniable.

“oh, uh,” you stammer, grabbing your journal and flipping it open to your entry from this week. you look at the poem you wrote, eyes scanning over the emotional stanzas as you bite your lip uneasily. “i dunno. i kind of got a bit too... personal this week.”

“oh, you know i don’t mind,” he replies calmly. “that’s what poetry is, right?”

“i’m well aware you don’t mind me spilling personal details to you,” you reply with a glare. “but i mind.”

“(y/n)-sshi,” professor choi’s voice suddenly rings over your shoulder. “let’s get reading, okay? time is limited.”

you swallow hard, looking down at your journal shamefully. “yes, professor-nim.”

“so what’s it called?” hanbin asks as professor choi makes her way back up to her desk, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back into his chair. “your poem?”

“the bird,” you answer softly. “it’s called the bird.”

he nods pensively before gesturing for you to start. you look back down at the page, fingers shaking as you try to hold your journal steady. clearing your throat, you recite:

“from it’s perch at the window, it will never be much. the vultures jeered at it as they circled above. then one flew down— with taloned-hand, he did touch. and a meek little finch turned into a dove. if a dove it can be, it will be it as such. til another vulture fell to his knees with a glove. parted it’s feathers and took it in his clutch. and from the fair bird, made a raven thereof. it needs to change back, so it tries to stay hush. but a third brash vulture throws it off with a shove. the reluctant truth is it’s filling with lust... and it’s growing quite scared of the bird it will become.”

you blink back tears as you close your journal and place it on your desk in front of you. maybe it’s your lack of sleep or the mentally and physically jarring week you’ve had, but reading your poem aloud had left you feeling quite vulnerable.

“that was beautiful, (y/n),” hanbin says suddenly, prying you from your regret. you turn to him, eyes wide as he nods thoughtfully. “i really appreciated the metaphor of the bird. the vultures are considered bad birds, but somehow they changed the subject from an unassuming bird into the more beautiful bird it seemed to want to be... but never thought it could.”

you stare at him as he glances up at the ceiling, those handsome smile lines crinkling his cheeks again.

“funny how things we could perceive as wrong or immoral can actually have a positive effect on us,” he muses with a chuckle. “but it’s only natural for the bird to question that change. it’s done more of that ‘bad’ thing and now it’s afraid it’s been turned into a raven. a bird that’s frightening. or maybe a bird it can’t recognize anymore when it looks in the mirror.”

“it did,” you assert quietly. “it did change the bird.”

“but it sounds like the bird likes that change. at least part of it,” hanbin rebuts, meeting your gaze. “perhaps if it embraces that and sheds it’s own guilt— or molts, if you will— it’ll realize the raven is another distortion of the bird’s own making, just like the finch was. it’ll realize it is the dove and it always has been.”

your lips part as you gape at hanbin in awe. it was hard not to let your guard down with him when he always dissected your poems so intuitively like this. memories of intense public humiliation are the only thing that can keep you grounded.

“or,” he adds, a small smirk upturning the corner of his lips. “i guess it could also realize that ravens and vultures aren’t the bad birds it thinks they are. maybe it finds that, after all this worrying, the bird was meant to be a vulture, too.”

“under a minute left,” professor choi calls out from the front of the classroom.

shit. hanbin had talked so much about your poem that he barely had any time left to share his— the poem you desperately needed to be shared in the first place.

hanbin’s still rambling on about vultures, but you’re not paying any attention as a wave of panic rushes over you. 

“you should share yours still,” you prompt a little too eagerly, cutting him off mid-sentence. trying your best to dial it back, you add, “i’m sure it’s very interesting, what with the big game on saturday and all.”

hanbin smiles, holding your gaze for a moment too long. it’s suspicious, but his eyes give nothing away.

“if it’s okay with you, i’d rather not share this week,” he says, throwing his journal back in his bag. “i got a little too... how did you put it? personal.”

you blink at him. “but—. but that’s what i said and you—.”

hanbin mutters something under his breath that you swear sounds like, “not like you’d listen to me anyway.”

but you must’ve misheard him.

your heart sinks, your plan crumbling to ashes before your eyes as professor choi launches into a lecture about wilfred owen’s 20th century use of assonance. hanbin had to have written something about what his friends had been up to. that’s why he used up so much time focusing on your poem. 

your pencil moves across your paper, absentmindedly taking notes until you reach the only possible conclusion: you can’t give up. you’ll just have to amend the plan.

after class, you hurriedly gather your things and run out the door, pulling your phone out and typing vigorously as you make your way to the bathroom.

WHEN DOES THE BOYS’ SOCCER PRACTICE GO UNTIL TONIGHT!? mina: ??? NO QUESTIONS. JUST ANSWERS. mina: jiwoong oppa is picking me up at 7. so i assume about 6:30. THANK U BYE and... please be careful around him. mina: yeah, yeah, yeah i’ll use protection ily

totally not what you meant. and you’d hate to break it to her, but after his little stunt on monday, you’re not sure how fond her jiwoong oppa would be of that request.

6:30. practice would start soon, giving you plenty of time to slip into the boys’ locker room, read hanbin’s journal, and slip out undetected. 

you catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror.

a raven’s beady eyes stare back.

~

you kill some time in the library, waiting until practice is well underway before making your way across campus to the gymnasium. your heart is already pounding in your ears just thinking about the little heist you’re about to pull.

but your legs keep propelling you forward.

pulling open the building door, you step inside cautiously. the women’s badminton team is stretching in the atrium of the building, but there’s no sign of anyone else. you head right down the hallway, walking past the cardio fitness center and the weight-lifting gym until you’re in front of the boys’ locker room door.

you put an ear to it, hearing nothing but the whirring of a fan on the other side.

fuck it.

you pull open the door and step inside, white and grey tiled walls and rows of blue lockers surrounding you. your heart races as you look back at the door, wondering if it’s not too late to abandon your mission.

you shake your head. no. you need to find that journal.

with a steadying breath, you begin to walk through the first row of lockers. when you don’t spot hanbin’s bag, you proceed to the second row. and then the next. and then the next until you finally spot it.

tucked under the wooden bench running down the middle of the aisle is a familiar brown, leather messenger bag. you run to it, picking it up from the floor and setting it down on the bench. you unclasp the latch on the front of the bag and lift the flap, opening it up and reaching inside it.

your hand hits something... fluffy. you grab the fuzzy item and pull it out, squealing when you see that it’s a tiny, cream-colored hamster plush. it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen in your whole goddamn life. 

and you are disappointed to find yourself thinking it bears a striking resemblance to its owner.

you stuff the little hamster back into the bag. as cute as he is, it’s not what you came here for. you gasp when you feel the cold leather-bound journal in your hand, pulling it out hurriedly and examining the cover.

you open the journal, flipping through the pages rashly until you locate an entry with today’s date at the top. it reads:

“if one is a vulture, it’s assumed they’re no good— despite all the research that they’re helpful to earth. does the finch know that if that vulture could, he’d hunt for a mirror and show it it’s worth? if that finch is a dove, there’d be something that would still keep it away from achieving true mirth. it’s the vultures, the bird cries before it understood: the vulture has always been a sign of rebirth. a dove, raven, vulture, or finch from the woods, the vultures will find it and double their search. but for someone who claims they feel misunderstood, it’s repulsive the lengths it would go to unearth... something that does not belong to that bird. seems the dove was a raven afterall.”

“pretty good, huh?” the sudden voice behind you makes you jump. “wrote it in, like, ten minutes after class. what can i say? i was inspired.”

you don’t turn around. your face is already on fire from how mortified you are. of course, you’d considered the possibility of being caught. but you hadn’t really realized the weight of that consequence until this moment.

“actually, i think it might be even better than the original,” he continues, footsteps echoing against the tiled floors as he draws nearer. “i mean, you really should’ve thought to flesh out those vulture characters a bit. and you didn’t even consider looking up the well-known symbolism behind them.”

a hot breath fans across the back of your neck, causing you to shiver as a hand wraps around the leather-bound journal and pries it from yours.

“i have to admit, i didn’t really think you had it in you,” he says with a chuckle, fingers suddenly hooking into your waistband and turning you around to face him. he’s in his red and white soccer uniform, skin glistening from the practice meet he should be at right now. “but just in case, i wanted to be prepared. write you something worth reading.”

“h-how did you know?” you stutter quietly. “that i—”

“well, you weren’t exactly subtle, now were you?” hanbin smiles but the light doesn’t reach his eyes. “‘you should read your poem, hanbin. i’m sure it’s exciting with the big game coming up’. like you give a fuck about my poetry.”

that last sentence reminds you of what you thought you’d heard him mumble in class today: not like you’d listen to me anyway.

what was that about?

“aw, don’t get sad now that your plan didn’t go your way,” hanbin coos, lifting his hand to caress your cheek. “i thought it was kind of cute. i can forgive you for stealing, right? you just wanted my attention so badly that you had to play a bit dirty.”

you shake your head quickly. “no, it’s not like that! i swear i wasn’t trying to get your attention, i just—”

“well then, jesus fucking christ, what do i have to do to—,” hanbin snaps before promptly cutting himself off. there’s something in his eyes you’ve never seen before: desperation. 

a large hand wraps around your throat in an instant, shoving you up against a blue locker. the motion knocks the wind out of you and you find yourself gasping for air. your hand flies to remove his from around your neck, but he catches it in his free one and brings it gently back down to your side. 

“i told you in class that if you needed help calling off the vultures, you should ask me while you still can,” hanbin rasps, rubbing his thumb up the left side of your throat. “but you weren’t listening, dove. the gulper got first bite. the rippers tore you apart...”

you breathe shallowly, glancing from side to side for some route of escape.

“but now the king has landed,” he says, tongue flitting across his teeth. “and he’s fucking starving.”

you blink at him, lips parted in stupid shock. “i—... i honestly had no idea you knew so much about vultures.”

“THAT’S WHAT YOU TOOK FROM THAT ARE YOU KID—,” he yells, finger pads digging in tighter to the skin of your neck. his gaze falls to your lips, supple and pretty even in fear. he trails down to your shirt, a button-up front that seems to entice him. “take it off.”

“b-but—.”

“take it the fuck off, (y/n). you should know by now how this goes,” hanbin snarls, grabbing your hand and bringing it to the trail of buttons. you start to fiddle with them, but you have some trouble under the pressure of his gaze. “can’t even undo a button? hm? too fucking stupid, dove?”

you find yourself nodding against all odds.

“need binnie to do it for you?” he coos, smile lines illuminating his face again.

you just nod again. it seems to be what you do best.

hanbin unfastens the buttons one-handed and with ease. once your shirt is open, he tugs it to the side and exposes your chest. then, he sighs with dramatic disappointment. “seriously? that’s it? got me all excited to see how good you look under here and this is what you have to show?”

you look down at your incredibly normal and attractive upper body. you’d never really doubted the aesthetics of it before. should you have?

the humiliating comment causes a lump to form in your throat... and an embarrassingly intense ache to shoot through your heat. 

he tugs the center hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric further off your shoulders. “it’s a good thing the other guys didn’t see this. they’re far more superficial than me. you should be grateful you found a guy who can look past the disappointment. ”

hanbin’s free hand roams across your abdomen and chest, fingers ghosting sweetly against your skin until you let out the tiniest whimper.

“mm, i heard that,” he breathes with a smirk. “even though you never hear me. probably didn’t even fucking clock the first line in that stupid poem. but i hear you, dove. so let me give you what you want. all you have to do is ask.”

you gulp, softly responding, “w-want you to... touch me.”

“yeah?” hanbin affirms, finger trailing down your stomach.

you nod again, this time more assuredly under the guise of his encouraging smile. that is, until a harsh slap stings your cheek.

“well that wasn’t a fucking question, was it?” hanbin hisses, rubbing soothing circles into your cheek with his thumb. “you’re in an advanced poetry class and you don’t even know how to form an interrogative sentence? just must be doodling all the time, huh? about all the boys who’ve made a mess of you this week? like the dumb little slut you are.”

hanbin’s free hand finds it’s way into your jeans, fingers brushing over your clothed core before pulling it out again. you gasp when you see his fingers already covered in your arousal.

his eyes darken as he undoes the button clasp and zipper of your pants, shoving your underwear to the side with his fingers. he forces your legs a bit farther apart before stuffing a finger inside of you, causing you to cry out. 

“oh, dove, why would i wanna put my cock in here, hm? so desperate, i could slip right in,” hanbin says with another sigh of disappointment. “did the other guys really make such a whore of you?”

another bout of worry clouds your mind. was that true? was matthew right? you thought he was just being a red-pilled pig, but... had you somehow been physically tainted from the events of this week?

“so fucking lucky, dove,” hanbin whispers, removing his hand from your center and taking one of yours. he brings it down the front of his athletic shorts and then wraps it around his impossibly hard length. you look up at him, wide-eyed. “where every other man would see damaged goods, i see prime real estate.”

“what—”

“gonna fuck you now, m’kay?” hanbin interjects, pulling his shorts down and exposing himself to you. you hadn’t really seen the other boys up close or at all like this. hanbin’s cock is pretty— long with just a few visible veins and a pink head that’s leaking a bit of pre-cum. it makes your mouth water. maybe you are a dumb slut.

maybe you like it like that.

or maybe it’s just hanbin’s large hand covering your throat, pressing at the sides both tenderly and persistently that’s making you feel a bit high. he brings himself to your entrance, spitting in his hand and covering his length as he lines up the tip. he’s about to push himself inside of you, when he suddenly freezes.

“you want me to, right?” hanbin asks, tone suddenly much softer than it was before. his eyes are locked with yours, holding you there with him against the wall of lockers. “you want me inside you? just me. not those other guys? not junseo hyung-nim or—”

BEEEEEEEEEP. BRRANG. BRRANG. BRRANG. BEEEEEEEE....

a fire alarm rips through the locker room, loud and annoying as ever. you try to jump out of hanbin’s grasp, but his hands stay fixed around you. 

“let me... let me go!” you assert, hitting his chest with your palm. the pressure on your neck that felt so good just a few moments ago is now filling you with fear, “are you trying to kill me or something!?”

his brow raises slightly, as if he only just noticed the alarm. his grip loosens and you take the opportunity to scramble away from him, frantically zipping up your jeans. 

“of course i’m not,” he replies dejectedly, re-situating his shorts before huffing, “like you have a body worth going to jail for.”

“oh, shut up,” you retort, rolling your eyes as you race to re-button your shirt. “this is all YOUR fault. whatever’s going on this week, i know you’re behind it. you’ve run out of ideas to keep me small. but i’m not small. in fact, i’m a much bigger person than you are! so... i’m sorry for whatever i did that made you hate me so much in the first place. now, please, let’s get out of here.”

you start to run down the aisle of lockers towards the exit door, but a lack of footsteps behind you causes you to stop and turn back.

“come on,” you urge as hanbin continues to stand in place and stare at you, unmoving. it might be the most infuriating thing he’s done all day. “oh, fucking burn then.”

the tangible anger in your voice startles both of you. hanbin blinks quickly back at you, wide-eyed as if you’ve just slapped him across the face. whoever gave him the right to feel that way is sorely mistaken. you turn back around, throwing over your shoulder:

“are there birds worse than vultures?”

[academiareid]

Spencer Reid Boyfriend Headcanons

Lots of fluff basically (gn!reader)

he's such a romantic, no one would believe it but he secretly reads a lot of romance books and day dreams about everything he'd do for the love of his life

some people think he's not good with his words but I think he would be, words of affirmation would be one of his love languages especially when he's head over heels for someone

when he's dating you he'd leave little love notes everywhere for you to find, especially when he's away on cases so you're reminded of how much he loves you

every now and again you'll find a poem he wrote just for you

he keeps a picture of you in his wallet and a polaroid of you in his go bag

every time he returns from a case he'll always bring you your favourite treat to surprise you

any chance he gets to talk to someone about you he will and he'll show off the picture he has of you in his wallet

he doesn't know how to set wallpapers on his phone so he asked Garcia if she could help him set pictures of you and him as his wallpaper and home screen

he'll read poetry books and highlight all the poems/lines that make him think of you, he'll sometimes annotate them too and give them to you as a gift to read when he's not home

Part 2

Masterlist

[the-californicationist]

he doesn’t disappoint

Wrote this fic as I was inspired by the challenge from @sky-is-the-limit that asked for Price getting fed up with hearing his hot neighbor have really terrible sex.

“I came to do what your sorry excuse of a boyfriend can’t.”

MDNI/18+

AO3 Version here

Four long stories above the people and the pigeons, she sat, legs on the railing of her amazingly small balcony, reading and writing. Always dressed in that huge jumper with the fraying collar, it swallowed her, covering her little spandex shorts that barely managed to keep her thick arse from slipping out of them, and she had her hair in the braid again. It was his favorite. He liked the ponytails, too, but the braid did something to him. When she plaited her hair and let that heavy rope hang limply over her shoulder, she became Repunzel, and he was Gallahad - or whatever muppet was meant to be at the bottom of her tower.

Captain Price knew that, the moment his fingers flipped the lock on his window, he’d disturb her peace. She’d startle, like a doe, and turn to smile at him. He lived for that turn. Every few nights, he’d catch her out here again, and he could make her turn to him. Make her smile at him. Make her laugh and talk with him, until she went to bed. But, that was the problem. Lately, her bed was filled with the one thing that made Price’s body fill with frustrated rage: The Boyfriend.

The Boyfriend was such a typical Yank, it made Price’s eyes roll back in his head. From the boat shoes to the bad fade haircut, the lad looked like an Abercrombie advert had escaped from one of those oversized shopping bags and landed in her apartment. He was small, first of all, despite the gym-made muscles. And he was as smooth as an otter, fully hairless. Price shuddered back to the memory of watching him try to put up the fire escape ladder shirtless, struggling to lift it with those tiny hands of his, making a disgusted face at the dirt on his palms afterward, wiping it on her blanket without her seeing him. Disgusting little gremlin.

She kept giving this wanker chance after chance to figure it out in the bedroom, and Price had heard just about enough of it, and his gut twisted in his belly knowing he’d have to hear it again tonight. He knew The Boyfriend was here because she was doing her work outside. The Boyfriend insisted on playing his Battle Zone videogames on full volume, bothering her, and complaining like a child if she asked him to put on his headphones. Price enjoyed imagining how quickly he’d expire on a real battlefield. That little prick could scream all the obscenities he wanted but he’d be dead in milliseconds against a man like Price.

His darling didn’t know about that, though. She knew he was in the military, but she didn’t know that he was the leader of the deadliest special forces team in the world. He imagined explaining it to her, pictured the fear flooding her face, confusion and shock hanging out of her open mouth. No. He couldn’t tell her about himself. Usually, when they talked together on the balcony, he would smoke long, densely-packed cigars and sip his whisky while she confessed the sins of her day to him. She told him about grad school, about her poetry, maybe showing him a sample or two. It was beautiful. When she was upset, she’d even tap on his window to see if he was home, sometimes tearful, asking for advice on how to handle something The Boyfriend had done. On really bad nights, she’d lean in and hug him, crying on his enormous shoulder, telling him what a good friend he was for listening to her. She smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, and her warmth made his cock swell with furious need.

As the night dragged on, The Boyfriend would eventually remember her and call her inside. He’d croon all sorts of things to her. His little whining “come on, baby” and pathetic “I just really need you to” quips were the opening lines to the worst song on Earth. He’d then spend the next five to ten minutes whimpering away on top of her, the headboard slamming into Price’s wall without rhythm. If the gorgeous woman suffering beneath him ever had the audacity to actually be enjoying his attempt, he’d shush her, shaming her for making noises, telling her “the neighbors don’t need to hear that shit.” Meanwhile, The Neighbor would be plotting his slow, painful death.

The banging started, and Price wanted to burst through the wall and stop this trainwreck from happening to her again. Eventually, a short time after it had begun, the banging stopped. Then, an even shorter time after that, the jingle of keys and the “I have an early day tomorrow” and “I have to go” were the outro to The Boyfriend’s opus.

Enough was enough. Before he even knew what he was doing, Price had his hand, raised in a fist, knocking on her apartment door. 23B. Shadow in the peephole. The click and clatter of a lock chain.

“Oh! John, it’s you. Is everything okay?” Her voice was low and smooth. Her cheeks were flushed. She was standing in her doorway, wearing those shorts, that jumper, still full of her need.

“No,” was all he could manage as he looked at her, his blue eyes blown, mad with desire.

“Oh, okay. Come in, I’ll make us some of that delicious tea you bought me. What are you doing here?”

Price followed her inside, silently relocking the portal, stalking her into the tiny kitchen, a mirror to his own. He came up behind her as she was looking in her cupboard for their mugs. When he put his hands on her hips, she froze, startled, eyeing him over her shoulder. His voice was just above a whisper, gravelly and accented, and he said,

“I came to do what your sorry excuse of a boyfriend can’t.”

She was on her tiptoes, reaching for the cups, but as she registered what he said, she slowly lowered herself back down to the tile of her floor, turning to face her neighbor with a look of shock on her face.

“What?”

Price played with the end of her braid, turning the end of it over in his hand, wrapping it up along his knuckles like a rope. He snaked the other hand up underneath her sweatshirt, fingers lingering on her warm belly, searching for the smooth swell of her breast. He told her, snarling,

“If I have to hear him continue to use you like a warm fucking towel, leaving you wanting, I will lose my bloody mind. Call him. Tell him he’s done.”

“You could hear us?” She flushed quickly at that, recalling all of the times she’d been punished for her noises.

“And I always hear you afterwards, after he leaves, making up for his…shortcomings. Bit sad, innit? Needing to take care of yourself when he should be the one looking after you. Time for someone new. Get your phone, love.”

It took her a moment to register what he was suggesting, but she was fed up, too. She smiled at his comment, and she reached for her phone on the countertop.

“Put it on speaker, sweetheart,” he commanded her. She obeyed.

One ring.

Two rings.

“Uh, what do you want?” The Boyfriend answered.

“Hey, Dick,” Price snarled, “We got some bad news, lad.”

“I’m breaking up with you, Richard,” she spoke into the phone very clearly, wrapping her free hand around Price’s huge bicep, not able to cover even half of its circumference, exploring him as he fondled her, one fist still holding her plait cruelly.

“What? Why? Who is that?”

“Why?” She scoffed, “Because every time I’ve come, for as long as we’ve been together, has been when you’re not here.”

“Are you serious? Fuck you, bitch. You’re just a -”

“Tha’s enough, Dick,” Price barked into the phone, “Look, no worries, mate. I’ll take it from here.”

Click. Price hung up her phone and turned it off, tossing it back across the counter. It made a loud, plasticky bang as it fell. He pressed his heavy erection against her body, crushing her hips with his, and moved his hand back under her jumper, plucking at her nipple like a soft petal, pinching it to make it stand at attention, watching her watch him.

“John, you… you never said anything,” she looked up into his eyes, begging him to tell her the truth he’d kept locked away for months.

“This isn’t even the half of it, girl,” he started to kiss her neck, sucking at her skin, his body writhing on top of hers, mimicking actions it would soon employ once he could get her out of her clothes, “I’ve wanted you for so. Fucking. Long.”

She moaned at the way he was kissing her throat with his bearded mouth, licking her with his long tongue. She cradled his furry cheek in her hand, enjoying the feel of its coarse hairs, whispering to him,

“When he leaves, you’re the one I picture. In my head.”

She might as well have lit a bomb. That was all he needed to hear.

He was strong enough to hoist her up onto the counter with one of his arms, wrapping it around her waist and setting her on the edge, her thighs spread wide to accommodate his huge body in between them. He tugged on her braid, using it to expose her smooth throat. She gasped, reaching out to steady herself.

The captain stood over her, looming like a dark beast, warning her in his quiet, steady voice,

“If I ever, and I mean ever, hear that little prick banging your headboard on my wall again, it’ll be his last day above ground. Am I crystal clear, love?”

“Yes,” she whispered back, a little uncertain how serious he was.

“Good girl.”

Price let go of her hair and scooped her off of the counter, carrying her with her legs locked behind him, through the small flat, and crashed to the bed where she’d just been disappointed. He vowed to her, silently, that he would do anything but disappoint.

Clothes started coming off in peeled layers; shirts, bras, pants, underwear - everything was shucked away like the rind of a melon, leaving only the soft, sticky inside, ripe and ready to be devoured. Price made his way down her body, biting and sucking whenever he wanted to do so, leaving a trail of teeth marks behind. Eventually, he could feel the heat of her pussy against his cheek, and it made him shudder.

He had pulled her phone into his pocket, and now he wanted to twist the knife. He called The Boyfriend and sent his own number straight to voicemail, preparing to leave a delicious message.

As he began to eat her juices, sucking them off her folds like the drippings from a popsicle, he started to hear little mewlings, soft and sweet, but very reserved. He glanced up at the rest of his meal, wondering why she was holding back. Then, he remembered The Boyfriend’s number one rule.

“Look at me,” Price ordered from beneath her thighs.

She hesitated, trying to hide her shame, putting her face in her hands, breathing heavy and ragged.

He reached both hands up to grab her ribs, coming up and out from his position to let her get a better look at him.

“Look at me, love.” It was a softer, lower tone, and she came out of hiding to obey him. He continued to command her, gently, “I want to hear your pleasure, sweetness. The louder you get, the harder I get. I hope the whole bloody city hears you tonight.”

“Are you sure? You like it?” Fuck if he wasn’t about to hunt that man down and execute him, authority or not.

“God, yes, love. Let me make you scream.”

This voicemail was going to be incredible.

He returned to his duty post between her legs, excited to start his work anew. This time, as his tongue worked her open, fucking liquidly in and out of her pink hole, swirling up around her clit, and exploring every hidden gem between them, he listened to her keening. It was soft at first, but then, when he began to stretch her, pushing down with his two, rough fingers, thrusting them slowly in and out, she started to come. Her cries were incredible. She was screaming for him to fuck her, to take her, to do anything to her, and he loved it.

Crawling back over her, Price used his heavy cockhead to paint drooling precome all over her slick slit, soaking himself so he could more easily fit himself into her core. He didn’t want to hurt her, and other lovers had trained him to know that his was big enough to be a weapon.

“That’s my good girl. Do you feel good, you sweet little thing? You’re a fucking dream. Tell me that you’re ready for this cock in you. I wanna hear you say it. Tell me, love.”

She was shaking from her orgasm, looking at him, bewildered, and she rushed the words out of her mouth like fire,

“I need it, please. John, I need you to fuck me. Fuck me, please, John. Put your cock in me,” and, like magic, Price obliged. Just as good at taking orders as he was at giving them.

Feeding his length inside of her wasn’t the issue, it was the fact that she was coming while he tried to do it. Price had a hand steadily working her clit, wetly pressing it where she needed it, and she was clenching against him so tightly, like a wet, molten fist, that it nearly pushed him out of her. He grabbed her body, looping his enormous arm behind her back, and shoved her down, locking her against his hips, deliciously impaled.

Her face was twisted into the most beautiful kind of agony, and as she came down from her high, he began to move in her. After she bloomed around his cock, opening like a flower, he was able to fuck into her even deeper, groaning with each of his thrusts. She gasped,

“Oh, God. John, you’re so good. You’re not done yet?”

He laughed, out loud and brazenly, holding her tighter,

“Oh, lovely girl, no. No,” he smiled down at his pretty little neighbor, “Those days are gone. I’m going to be inside of you all fucking night.”

[zylusmusings]

Winter's surprisingly warm in September

Synopsis: M/C loves Zayne, and Zayne loves M/C. They spend a week away in a quiet cottage to celebrate Zayne's birthday. Zayne is thankful, yet he cannot truly express it in the way he wants to but he finds a way.

Word Count:c2.5k 

Warning/s: None, just good ol' fluff hehe.

Note: I had initially posted this on A03 for Zayne's birthday but had only gotten around to proofreading it and making some changes. If there are any other grammatical mistakes welp sorry call it a rebellion against the coloniser's language lmfaooo.

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Zayne is not a cold and indifferent man, he really is not. It is simply that his bashful grins and crinkles beside his eyes are solely reserved for one. Locked and kept away for years on end - he had known for just as long that she had held the key. It was merely a test of his patience and trust in fate that she had taken her time to realise her ownership.

His passive face is one that she and everyone else have grown accustomed to, so it warms her to no end when he spoils her with his boisterous laughter and endless affection. She likes it though (almost feels selfish too sometimes) yet the fact that this side of him is reserved solely for her? She treasures it like an intimate secret, the honourable one he’d chosen to bear witness to his most vulnerable moments and parts. As beautiful as the raw Zayne is, a protective lover she is - she’d close the blinds at anyones else’s attempt to steal a peek at her treasure trove.

It is snowing, and Zayne looks right at home. Sure, it is a little on the nose, with his Evol being ice after all. But he is beautiful, the green in his eyes the perfect apology for the lack of leaves, all fallen as nature dances into the cold season. She wonders sometimes, if he realises that every part of his body and character sung symphonies and wrote poetry illustrating nature’s best work. A crimson shade has found home across his cheeks, a little due to the cold, many due to her unbashful flirtation. She loves complimenting him and is very well aware that she does it a lot, but she likes to think of it as making amends for all of the time lost from forcing the distance between themselves from each other. 

It was a funny yet regretful story that she would hope to tell their future children. About how she went so long bearing the weight of forcing her true feelings to the side out of fear of rejection from him? A seasoned hunter in combat she was, but even the bravest soldiers lack the courage to bear vulnerability.

As frustrating fate can be sometimes, it can also be sweet. She had determined that her and Zayne are fated to be together - a little cliche - the Doctor who heals, and the reckless hunter who gets hurt. But as puzzle pieces go, opposing shapes are the best pair. Hence, despite their feeble attempts to stay away from each other, it was always fated that they would end up together anyway. Despite, despite, despite.

Despite how a chief cardiac surgeon and a hunter’s schedules would never compliment one another. Despite the fact he still hasn’t found a cure for her heart condition (and it pains him to no end after each working day of research that leads to nowhere, so much so that he feels unworthy to be sleeping in the same bed as her at night). Despite the fact that he isn’t able to tell her that he loves her. (He does, very much so.)

Despite betraying Astra to love her, only to be punished for doing so.

But reasons of despite were set aside this weekend, the swirls of adoration and awe crystal clear in her eyes as she watches Zayne pet the black stray cat and welcome it into their lodging - a quaint cottage by the mountains. Nestled near the fireplace, she watches quietly as the raven haired doctor brushes snow off the feline’s fur, his voice an octave higher as he coos at the cat. The black cat, one that Zayne muses has the same mannerisms as his lover, nuzzles its head thankfully against his warm and large palm. The faint buzz of its purr is telling of the cat’s fondness of Zayne. Well, it seems like this gentle and loving side of him is reserved for two now.

“Found him underneath the bench outside,” Zayne chuckles as it begins to knead its wet paws on his trousers, but he paid no mind to the now soiled material. “Three’s not a crowd, right?” He briefly glances at her, still a little distracted by the cat.

She watches it all, and feels it in her chest. The way her heart races, the tingle in her fingers as she clutches the material of her knit sweater - Zayne is too good to be true. She swears she physically feels the atoms of love form within her chest, and her discipline wears thin soon enough as she makes her way over to the raven haired pair by the front door.

“Not at all, as long as he’s okay with sharing Doctor Zayne with me.” Folding her legs, she also begins petting the cat, and the purring grows impossibly louder. They both laugh, and he feels his heart squeeze too. He could not ask for more, no. His lover, a warm purring companion and a fireplace. Santa had packaged and wrapped up his gift in this quaint cottage. Zayne immediately says a prayer of gratitude, a pang of panic and fear attempting to whisper distractions into his brain. But Zayne wills them away, he refuses to give into the possibility (or as the narrator of his life would call ‘inevitability’) of losing her and the heartbreak that will follow suit - not tonight anyway.

In an ideal world, this is the life he would be able to live everyday. They’d both be married, and he’d come home to a cat and her. It’d be cold outside, but it’d be warm inside. Zayne doesn’t think he’s asking for much, too. Home could just be four walls, and a symphony made of their combined laughter and their cat’s purrs would be the only song he’d have playing on the vinyl. 

In this world of reality, they’d be back to the status quo. Zayne would be ending a day of surgeries with at least three hours of research (that would still lead to more disappointing revelations) and she would be deep in quarantine zones fighting wanderers. (Her occupation does nothing, maybe only worse things for his anxiety for her safety and health) It is then another four days of yearning and rounds of nervous regulations before he has her safe and sound in his arms again. He’ll have the kettle of green tea freshly brewed for her in the kitchen, her (his) favourite worn our Akso Hospital staff t-shirt and cotton shorts laid out on the bed, and the new crime documentary about the case she hasn’t stopped babbling about ready to go on the television screen.

Reality isn’t bad at all though, he thinks. Any reality with her in it is one worth sacrificing for. 

“Hm, are you saying you’d be okay with sharing? I remember the sigh you gave me when I asked for a bite of your dessert.” He teases her, pressing a kiss against her cold cheek. The chilliness of her skin makes him frown immediately, and he stands up carefully, pulling him with her. The softness in his eyes fade a little, worry glazing them instead. “You’re cold. You should get under the covers in the bedroom. I’ll get the heater going.” Nothing gets him back into the stern and moody character than his worry for her. He plays around with different reasons as to why, but it is exceptionally hard for him to see her cold, especially. (It’s because in some other world, he freezes her as an act of retribution for her attempts to steal the Creatio Protocore.)

Everyone loves their Evol, humans were always encouraged to celebrate their unique types of Evols - but not Zayne. Perhaps it was because he still hasn’t figured out how to control it the same way everyone else is capable of doing so. The ice, though woven in his DNA, is never truly his companion - only a fair-weathered friend who has more loyalty to Astra than to him. He’s well familiar with the freezing pain caused by his own Evol. The same freezing pain he has to endure, enough to make him nauseous to think if even a hint of it was felt by his beloved. So, in this world, he usually settles for this reason as to why he simply cannot stand seeing her cold.

Sighing, she slides her arms around his waist, her red nose nuzzling against the thick material of his sweater. “It’s snowing outside, of course I’m a little cold. But I’m okay, I was just waiting for you.” Her voice is muffled against his clothes, her nose scrunching as the fibres of his sweater tickles her skin. Slowly, his shoulders relax, though the frown on his face stubbornly stays. He sighs, but wraps his arms around her shoulders. “Thank you for waiting for me. We should get in bed now.”

And so they do. Nestled underneath the thick blanket, Zayne exudes the opposite of his Evol. He is a man of warmth, her own personal furnace as she continues to nuzzle herself closer against her lover. A familiar thought intrudes her brain, he is too good to be true.

Little does she know, Zayne feels the same way. Despite the complex lore of their story and compounded complication of their fates, Zayne knows one thing - he loves truly and deeply. True to his Evol, the icy terrors are already covering his skin as soon as he begins to form the intention of rolling a syllable of the three words off his tongue. 

Astra was a being that Zayne has grown to hate, yet knows that he would still get on his knees in gratitude for their mercy upon him for he is still able to show his affection for her with little to no consequences. He’ll take anything, anything at all. A prized possession like her, the exact molecules that both the sun and moon are made of – oh to be graced by her presence, it is more than enough reason for him to pilgrim Astra’s both heaven and hell.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” his voice barely a whisper as his arms naturally pull her closer against his chest, their blushing noses meeting for a brief moment. “This is truly a birthday I will remember for the rest of my life.” He speaks so earnestly that it causes a flip in his own stomach, his own body physically reacting to the profound feeling of love in his chest.

“Thank you for letting me celebrate your birthday with you.” She knew that Zayne had never truly celebrated his birthday, and the fact broke her heart. While she also knew that it was not necessarily something Zayne got upset over, the fact being of his own scheduling faults too, it was a habit she wanted to break. She’d spent everyday celebrating this man if she could, and the day Earth was graced of this kind and selfless man was not a day she planned to take lightly. Hence, after pulling some strings and endless communication with his colleagues at work, here they are. 

She feels the emotions bubble up in her once again, unknowingly causing a jerk reaction of her fingers to clench around the material of his sweater and she whimpers. With furrowed brows and an immediate worry, Zayne gushes out, “What’s wrong? Is your heart in pain?”

Shaking her head immediately to soothe his worries, she releases her grip on his sweater promptly as her cold fingers gently caress the smooth skin of his face. 

“Zayne,” she begins, her voice laced with shyness.

“My love.. If it hurts, you must let me know.” She feels his grip on her waist tighten ever so slightly. “It’s not my heart. I’m okay, I promise.” Biting on the flesh of her lower lip, her eyes darted down to his own plump ones. Her impulse wins, and she presses a chaste kiss onto his lips. Sighing, she rests her forehead against his and feels his body relax soon after. “I love you, Zayne.”

It isn’t not a profound confession, it was something she knew that he knew. But she also is aware of his condition, and the curse of it all that prevents him from saying it back.

It truly doesn’t matter to her though, because a lover like Zayne would never make her doubt his true feelings for her. Through his gentle caresses, the separate kettle of green tea that he brews her (despite the fact that he likes coffee, and she doesn’t), the safe late night rides back to her apartment after her long hunting days (and his very own long night of surgical procedures) – she knew that he loves her.

She feels his eyes flutter open, a pained look in her green orbs. Swirls of guilt are evident in his green orbs and though this look would have fooled people into thinking he was guilty for not feeling the same way, she knew that it was because he couldn’t repeat the sentiments.

“Shh, It’s okay.” She shakes her head, pressing yet another kiss to his now trembling lips. “I love you, Zayne. I’m not saying it because I need to hear it back. I’m saying it because that’s how I feel. I’m telling you, Zayne.” Her voice shakes against her will. “I love you, Zayne. I want you to know that I love you. I want to tell you that I love you.”

“And I don’t need to hear it back. I know you do.” Her fingers move to the back of his head, as they comb gently through his raven locks. “I don’t want to not say it, just because you can’t say it. I love you, Zayne.”

It isn’t the first time she has said it either, but definitely is one of very few times, considering their situation. She wishes to change this fact, because a man like him deserves to be showered with love. The grip on her waist tightens, and she swears she hears him let out a whimper before his lips crashes against hers.

“Thank you.” He whispers, voice wavering ever so slightly (but she doesn’t miss it), and he moves impossibly closer to her. “I love you too.”

It is now her turn to be in panic, yet before she could even protest, he continues despite the wince on his face, the thin layer of ice already beginning to form on the side of his neck. “But more importantly, I live for you.” He confesses through a pained voice. “This curse, or whatever pain life may bring me, I promise to live for you. So that I can take care of you.” He blows air out of his mouth as he awaits for the ice to melt away - and it seems like Astra beared mercy this time - it does so quickly enough under her touch.

He smiles tiredly as the pain fades, nudging her nose with his own. “I live for you.” He repeats, and immediately, she understands what it exactly means.

Because it will hurt - he knows that. The curse is a curse that he knows would not ever be retracted. Despite the exhaustion that plights him, despite the fate of pain written in his destiny, he lives for her.

“I love you.” She whispers.

“I live for you.” He echoes.

Author's note: Anyway it's been like 927492 years since I had tumblr so I started this blog anew!!I've been creeping on here to satiate my LNDS cravings so I thought I'd join the fun lol. Pls enjoy and feel free to send in requests/prompts (I am in my 20s but I refuse to write smut lol)

[verinarin]

𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨; 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬

in which he lets her measure his body for a new set suit for him, riddling him with her innocent touches; his view meaning the fic is written in his point of view

fluff with a lot of tension, like drenched with it. Gallagher lowkey being obsessive and loves to tease and spoil his little lady; 2K words!!

It’s Saturday.

She said she wouldn’t be home until later tonight, so I’m alone for the rest of the day. I’ve been sharing my roof with her for around 3 months now. Funny, I seem to forget how quiet this place is without her. At this hour she would be on the couch with the television on, her favorite shows would air around this time.

Am I being a creep for knowing her daily schedule like this?

Hope not, I mean that brat has been stickin’ beside me ever since day one.

Ah shit, it’s supposed to be the other around. She’s my secretary, but here I am acting like I’m some sort of personal assistant of hers, ah that little minx had me all wrapped around her pretty little manicured fingers huh?

Can’t complain though, not when she does her job perfectly.

It’s just that I rarely wanted her to work, to begin with. Her day consists of following me around like an assistant yet she treats me like I’m her assistant instead. Ahahaha I ain’t setting up a good example as her boss, but then again no one could blame me.

I mean with those fucking doe eyes and pouty lips, she’s the type of woman people wrote on their poetry. At this point, It’s clear as day that I miss that little brat. Y’know I’ll just take a quick shower before she comes home, I don’t want her to drag me to the bathroom again like yesterday.

Stepping into the shower made me realize that every single thing here smells like her. Her vanilla-scented shampoo bottle sits next to mine, her body scrubs, her soap. Damn, I never realized how much product she used, no wonder she cooped up in her for a good hour or more, being a pretty lady like her looks like hard work, perhaps harder than my line of work.

She smells like heaven afterward though, so I won’t complain.

Never mind, I would actually complain about one thing.

The fact that her scent drives me crazy sometimes, not to mention the fact that while working she often clings to me like a second skin. The amount of questions I get asking about why my clothes smell like vanilla and roses is crazy. The other hounds, hell even Siobhan tease me for smelling like a lady.

Well, as long as I don’t reek of smoke and alcohol like I used to I guess it’s a good change. As the cold water rinses through my body, I start to worry about her. She’s an adult, she would be fine traveling around Penacony, but why am I worried about her like I’m her old man? Probably because she didn’t tell me where she was going, this girl goes on a shopping spree almost every week and the one thing she never forgets to bring is her walking ATM, which is me.

Should I go look for her?

Nah, she must’ve needed some time alone. She’s probably sick of an old geezer like me, all I could entertain her with is my crappy dad jokes and a little mixology classes here and there. She seems to like my cringe dad jokes though weirdly enough and she also learns quickly on mixing beverages.

Once I finished rinsing my worries away, I put on a pair of sweatpants. I sigh as I brush my damp hair back remembering that I forgot to bring my shirt inside, my age is starting to catch up on me. Oh well, it’s not like she’s coming home soon. I let out a small chuckle as I looped the small towel I used for my hair around my neck.

The mirror in front of me reflects my rugged face, my fingertips graze upon my stubble feeling the sharp little hairs protruding from my cheek. I’ve been thinking of shaving it clean off for a while, but I remember her weird fondness for my stubble. That girl loves rubbing the back of her hand across my face like I’m some sort of a dog, which in this case relates to my line of work funnily enough.

I figured I’d let it be for now, can’t have her whine about my appearance now like she did last month when I talked to her about cutting my hair short. Her argument was if I did cut my hair she wouldn't be able to play with it anymore, such a silly girl that one.

I should fix myself a cup of coffee before cleaning around the house, it ain’t like I have anything better to do other than waiting for her like a lost puppy. I let out a hefty yawn as I walked towards the kitchen. It's easier for me to find things these days since she arranges it in a specific way. Before her, it took me around 5 minutes to search for the coffee bean, but now I can see the labeled jar from far away.

I couldn't help but let my lips curve into a small smile as I twisted the jar open, the charming scent of the coffee beans she picked emanated through the air, that little lady has good taste I must admit. Heh, she must’ve learned it from me. She used to be a tea gal before she met me, but now it seems she quite enjoys a little more caffeine here and there.

Can’t help to let out a small smirk as I brew myself a cup of coffee. She utterly consumes me at this point, every single damn thing reminds me of her it ain’t funny. I never thought I could still feel this giddy like a teenage kid at my current age, but then again she had always said that I still have my child-like wonder.

I rest my body against the counter, the cold marble hits my bare waist making me wince at the sudden temperature difference. After this, I’ll do laundry and then afterward I should start preparing for dinner.

As I lost myself in my thoughts I could hear the sound of a key twisting inside the keyhole, ah she’s home. “I’m back. Miss me, old man?” she muses as she turns her head towards me.

“Nah, I’m starting to miss my short-lived tranquility though,” I smile, pressing the rim of my glass against my lips to hide my smirk. She on the other hand has her eyes wide open, her mouth wide agape.

She stares at me a little too long before I finally break the silence between us, “Why'd ya look at me that way kid ?” I ask as I gaze toward her small face, analyzing her expression.

“You’re practically half naked, but wait that’s good actually,” shit, I forgot about that. She starts to walk towards me with a nasty smile, oh she’s scheming something alright.

“What? why is it a good thing? you've never seen a man’s body before ?” I snicker, masking away my flustered interior.

“Oh because I could clearly measure it now,” she smiles. Now hold on, measure what ??!!! The seemingly ambiguous sentence drives my mind toward possibilities that would definitely put me behind bars.

“Measure what huh ?” I let out a small chuckle, I put my cup down and leaned towards her eye level.

“You definitely won’t fit a size XL,” she sighs. Well ouch! cut me some slack little lady. I might be slacking off on my training, but I’m still in good shape. “What a way to break this old man’s heart you little brat, fyi I’ll definitely fit a size L,”

“Said that to your shirt. The poor thing needed its button to be stitched back up yesterday,” okay maybe she’s right but it still stings, my lips curve downward as I look at her, she’s out here breaking my heart to pieces.

“I’m not saying you’re putting on weight, what I’m saying is I want to measure your measurements so that I can buy you something custom-made,” she caresses my chest as her eyes lock towards mine.

I could feel my heartbeat drumming against my eardrum as her touch burned against my skin, marking it as hers. Fuck, feels so fucking good to feel her touch. Is it greedy for me to want more of her?

Her pink ‘nd soft lips curve into this delicate smile.

Fuck, she looks so pretty like that.

“Oh, what’s the occasion for dressing up this old hound ?” I smile as I lean forward to close the gap between us, trying to take control of my not-so-innocent thoughts about her lips.

I can’t recall anything worth celebrating between us, maybe the fact that I’m cutting down on smoking, but that’ll be worth something when I fully ditch it.

She merely chuckles before lightly hitting my chest like I’m telling her a funny joke, “You are an old man after all, how can you forget that three months from now is going to be the annual family?”

Ah right….

I was never the person who enjoyed those fancy parties, but hey I have her by my side so maybe I might change my stance.

“Those types of events were never my thing,” I avert my gaze, my finger drums against my nape.

“Well those types of events are my thing, so you’ll come right?” I mean with those puppy eyes, of course I’ll come.

“Fine, I guess this year’s gala could be bearable with you by my side,” I could only sigh as I stroked her hair, truly she dictates the same way as an old friend of mine.

With a smile that rivals the sun curving on her lips, she pulls out a measuring tape from her purse. Ah, so this is the ‘measuring’ part she talked about.

“Since when you’re a tailor,” I snicker as her fingers trace the long tape to find the zero mark.

“Oww hush, you’ll be the first person I’ll measure so be kind,” she mutters as she unravels the tape, “Alright lady,”

She leans closer to me as her finger holds one side of the tape beside my bare ribcage, “Stay still,” she mumbles, easier said than done.

How can I stand still when her fingertips press against my skin? It’s my damn Achilles heel. She’s too close, way too close. I don’t know how to act nor what to think when she’s soo damn close to me, the air feels stuffy and the atmosphere feels way too intimate and somehow sexual?

Kill me now.

She almost has her small face pressing against my chest, my bare chest to be exact which made this seemingly harmless interaction so dangerous.

Her other hand still struggles to find the tape behind my back. “Your chest is too broad,” she complains, I just let out a snicker at her statement which made her lose her focus.

“M’sorry anything I could do to help ?” I couldn’t do anything though, I could only extend my arms to the side to let her in, closer to me.

“Just stay still,” she huffs. Alright then, I’m cool as a cucumber. Without any warning, her cheek presses against my chest as she hugs me.

The warmth of her skin seeps through my cold chest, now this warmth burns inside me. “Ah! This works,” well I’m happy for her but there’s practically no distance between us, not even an inch.

“Stay still ol’ hound,” I must’ve been moving too much. I look down at her, her fingers skillfully bring the other side of the tape in front of my chest.

Now her forehead rests against my chest as she struggles to read the number that transpires, “Uhhh how do I read this again ?” she huffs.

“Can’t read a simple measurement now ?” my hand finds its way back toward her head, brushing a loose strand back behind her ear.

“Don’t tease,” well of course I’m going to tease as if I’m not the one who's secretly flustered as hell.

“Alright got it, now I’m going to drag this down to your waist,” she smiles as she drags both of her hands down and tightens the tape around my waist.

I never thought of myself to be a squeamish person, but I am now. “Oh wow, your chest and waist ratio are quite something….”

“What d’ya mean by that ?” I ask as she looks up towards me, “Your waist is quite slim and also your shoulders are broad so you do have that hourglass silhouette…” she muses to herself.

Well, ain’t that interesting…..

“Oh yeah your shoulders and back !” she naps herself back from her trance, cute.

With that, she took a couple of minutes to measure my upper body to the best of her abilities. Albeit the fact that I need to crouch down a bit for her to be able to measure my shoulders and back.

She takes a couple of steps back with newfound determination exuding her. I guess it’s from the fact that she’s getting the hand of measuring me.

“Are we done now ?” I ask, rather impatiently. Her fingers still linger in any direction she wants. Mapping every single inch of me into her memory.

“Still a long way to go,” she huffs. I see that she wants me to be as still as a mannequin, the things I do for her…

She hums a familiar tune, a song I like to hum. She crouches down bringing the tape around my hips, then she circles back in front of me, “Pardon my intrusion,”

Well the sentiment is rather too late now, she had been breaching my personal space since the very beginning. She couldn’t help but rest her forehead against my lower stomach as she looked down, reading the tape.

“Take your time, s’not like I could go anywhere,” I sigh as I stroke her hair, letting her silky smooth locks stream through my fingers. “I thank you for your coordination,” she snickers as she looks up at me, pretty little thing she is.

So stinkin’ cute. I smile as I cup her cheeks, letting my thumb graze against his lower lip, “Anytime, Lady,” I reply, before casually folding my arms back against each other.

Why the fuck did I just do that?

“I’m going to go lower now, I need to get some measurements for your pants,” she continued her current action without any signs of discomfort, thank god. “Oh wow even a pair of pants, you spoil this ol’ hound too much,” I feel as though my chest cavities were filled with cotton, making my heart all warm and soft.

“We both know you spoiled me rotten, Gallagher,” she cuts me, the tape now encircling around my thighs.

“Have I now?” Honestly, she deserves more than I could afford.

“You have you silly hound. Now let me repay your kindness,” her face now rests against my thighs as the tape travels slightly lower.

“Heh is this your way into getting to my pockets again,” I snicker, knowing that it’s one of her best manipulation tactics. Acting all cute and then stealing my money.

“Hey! I’m spending my own paycheck on this mister,” she protests as she stands up. “Oh, she’s a big girl now. She doesn’t need my money anymore right ?”

“Well technically no,” she looks away to the side, biting her lips in annoyance.

“She doesn’t need my money, but I’ll give it to her anyway because she has me wrapped around her little fingers,” I cup her cheeks, guiding her face to see me. “Cuz she’s my lil lady,” I smile as I press our forehead together, I can feel a thin imaginary veil between us.

“Of course I am and you’re my old hound,” she wraps her arms around my neck as my hand rests on her waist.

The thin barrier that puts a blur in our relationship, but somehow it just feels right, whatever we are it’s perfect. I don’t need more or less, just her warmth against mine.

[nightingale2004]

Severus's life if there was no voldemort or if he didn't join the death eaters.

I believe Severus would've been working a lot of jobs both or either in the muggle and wizard world to earn as much money as possible

Definitely getting into a potion apprenticeship and learning as much as he could and getting his mastery

I believe he would've become a potion master in the end due to his determination and hard work. (He would never slack once)

His work definitely would've had him travel around outside of London, and he would've gotten to meet other potioneers from other countries and states, learning from them and sharing theories, stories, their projects, discoveries, etc (not just about potions but including spells as well)

I feel like when he earns the money, he will immediately move out of England and live somewhere else in Europe in the country (I'm thinking of Russia, Germany, iceland, or maybe Greece)

When he doesn't make potions or come up with new spells. He writes novels and poetry.

He writes under a pen name (you may decide) so he doesn't get too much attention

His novels would be mystery, fiction, science fiction, historical fiction, dark romance, adventure, tragedy, horror, gothic literature, action, and mystery. The same themes would apply to his poety

He once wrote a novel inspired by his life. He, of course, changed a few things to avoid suspicion, but he definitely made the marauders the villains in his book

He would live in a decent sized cottage in the country away from people but somewhat close to a town.

The cottage would look small on the outside, but thanks to magic, he expanded it on the inside.

He installed his own potions lab, has his very own home library, and a garden (the man has a green thumb, and plus, he needs potion ingredients too)

Severus also has a pet black cat

The Malfoys visit him a lot to keep him company (he acts annoyed, but he enjoys their company)

I think during this time, he would've grown and matured. He wouldn't have forgotten the torment he faced, but he would've learned to leave the past in the past and focus on his future

Severus sometimes visits London, but he mostly goes to London when the Malfoys invite him to one their many parties or when they want him to look after Draco for a bit for some quality time

He also visits London due to Charity and Aurora and their neverending complaints about not seeing him. They also visit him very frequently to make sure he's in good health

I have no doubt that during one of his many visits back to London, he would've encountered Lily and a few of the marauders, but he wouldn't waste time chatting with them. He would just nod and leave immediately (he may have had his process of maturity, but the feelings and haunting memories of the past will never leave him)

Other than his job as a potions master and a writer, her also earned his money by selling his childhood home in Cokeworth shortly after he became a potion master and started earning money and traveling (he wanted absolutely nothing to do with the old house and the horrors it contained, so he left and sold it)

He would've never become a teacher

He owns his own shop named "Prince potions," where he sells potions and potion ingredients. He also makes potions for clients if needed, and he does pretty well for himself.

He has a greenhouse in his garden and becomes very relaxed when in Gardner mode

When severus is in his potions lab, he becomes incredibly invested in his work, that by the time he's done, it's literally the next day.

He does try to devote a moment of his time to writing poetry or his novels. His books are also very popular.

He knows how to cook and bake due to his potion making, but his skills in the kitchen have improved immensely (the man is now a master chef, and you can't tell me otherwise)

Draco loves it at Severus's cottage. He didn't at first, but it grew on him, and it became his home away from home whenever he would spend nights with severus due to his parents

Severus would still dress in black, grey, green, and other dark colors, but he did add color to his wardrobe due to Charity's demand.

Despite having money to afford nice things now, Severus only spends his money on things he really needs in his life. He will never spend his money recklessly unless necessary

His home has many protection spells and charms (he takes precautions just in case)

During his travels, he didn't just invest himself in potions but also spells, magical objects, and curses. (The man studied a lot of stuff)

He still studies the dark arts but only because he wishes to know how to defend himself against them or use it to protect those he loves

He and Lily have reconciled, but they didn't become friends again, but they continued their separate ways.

Severus did still care for Lily, but he didn't want to start over with her and dral with james because Sev started "fitting in society" in Lily's eyes. So he congratulated her on her life, and he left. They didn't talk after that

I'd like to think he met a pack of werewolves where he lived and brew Wolfsbane for them. Mostly to spare the non-werewolves lives from brutal deaths

His cat is his emotional support animal (tell me, I'm wrong)