#face ripping off poetry

[darkfrenchwitch]

if weird was a kink i’d be the biggest freak

on our picnic

I feel imperfect

loudly

deafeningly

I dig my fingers into

my unfiltered face,

stretch the skin

over my knees

like we did with our tshirts

in middle school

kinda ugly

so I tell good jokes

he laughs

we skate off into the sunset

fuck instagram

.

[stale-compost]

the world is fuck.but i sleepy tired

[inkskinned]

my father told me he read it, but he hasn't read it. that's okay. my friends keep picking the words out of my throat.

someone once told me that the more trigger warnings that go on a book, the better it is. i didn't mean to write something with so many conditional phrases - i was writing about what i felt while being a human. sometimes you are a person and sometimes you are a statistic. sometimes it is falling upwards and sometimes it's sliding back down again.

my father tells me that it will be difficult to get people to read it. i didn't like the idea of a singular genre. i'm not going to lie to you - it is actually a difficult book to get through. i change the rules in it. it's not poetry or prose explicitly. it's neither false nor reality. i give you the tools to "solve" the book, but i let you do the thinking. my father says people don't care to think. i don't know about that - i think we just, like, enjoy reading.

the thing is - i was tired of stories about survival where someone with depression goes to therapy and wakes up okay. i didn't live like that. i was tired of books about violence, where the gore of what i experience was splashed in glitter to lick off the page. like, i was a person, you know? i had a life and a job and a family. and in books, i watched my story get ripped up so people could explore the viscera of my body. so they could feel good. my brother once called it inspiration pornography. we had walked out of a suicide-prevention seminar, both of us disgusted while the increasingly-elated presenter kept listing methods-of. i remember the look on my brother's face. like i would tear that man apart given the right time and place.

my father says that kids these days. he warns me against writing about things that are too-serious. he says that they don't want it. i don't listen. he does make me take out a scene from the book where i go to church after having sex with a woman. it used to be the 7th scene in the book. i don't think he's read further than that, it rocked him too hard to continue.

it's a book about being queer. it's a book about being raised catholic. it doesn't have monsterfucking, i'm sorry. it's just about, like.

at some point you have to choose to stay here. and then you do have to stay here, which takes practice. this is about forming the habit. this is about what happens after you've already started doing the work. because, like. you keep going. you have to. and it's like. very imperfect.

i should make a post on instagram. i should make this announcement less bittersweet. but like -- i'm giving it you, specifically, because i think you know why i had to write it. you and me. this little community.

body's a bad monster. here's the link if you're interested in ordering.

[comfortless]

The way you write König makes me cry and dry heave cuz you balance his loser unhingeness and his heartbreaking tenderness is✨ ART✨

Now I feel like you would be able to EAT this prompt up but imagine König as Frankenstein’s creature that is this big ass hulking mass of body that immediately makes the town grab their pitchforks but he can DESTROY them in seconds. But inside he is just a little guy who just wants somebody to hold and love (and other activities if ya know what I mean

Keep doing what you do❤️

A Place For Us

Frankenstein’s creature! König x fem! horologist reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. discrepancies!, reader is implied to have anxiety, angst & fluff, non-malicious stalking?, loner/loner dynamic my beloved.., brief mentions of previous murders and religious imagery, codependency, smut; masturbation, unprotected piv.

notes: receiving this ask was so funny to me because @melancholic-thing and i have been bouncing this idea around forever (i simply could not have brought this any justice without ghost’s input— if you see this please know that ily dearly). thank you, anon for your kind words and finally giving me the push that i needed to write it! 💘

wc: 10.6k

You’re good at fixing broken things; tinkering with them with a set of well-polished tools until they begin to tick, or chime, or cuckoo.

Some take longer than an afternoon sat before the wooden desk, weeks or months— a year, once. Oiled parts and small cogs, the three arms that jerk and glide over a face riddled with numbers that all lull you into feeling that your work is not just some monotonous service only the rich buzzards could afford, but as if you were a healer of sorts; a little cleric stationed to bring life into whichever jagged, broken thing has been dropped or kicked at her doorstep.

This one, however… you’re convinced it’s as good as dead.

No matter how many times you take apart the little, gray pocket watch, the arms refuse to move. Its ticking sounds less like that of the beating of the heart and more like the grinding of dry teeth, a corpse begging, pleading to let this attempted resurrection come to an end.

Your tweezers wrench the face free, and all at once it proves too much— bending and warping beneath the metal grip until it cracks, a split right through it, down to its very center.

��How…” Your voice fills the void of ticking, pseudo-silence surrounding you. A word slipped out in frustration and unknowing before you finally toss the wretched little thing onto the desk with a clatter and step aside.

The house is as dark and brooding as always, too large for a woman on her own and a workshop that hardly counts as a proper business. Shelves of broken clocks serve as decor where potted plants and well-loved photographs should sit in their stead. Books of study for modern devices such as these in place of the poetry and worn love letters other women seemed to have in abundance.

This place was starved out of light, even with the flickering glow of candles and the electric humming of the unnatural yellow one above.

The sun is no stranger, either, your curtains neatly pulled aside to allow for it to filter through like an invited guest. Only it doesn’t, not on such a melancholic gray day.

You need a walk, a distraction, or this hungry home would be certain to rip away your work from the shelves and swallow you whole instead.

Isn’t it such a tragedy that, someone who pours her creativity and all of her love into time, all she seems to do is waste it?, the gaudy wallpaper seems to taunt, all the colors of filthy maroon and darkened blue flowers seeming to make it feel more imposing and less of a comfort.

Your hand curls around the handle of your umbrella, a sturdy thing, but just as drab as the rest of the home. Then, the package you’ve been putting off delivering to the elderly woman in town. Best to get it done with now, maybe upon your return the hands that fix could do so once again.

Shame about the clock face though. You would certainly have to patch together another and pray the pocket watch’s owner wouldn’t notice.

The wind is not what you had anticipated.

Outside is different. The howling of it past the windows and shuddering through the attic felt perfectly at home in your shoddy little house, but as the door swings shut behind you, it feels entirely alive. Cold and bitter and angry— the things you keep repressed that nature lacks the tact to.

The trees bend and sway from its invisible yet incessant pushing. The hand containing the package falls down to the lap of your skirt to keep it from flying up just as your other clutches the umbrella ever tighter to keep it from billowing out into the air to be left discarded miles away.

It isn’t a short walk to town, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, it almost seems as though you’re in more tender company than the lumber and the ticking clocks.

The path through the forest is overgrown as always, branches are pushed aside and your skirt is lifted to avoid burrs and thorns.

You should have had the sense to bring along a coat, because when the thunder does strike up and the rain finally begins to fall in heavy, hurried drops, you find yourself shivering terribly with the package guarded against your chest.

Lamplight would have done well, too.

You would have almost happily allowed yourself to toss aside the umbrella and be battered by the rain if you could only see. The forest is dark on days like this, with the canopy of thick branches and their dense leaves blocking out any sliver of light cast down from overhead.

It’s only by sheer luck that you don’t manage to trip, toss your delivery into the shadow of a tree and lose it entirely before you do make it out. When the trees finally part to the barren hill overlooking town you breathe a sigh of relief, a quiet thanks for the grayed light above.

Your steps are hurried as you make your way through the quiet town. The shop windows are all lit aglow with the silhouettes of people inside, strangely dancing like shadows through a fog. A place you can not be, can not touch.

The stares the townsfolk give you make your skin crawl, as though they are so close to being what you are but not, only tied down to your world when they think themselves lofty. Their eyes always seem to question, scrape under your skin with sharpened arms, ticking and flaying, always asking: Why?

You face forward as your skin begins to prickle, not from the wet or the chill but a subdued sort of fear that nestles burning into your chest, sets your heart rushing like a rabbit.

The streets are silent enough, a small blessing; any passing strangers are hurriedly skittering through the rain and muck to hide away in their homes, children ushered with a hand to their back by flustered looking mothers, complaining in hushed voices about the rain. You only smile at them and step aside when your paths cross.

They never smile for you.

It’s why the broken clocks are delivered to your doorstep rather than brought inside, addresses and names from muffled voices calling out beyond your thick wooden door, coins and bills pushed through the mail slot to lie cold on the welcome mat. The bell above the door never chimes, and you only make your deliveries on days like this, when the rain or the dark blanket you up to keep you safe and eternally somber.

You leave the package on the doorstep, covered from the rain by a small, vermillion awning. One sharp knock is given and you’re back on your way, back to the old house, to the simplicity of the ticking, the comfort of the old cobweb on the vaulted ceiling and the drab gray of the bleakness.

There are puddles now, glistening with any light they can suck into their depths, threatening and taunting as the dull stares and that rickety old desk you really should fix. You think for a moment, that perhaps no one would even notice if one of those dark pits of rain water pulled you in entirely, only to splash through it with ease, dirtying the ends of your skirt.

The rain lessens when you crest the hill, the forest less a tangle of clattering limbs and now only a gentle sway reaches the tops of the trees, light filtering through them, as if to guide you on your way. It doesn’t lessen the bushels of thorns, the tree limbs downed and scattered over the path. In some small blessing, you’re able to scramble over them without having to plan a visit to a tailor to repair a ripped gown; scrubbing the mud from it would surely be tedious enough.

The droplets splatter against the dirt and fallen leaves in hushed bursts, the forest alive as always with the cooing of nesting birds in spite of the rain. The only thing that seems out of place is a sudden, soft thud, the snap of a branch underfoot. Just one footfall, and things return to a placid state amidst the sky’s tears.

You raise your head to glimpse in the direction, gaze sweeping over the figure of a man some paces off to your left. Beneath the shadow of a broad, twisting pine layered in thick branches, his details are mostly obscured, a thin trail of silver light only casting aglow the glimpse of a blue eye.

He’s only large enough to notice, shoulders slumped and chest rapidly rising to fall like a frightened animal; as his silhouette shifts just so you even consider that he’s shivering.

There’s something in that stare of somber blue that splinters at the wall of discomfort; it is not accusing, not bitter, worn and cold. Curious. Something akin to your own.

Damn your sweetness, your inability to simply let things be even as that ache twists around in your chest, clawing at a cage of bone and hissing that you keep silent. Be on your way. Don’t look back.

Instead, you extend your umbrella outward, toward him.

“Awful rain, hm?,” you chime.

The figure visibly tenses, seems to shrink into himself for a moment before straightening and giving one solemn nod.

“You can take my umbrella. I’m almost home, anyway.”

That seems to spark something, not much, but the stranger does take a step forward. Your eyes catch on the wet, matted hair clinging to his head, cascading down to shroud a face you still can’t quite make out.

The poor thing stirs something in you, a deep sympathy that clouds even the judgment of that flighty, skittish thing resting deep inside.

Even from such a distance it’s clear that he’s been neglected, likely cast off by the town even less favorably than you have. His scent carries on the breeze, like dirt and wood and misery.

You extend the umbrella again before realizing he won’t come any closer with you being there. So, you lower it to the ground, avoiding the mud as best you could and leave it. If he took it, fine. If not, you travel this path so often it would be collected in time.

The figure mutters something as you rise, a low string of foreign words that you can only interpret as being spoken out of surprise, perhaps even gratitude.

You smile toward him as you wipe fat, slithering raindrops from your brow.

“You don’t want to catch a fever.”

With that, you’re back on your way, thoughts of the rugged stranger weigh heavy on your mind as the roof of your home comes into view, stilted and in the same drab navy as the flowers on the wallpaper.

You could have done more. It had been instilled into you to not to open the door for someone you did not quite know, yet a part of you longed to take care of something not simply fed by oil, something only capable of telling you how much time you’ve sat alone as thanks.

Surely it was best not to let it distract you.

This was good enough.

The key is produced, the door opened, and just like the many times before that you have forced yourself from this place, the house seems less unsettling upon your return.

As what little daylight remains fades away into night, you find yourself seated, toying with the old pocket watch once more. It’s the only one that doesn’t make a lick of sense, a puzzle that can not be solved. For all the polished parts and meticulous tinkering, it still won’t work properly.

It grates and growls as though rusted, the cogs shifting inside with each movement of the arms are well-polished yet seem to do little but hiss and spit.

This is the fourth time you have taken it apart only to put it back together with no improvement.

There was little to be known about the man who owned it, some pompous, arrogant creature that you had only seen in passing. He had turned his nose up to you, you were sure of that, only to deliver this dying thing to your door the following day.

Your work had always been compared to your father’s. Though you possessed a similarity in skill, you were not what the townsfolk had deemed to be respectable. An unwed lady out on her own, biding her time repairing what they had broken rather than feeding hungry mouths delivered from her very womb, how terribly scandalous.

The pocket watch is set aside as you busy yourself tailoring a small sheet of metal for it. The graduations are carved in with a sharp razor, impeccably angled. Then, the Roman numerals, just before it’s slotted back into place.

The likeness to the former face is nearly uncanny, it’s only sturdier and less susceptible to ripping from the mere touch of tweezers. The rust s gone from the casing, and at long last— it ticks; no grinding growl as the second hand begins its revolution. The fickle thing just needed a touch up, you supposed as you flick off the desk lamp and rise to your feet.

The curtains are drawn as they always were when you step into the bedroom. The muddy dress is finally peeled away as you change and slink into the covers, and just for a moment, you almost think that you feel the animal between your breasts begin to settle too.

———

There’s a letter stuffed into the mail slot: crumpled with no postage stamp, scrawled across some scrap of paper that surely was plucked from a garbage bin.

You marvel at the lack of care for a moment before your fingers do find themselves pawing at it, unfurling the worn edges to find the words: Thank you.

Written in thick black ink, there’s a clumsiness to it, the dance of a quivering hand holding pen. You think back to the elderly woman you had made that delivery to only yesterday; had she trudged through the mud and muck just to bring you this?

Her thanks was only needed in the blessing of payment, and she had already generously done just that when she left her little humming wall clock at the door.

You flip the note over, inspecting it carefully. There’s a line there, too, hastily scratched out in the same black ink, the lines crossing and digging leaving little pinprick holes in the paper.

Holding it to the light, you can just barely make out the words: I have been alone.

Your mouth dries at the sentiment, tongue flicking out to try and force a wetness to your lips. The animal begins its keening howl, a chain rattling as claws sink into your innards; the very same agitated fear that starved you out of comfort day in and out.

The man in the forest, perhaps. You were sure that you would have remembered seeing someone so disheveled and tall about town, and if not for a certainty that he had not followed you home, you would have assumed it was him. Gratitude finally said, and well on his way to someplace else.

There’s nothing here for him or anyone else, surely he could see that. Even you could.

The walls around you seem to bulge, the room shrinking once again as every little thing held within begins to taunt and yowl. Safety was only a temporary luxury, it always has been.

The letter is discarded onto a table, as you opt to hazard a peek out of your curtains instead. The gray from yesterday remains as thick clouds crowd above, threatening another storm. The treetops and tall grass dance in the breeze, freeing leaves and breaking flower stems. There’s no one standing there to greet you, to explain themselves for the strange message that they had left.

The town had probably already driven you to madness, picturing things that were not there while old fools jab you with ominous letters and jeering stares to see just how long it would take to watch you fall apart.

Another delivery day it would be, then; best to get it out of the way before the rain begins to fall.

Maybe you could even retrieve the umbrella along the path, discarded, battered from the rain and likely unused.

You don’t bother packaging the pocket watch, choosing to hastily stuff it into the pocket of your coat instead. Courtesies be damned. Tea and a warm bath would do well when the house was sated by your absence, when you were finally given time to breathe.

In your haste, you nearly kick over what’s been left on the uppermost stair leading to your door.

You find a table clock covered in a thick black fabric, a little note attached to it giving the owner’s name and address, and a small bag containing payment.

It’s all securely placed inside, next to the ugly letter on the table.

Your umbrella doesn’t wait on the path, but you’ve hardly the mind to care. Your hand tightens around the pocket watch as you cord your way down the path and back into town, rushing amidst the foliage until the sounds of your footfalls are dulled by the street.

Reaching the house, a towering narrow building that smells like tobacco even from outside, your hand curls to knock at the door in the same breath taken as the chain is plucked to place it on the knob, intent on scurrying away immediately to avoid the disgusted gaze of the man that waits inside.

You don’t quite make it far enough before the door swings open and you’re greeted by a round face, nose upturned and lip curled into a sneer.

That isn’t imagination.

There’s a genuine hate in this man, seeping down into his bones that makes him almost seem to reek like sulfur through the cloud of cigarette smoke that wafts around him. It’s the face of someone who would love nothing more than to see your own damnation, watch the earth suck you in until your wails fall silent and a fire roars upward in your wake.

“This isn’t my watch, dear.”

“Parts needed to be replaced,” you explain, voice tight and keening like a wolf in a trap, “I assure you that I—“

“It’s shoddy work. Any clocksmith up north would have done better for half the price..”

It goes on like this for what feels like at minimum thirty revolutions, but it must have only been five or so. His droning voice makes it hard to keep track, buzzing as he examines your work, hours wasted upon aiding such an awful creature.

He only seems to grow bored of his chiding when you fall to silence. He wants a reaction, not a wide-eyed fretful stare and pursed lips caging in any sound that may bubble up from your throat.

In one final act of detestation, the watch is tossed to the ground, stomped in repetition until the hands snap, the ticking quiets, and you see months of your work brought to ruin in a mere seven seconds.

He storms back inside and slams the door shut as you stoop to collect the little, broken thing, cradling it in your palms. Maybe it wouldn’t be fixed again, but you’ve hardly the mind to let anything be left abandoned like this.

Though the anger builds, white bitter smoke billowing through your veins, it remains tucked away inside eventually communing with the animal, all but entirely snuffed out when your steps lead you to the front door of the house.

The window to the right is open, not broken. The curtains were pushed aside as though to allow a breeze to enter. A muddy footprint, vast and long scales the siding, but there’s no exiting one to join it.

You stare and listen, taking one quiet step towards the open window to strain your hearing. Nothing. Inside, it’s quiet, only the sound of the breeze rattling that note left on the table, the ticking and the familiar creaks and groans of the house settling.

So, you enter.

With the poker from the hearth in tow, the rooms are investigated one by one. Each and every one of them clear of any intruder. Even the attic, for all of it’s imagined ghosts sits empty, stale and silent. There’s no one here, nothing out of place or broken that hadn’t already been cast out from the world and delivered into your hands.

Strangely enough, it’s more peaceful like this; the leaves could be heard rustling outside, birds calling, even the chirps and strumming of crickets too late to flee the onset of chill seeping through this purgatory, filling the mundane void with sounds of life and peace.

You leave the window open.

The pocket watch is left on the desk, the kettle filled with water and placed upon the stove to heat, all before your eyes trail over to that little table beside the front door.

The only thing amiss is there, your intuition roars at you: “Look, look. Just look.”

The table clock from this morning sits there, the wood casing dusty and the hands perpetually stuck to sit at six o’clock, easy to enough to break, and easier still to fix. An overworked battery and a little oil would be its saving grace; if only things could be so simple for yourself, for the thousand or so others that surely must feel the same— clawed, fretful little rabbits.

Your eyes narrow momentarily, vaguely recalling that the damned thing had been covered when it was dragged inside. Something sable and thick, a scrap of a heavy dress shirt perhaps, verily stained. Odd that someone would have broken in merely to steal something so useless, but stranger tales have been told. For all you cared, the perpetrator could keep it.

You entertain the idea of the wild man in the trees, thick and sturdy as one. Perhaps he left the note, stole warmth from your home and found comfort in that useless old shirt after leaving that roughly scrawled note. Though the idea would horrify others, it only sets your ceaselessly racing pulse at ease.

Toying with the idea that someone so very much like you lurks the hills, found a home in your eyes and paid a visit, kind enough to wait until you were in town as to not scare you… and the kettle begins to whistle.

———

You had forgotten to close the window last night. Or maybe it was left as an invitation, a silent offer of your companionship for the unknown thing that occupies your already haunted mind these days. Something in your subconscious dared you to simply forget, see what happens, and you’re not entirely disappointed to find out that yes, something has happened.

There are three flowers laid out there in a row, smushed by the weight of a heavy palm: a daffodil left golden and proud despite the way her petals fray and wither, and two others wild and unnamed with blue and white colors leading to vibrant green stems. And roots. He hadn’t the time to pluck them proper, nor had a sense of gentleness to his touch in doing so.

It’s the first time you’ve laughed in months, a giggling that makes your chest ache from a sudden mirth through all of this wretchedness. Who knew it would only take three flowers and the appearance of someone so disconnected? You take them and place them in a vase in the same spot, careful to add just the right amount of water to keep them living for a time.

Someone brought you flowers— actually brought you a gift, not a job. You remember those eyes, too. His hands may not have been gentle, but that look was.

Though darkness still creeps internally, you’re resolute in what you must do when you prepare for the day. You’ve never really worn this dress— a soft, white thing with billowing sleeves and tight cuffs that brings a swell to your breasts and cinches your waist. One of the women about town had given it to you in lieu of payment for repairing her husband's watch, left a note prattling onward for three pages about how a woman should dress to find a man. Three!

You’ll find him, thank him for the flowers, bat your eyelashes just a little and retrieve your umbrella. That’s all. The rain would be back, more deliveries would have to be made, and if you could manage a friend from all of this well… surely things could work out for you, just this once.

Your steps are less hurried and more tentative this time around. You don’t barrel through the woods like a galloping mare, mindful of your dress as you lift the fabric at the hips to avoid thick, slickened mire. There isn’t much to do about the thorns nipping at your ankles, leaving little scratches like cat’s claws in their wake.

The thought that maybe this was a ridiculous idea only settles in your mind after an hour of searching. You don’t even have a name to call him by, not an idea on just where he may be or what his intentions truly were, all further punctuated by the fact that you’ve found yourself in the midst of a wild orchard, the yellowing grass nearly reaching your knees as you reluctantly allow your dress to flow free. Thick clusters of apples hang above your head, each nearly ripe, some even fallen to leave a fragrant sweet smell in the wake of their rot.

Thunder roars above, distant but loud, cruelly threatening the wake of a downpour that would so easily sully the delicate thing you wear. Your chest aches from exertion, from whichever horrid fear it's settled on today, and you’re nearly fully convinced of your own madness when something does finally catch your eye.

There’s a cabin, nestled between the trees, old and lacking glass panes for the windows. The roof is covered in moss, walls creeping with the old green of vines and nearly hidden away entirely by the tall grass that rises above its face.

You could wait out the storm in the dark there, rethink your steps until you find a way back home and the prospect of actually entering a building that wasn’t the very picture of your own agony stirs something within you.

You don’t bother to knock, only waltz right in and let the door shut softly behind you. It creaks as it goes, whining from the rust laden over its hinges. As expected, the cabin is mostly barren; a set of dust laden chairs sits on opposite ends of a table missing a leg, a large bookshelf housing only a torn copy of Paradise Lost and a journal, a few dirtied dishes are left on the floor, and in the corner…

There are a lot of things that make you feel small.

You couldn’t live up to your father’s name in town. The thought that you were not an equal to the other ladies with their fine jewelry and dresses, rings wrapped around their fingers, that was a sore spot despite the way you refused to admit to it. Even the hounds lurking about the butcher’s shop on lonely night deliveries, baying and growling when your feet carried you too close.

None of those things could even compare to how you felt now.

The rug he lies beneath is large on its own, but your flower-giving, grateful titan seems even more so. It’s as though walking into a bear’s den and expecting a mere squirrel. Even curled into himself in sleep, he seems impossibly huge.

You couldn’t see much of him that first night, but now… where the rags that make up his clothes reveal a series of long scars along his legs, the hairy arms that seem far too thick: all of him, all of him is massive.

Your rabbit heart does not claw or fight you now, it only flutters, placated by the sight of something so… was there really a word for it? The idea that someone so imposing could strike the match of attraction within you. Feelings were strange, each comes sharp and new like the deliberate twist of a knife through a body, soft like warm bread.

You smile as you wander to his side, recognizing the cloth he wears over his head immediately as the one stolen from your house. Your dress is smoothed at your rear as you lower yourself to sit on your knees at his side, quiet and slow.

“Hello,” you whisper, placing a hand on a shoulder that dwarfs it entirely, feeling the bulge of muscle beneath the ripped shirt, the ridge of keloid scars from deep cuts laid into his skin.

The titan’s eyelids flutter for a moment as he begins to stir, staring up at the ceiling, teetering on the edge between waking and dreaming. Then, those cold blue eyes lock onto you. A flash of disbelief crosses them, just for a moment before something flips and from the holes ripped into that makeshift hood you see an expression that seems almost agonized.

“Hello,” he rasps after a long moment, shifting onto his side to prop himself up and raise his head to level with your own.

His breathing is shallow, almost panicked and you finally think to bring your hands to your lap instead, avoid touching him and potentially startling the poor man further.

“I wanted to thank you… for the flowers. They’re beautiful.” You pause as you study what little of his expression you can make out through the mask, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners only giving a glimpse of a smile. All teeth, probably, an excited one that even the imagination of warms your heart. “I put them in a vase. I didn’t want them to die.”

“I should not have…” His voice is softer than you ever imagined that it could be, well-spoken as the words are pulled from his throat. You find yourself transfixed, almost, praying that he continues if only to hear the delicate strumming of his tone, the soft sigh of breath that leaves him afterward.

“Es tut mir leid.”

The apology is followed by a low sweep of his gaze, slowly crawling from the peek of your cleavage to your hips to rest where your hands lay clasped in your lap.

He hardly seems to know what to do with himself, what to say, and all at once the realization dawns on you that no, he isn’t merely paying his thanks and seeking conversation. Perhaps that was part of it then, but now… he seems almost entranced.

You recognize those looks, from men in passing when they leered, but from him… from this weary, haunted stranger. It only seems a silent sort of reverence; as though longing for something he’s been deprived of.

“No, it’s fine, it made me happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yes, it was sweet.”

He falls silent at that, conflicted if the pinch of his brow were anything to go by. Then, sudden, he takes your wrist and jerks your hand toward his face, thumb brushing over the small calluses over each pad of your fingers. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails, even more scaring along those massive hands and you shiver. It’s not fear it’s… something akin to it, opposite by the way it dances and writhes in warmth rather than the cold.

“You have the hands of a maker.”

Strange, sweet Goliath.

His words are spoken somberly, as if there is more to say that he holds back. A part of you warns that you’re not prepared for it anyhow, so you let him continue that motion, brushing over your palm with a featherlight touch until it begins to tickle.

Your giggle prompts him to raise his head, watery eyes threatening tears when he hears that sweet sound bubble up from within you. His hand curls over your own, trapping you in his grasp as though little else matters to him more than the need to touch you in some way.

“You have kind eyes.”

“I am not kind.”

You shake your head at that, flicking your thumb across the top of his burly hand, marveling at the smooth skin of his scars and the rough texture of the hair that dots his knuckles.

“You’re sweet to me, and that’s all that matters.”

It could have been a mistake, how easily you’ve taken to this bizarre titan. Any lady with proper regard for her standing and womanhood assuredly wouldn’t have said something like that to a beast that has the stature and the scent of something wild.

Still, the words leave your lips far too quickly to draw back; he responds with an urgency.

You find yourself pulled ever closer by the iron grip on your hand, tugged into the rug-turned-mattress by this man as he cages you in to meld against his chest. He’s everywhere, warm and burning against the chill of your skin with flesh touched by hellfire.

You only sigh pitifully when his arm wraps around your waist. When was the last time you had even felt an embrace? You couldn’t recall, and even if you had, it would have paled in comparison to one such as this. You breathe him in like a summer’s breeze, tasting a hint of the apple orchard beyond on your tongue when you open your mouth to speak once again.

“See..?”

The tension in his muscles seems to melt away; if your heart is like a hare then surely his must be more akin to a bull. It takes some time before he softens entirely against you, despite his initiation. His breath is almost a pant when his hand trails upward along your back, feeling every ridge and dip and curve, breath catching in wonder as you allow it.

“You are soft like…”

His head dips to press into your shoulder, breathing you in, humming his approval at the mingling scent of clock oil and tea leaves that lingers on your skin. Even from beneath the hood, you can feel the way his lips brush over you, his mouth parted in a voiceless plea.

“… like one of the flowers.”

It’s almost torture really, how someone could be so comforting, so endearing.

His hand trails further, drifting over the backside of your dress to curl against your thigh threatening something if you don’t conjure the sense to stop him. It stokes the fire within you, glowing ember in place of a brain, it seemed. You feel weak, lost in a foreign touch and sweet, clumsily spoken words.

If the townsfolk could see you now, herded up in this stranger’s arms, surely they wouldn’t dare to cast any disapproval your way. Not one of those meek little devils would have a word to say… not now or ever again.

“You’re like… a tree then,” you whisper as you finally will yourself to twist away from the grip, already mourning the loss of warmth as a cold wind filters through the openings in the cabin.

He doesn’t sulk as you pull away, only seems content to have been blessed with that much. That mist remains in his eyes before they shut again, willing himself to rise to sit up just as you do.

“Will you stay?”

You glance over the cabin again, with all of its dust and cobwebs. Your umbrella sits in the corner, propped upright with its handle leant against the wall, out of place amidst the dilapidation prevalent here.

This wasn’t a home at all, just a quiet, cold purgatory. Though the halls of your own may mock your solitude, this place seems to echo his very being: alone, broken, rotting and so, so very cold.

Your heart bleeds as you weigh your options, expression growing sullen and torn. He notices, tentatively takes your hand again in an almost practiced way of providing comfort. Had he ever even…

Your thoughts begin to drift again, and you force yourself to settle on a choice. It’s not your heart that should be damned, but that horrid seed of doubt constantly burdening, stealing from, and clawing at you.

“I should get home, before the rain.”

“Verstanden.”

“You can come too.”

There’s an audible hiss of breath through his teeth, that peculiar look of agony crosses his face again… and finally, he weeps.

———

König, you think to call him.

He teaches you German from time to time, in turn for you allowing him to watch as you work away at the clocks. It feels fitting in a way. Not because he harbors the self-importance of a noble figure, nor his stature; he’s simply become something impossibly important in the week long span you’ve spent together now.

You’ve decorated the guest room properly for him, and in turn he’s brought you firewood, foraged and hunted so that neither of you have had to bother with the town. The fire raged in the hearth as the cold continues to set in, and your walks to town have been enjoyable now. He accompanies you to the hill on some nights, draws you a bath when you come home, even cooks.

So… maybe a king was not entirely appropriate, but calling him a servant certainly wasn’t either. Even with the way he seems to melt and become docile at the slightest brush of your hand, the way you know with a certainty he would die for you if you spoke the word.

And still, you call him König: the king of your heart.

There are flowers at your windowsill each morning, still clinging to their roots. You bake the bread while he cooks stew with herbs gathered from the little garden just beyond the walls of the home, one he’s graciously told you he’s wanted to expand for you. Books you’ve overlooked for years have been read end to end by him, and he especially seems to like those with art of flowers drawn into their pages, always seeking you out to show you, explain their meanings, expressing the beauty that he sees in them and within you.

You don’t know where he’s come from, what his life was like before this, and with the same respect that he gives to you… you don’t ask.

“We’re starting a new story,” you had said the first morning over a breakfast of hastily made apple dumplings. To which he had agreed, with a somber hum, nodding his hooded head.

Though you do wonder about his secrets, his face. Seeing him now is all it really takes to make you smile.

He comes through the door, hauling in the massive grandfather clock that a carriage had left only this morning. The bob and the lyre both appeared broken at a glance, but your heart sinks when you read the name on the note left attached to it.

The same petulant little man that had stomped that poor watch to pieces right in front of you, no doubt he had broken this one too in some sort of tantrum. What was it now? Had the poor clock chimes a bit too loudly during the night? Was that deserving of a foot lodged right into its heart?

“König, do you mind just leaving it there?” You gesture toward the middle of the room, watching as the muscles beneath his shirt don’t even seem to ripple from exertion.

“Natürlich.”

As you set to work, pulling away parts, straightening out bends and replacing what’s broken, he kneels at your side watching with rapt attention. There’s no fixing the pendulum bob entirely, it’s far too bent and scraped, but you wouldn’t be replacing that with work of your own either. The bastard gets what he gets and that will do.

In truth, your work since having König here has only improved, and perhaps you’re showing off a bit, but the way he watches you tinker with the dusty old things as if mesmerized fills you with pride. You could fix anything, yes, with him at your side you wanted to.

The house doesn’t echo wasted time anymore, only that crowding feeling of something buzzing and chirping, budding up in the spaces where shadows should crawl: love. You wouldn’t trade it for the loneliness to return, not ever. A new sort of fear that stings just as much as it does caress.

So you work in silence, only breaking it to answer the sparse questions that he throws out.

When the clock is shoddily finished, you wipe the oil from your hands on a rag, and take König’s own large arm as it’s offered out to you to stand.

“I will carry it for you tonight,” he suggests, delicately brushing a bit of dust from your sleeve. His touch does linger, always lingers, trailing up to massage at your shoulder and cup at your neck. The swell of heat that arrives at your face then, the press of your thighs beneath your skirt… it’s always the same.

“I thought that you didn’t want to go into town?”

Your shoulder meets his chest as you press against him, doing very little to calm your body’s frustrations. The blood within you stirs like a violent wave feeling him this near— cleaned up and dressed in some patchwork conglomerate of your father’s old clothes. He smells like a union between the earth and sea, salt and alder leaf, a hint of thyme and lavender.

His eyes glitter when his gaze roves from your face to chest, hand skittering down to curl at the small of your back. To anyone else, you would look the picture of husband and wife perhaps.

“I would go anywhere with you.”

A fresh normal, like the rise of spring, those words and touches that suggest more: threatening while you plead in silence for him to just give you a push, unlace your dress and finally feel and see him properly.

“Then… yes, let’s get the cursed thing out of here tonight.”

His grip tightens around you just for a moment, fingers curling and flexing into the soft linen covering you, bunching it up just so at your back before he relents, draws away.

“You dislike this one?” König sounds almost hurt, perhaps he favored it, being tall and similar to him in some way. Another odd thing, hard to place, but he’s never seemed to like you talking down about your own work, a habit that needed breaking.

“No,” you begin to explain, curling your arms around his middle as you both stare at the thing, ticking quietly before you, “its owner is just a pain.”

“I can tell. You seem nervous, meine geliebte.”

“You haven’t taught me that one yet,” you point out, not playing coy, despite the look he gives you that suggests you know.

There’s always that ache when his eyes narrow and that playful glint reaches them. How someone could look as though they’ve suffered dozens of lifetimes of pain and still have that look, you did not know, but it excites you. A furious, needy excitement.

“Beloved,” is all that he says.

The stare relents as he heads back out into the garden, leaving you to sort yourself out.

———

“You’re sure that you can carry it the entire way?”

It’s not that you could help, really. The thing must have weighed as much as yourself, strung up over König’s back with a rope he had found lying someplace in the garden.

“Ja, it’s fine.” He’s not out of breath in the slightest either. You realize then that if you put on all your charms bending, arching and delicately maneuvering your hands to fix the clocks, the assuredly this was his way of doing the same. You try to reign yourself in from staring at the damp spot on his shirt, clinging to his broad expanse of chest, the way that his thighs seem to tense with each step forward.

You can’t— you merely trail behind him until you take the lead to bring him right to the other man’s doorstep. Your hands find the ropes that keep the clock saddled to König’s back, carefully untying them as he stoops down to let its wooden legs rest against the ground below. It scrapes, the consequence of being so heavy and forced to stand on those four tiny legs, and only then does it decide to make a cacophony of noise signaling the new hour, a trilling sort of bong that makes even your ears ring as it breaks up the silence of the night.

You don’t even need to knock, because the door flies open immediately. The man stands proud, unperturbed by your giant companion as he shoves past you to inspect his clock. There are no greetings, no pleasantries, and if you were just a bit more careless with your reputation, smacking him would have only brought you satisfaction.

“Not good, but it will do,” the little man huffs, knocking at the glass casing over the clock’s face with his knuckle. “Be a dear and have your friend bring it in for me.”

You’ve no doubt that König senses your annoyance as he cocks his head at you, but when you give a curt nod in response, he does what’s requested. The clock is set in a large den. It’s not as opulent and gilded as you had expected, just a simple home housing a very infuriating man. You watch from the doorway, swaying on your feet as König rights the clock and pushes it where he’s directed. Just a few more seconds and the two of you would be well on your way, and perhaps he would even teach you a new curse for a man like that.

He comes uncomfortably close to König’s side, a smug look plastered over his face that only seems to exaggerate just how greasy and mousy that you know him to be. Something is whispered that you can’t quite make out, a dare, a mocking taunt, something that pisses you off even without the knowledge.

The hood is pulled off by thin fingers, cast aside to the floor beyond the pair.

The man’s face goes pale before you even get a glimpse of König at all. He backs away, mouth gaping as König calmly moves to retrieve the cloth. You think you hear the word “monster” mumbled amidst a slew of incoherent babbling, but when your companion turns to face you, you feel no fear.

König’s face is like patchwork, scars connecting all together. They run like small streams up from his jaw and over his chin, splitting his lip at the corner of his mouth and dancing up to his eye. The nose is broken in places, several times over likely, crooked with a bump that only seems strangely cute. The unkempt hair lining his jaw should be trimmed, but… there’s no monster here. Only a man who has seen and felt pains that you could not bring yourself to imagine.

His head dips when he notices your wide-eyes stare, a sort of shame hidden away behind strands of long, black hair. He shuffles out of the house and shuts the door behind him, standing rigid as he expects the worst, for you to wail and sob and gather a group of townsfolk to herd him far away with fire and stones.

You only take his hand.

“Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t bother to hide himself away again during the walk back, his hand remains in your hold, trembling every now and then and gripping you tighter as he struggles with the thoughts no doubt raging in his skull like a storm. You offer your comfort as you lean toward him, head pressed against his arm even as you turn the knob and step inside.

You warm a bath for him then, a task that is no easy feat. König does not offer his help, resigned to some belief that this is only a temporary pity.

He allows you to peel away his clothes, graze your fingers over his body, over the scars all with a barely contained creature scraping out from inside: the untamed bull that you can not see. You press a kiss there, over his heart, feel it’s beating against your lips, pulling away only when his thumb strokes your cheek.

Each new sight of him is just as wonderful as they have always been. It’s not that you take pleasure in seeing the way he must have suffered; the now healed bullet wound over his abdomen speaks volumes of just what people are capable of when met with the sight of something that they do not understand.

The questions burn at the back of your skull, bitten back as your jaw tightens.

You help him wash with soap and a soft cloth, carefully removing any patches of dirt and dust that have lingered despite his near-daily bathing since living beneath your roof. The rough beard is trimmed in full, until all that’s left is a trail of dark stubble lingering along his jaw, broken up by scars like thin spider silk that make up the entirety of his body.

His hair is a mess, too, matted and clinging to his skull in wild clumps. You’re gentle with the brush as you free the tangles, clipping at what can not be saved with sharpened scissors, and massaging at his scalp as he murmurs his approval. It’s such a subdued, gentle cooing from his chest, a purr almost that shatters your heart and forces it back into place instantly.

Whatever he was or was not, you were certain this stray had never felt a touch like your own, if he had ever been touched by human hands at all.

König seems to settle greatly once you’ve tended to him and it does seem to finally dawn on him that you’re not repulsed, you’ve touched most of his damaged body, and have only brought him the gentleness that should have been commonplace by now. This isn’t some elaborate torture method— it’s only tender.

“Your turn, hm?”

That, however, brings you pause. Your hands rest on his shoulder, carefully trying to loosen a stubborn knot when you abruptly still. As if that were all he needed for encouragement, his hands cinch your waist, pulling you up and over the rim of the tub as you whine your protests in hushed little hisses. All for naught, as you find yourself submerged below the waist.

“I’m still dressed,” you sulk as the water dampens your dress, now seated between his parted thighs.

König only gives a laugh in response as his arms encase you in another embrace, his head resting against the dip between your shoulder and neck as his chest is brought to press against your back.

“And you’re still mine.”

His fingers trail further down to the wet fabric billowing amidst the soft, lapping waves of the water, pulling it up until it rests just above your hips. There’s no tact, only a clumsy sort of desperation rarely seen upon men, especially not of his stature.

You allow him to loosen the strands of lace at your back, bring your clothing up and over your head to leave it resting and dripping over the rim, pooling below onto the boards of the wooden floor. Your undergarments follow to join the flooding pile of soaked linen and lace.

You’re flustered certainly, grateful for the water surrounding that conceals the warmth that echoes your fondness for this titan between your legs.

You even considered that he would be more shy, not… as eager to begin to wash you, and not with the cloth but with his own hands, nimbly moving over every dip and curve coating you in the slick residue of soap, leaving suds in its wake. He starts at your shoulders, breath growing heavy the more you soften and relax against his chest.

It’s only a matter of time before his hands find and cup your breasts, and you swear that you can feel the grin that splits his face as you melt further against him. König gropes at and massages you there, eager fingers deliberately stroking at your hardened nipples until you quiver and sigh.

You find purchase moving your arms to your sides to grasp at his biceps, muscles flexing as he works his way down your trembling abdomen to your mound, kissing at your shoulder as you purr your encouragement.

The praises that leave your lips come tight and barely restrained as a finger trails against your slit, moving up to circle your clit before diving back down to prod at you.

Your head is gently tilted back by his free hand, your face peppered in clumsy, messy kisses as a digit sinks into you. It’s lazy work, trying to find a rhythm with your squirming. He only seems satisfied when it presses further, curling against the spot that makes you mewl sweetest, and finally, he kisses you full on.

It’s delivered as sloppily as his fingering, any trailing thought left in your skull dims, fuzzy with sheer bliss as his thumb begins to pet at your clit in tandem with each push and drag of his index. It doesn’t help that you feel his own growing need, hard and hot against your lower back, throbbing with each sound pulled from your mouth, his hips jerking on occasion to drag his shaft against your backside.

“König, we should get out,” you murmur through a flood of heat that curls and urges and presses at your lower half to seek some satisfaction, have him bed you proper. “We can go to—“

His mouth meets yours again, hungrier and more determined than before, the water rolling with each flick of his thumb. In a mere moment you feel that heat stoke to an inferno, blazing from your stomach to cause your feet to kick out, water sloshing over the side of the tub as you ride out each passing wave of paradise crying openly into his mouth.

When your trembling does subside, he kisses your cheek and pulls you up from the water, wrapping you up in his arms. His stare remains ever burning, pupils blown to a coal black, dreamy in the way he slinks back just to drink you in further. You can’t keep track of all of the places his eyes seem to dart, which touch to settle on and relish as he paws at you from chest to rear, as if mesmerized that you are no mere illusion.

You’re giving him everything; no longer the king of simply a beating organ tucked beneath your breast, but your body, bed, wherever he chooses to conquer next, of all the things that he’s been deprived of.

“We will go to bed, beloved,” he rasps, sounding more present than ever. The nightmares lurking behind his eyes have long past now: all focus is turned to you. You’re the only thing that’s ever loved him in return. “We will… become one.”

“Have you ever…” Your own voice fails you now, the evident want between you two incapable of making this any less… tedious. It was tedious, a flighty feathered thing that seems keen on slipping out of your grasp at any moment. If it were to be his first, surely it should be special, somehow, someway. If it were not… you dreaded that thought, a bitter envy sours on your tongue until it’s shaken off.

“No,” he states simply, shrugging.

Though a sense of relief seems to flood you at that, you dare not show it. You will take him to your bed, climb atop him and show him how these things work, a slow sort of love and the rest could wait.

It was foolish to believe that König would settle for such a thing, wild and only temporarily tamed by your sweetness: he is entirely different the moment you’re herded into the bedroom. The desperation of his touches has faded out entirely, replaced with what feels almost like a rage.

He wouldn’t take out humanities sins on you, no, but he would years of brutal neglect have left him starved and it just so happens that you’re an outlet for it, something to feed from by way of spilling his soul and his seed all into you, taken back with the kisses and praises that would surely come after this union.

You’re unceremoniously pushed onto the bed, lying at your side as he climbs in behind you. He whispers his requests into your hair, even as his hand wraps to pull your thigh up before you can bless him with a nod in response. He struggles for a moment, parting your labia with the obscene, ridiculous thing that hangs between his legs. It drags over you in repetition, oiled like the clock cogs before the head of his cock finally finds the opening his finger explored only minutes earlier.

You almost expect him to break you right then, force you to take what your body— no body- had surely been made for, but he only thrusts the tip inside and gives you some time to adjust, roll your hips down centimeter by agonizing centimeter.

“You are… Does it hurt you..?” His voice is a breathless pant, trying to hold himself together despite the daze he’s found himself in, buried not even three inches into your cunt.

“No… you can move,” you breathe out, eyelids fluttering as you tilt you head to look at him over your shoulder.

König clings to you as he sinks further, grasping at your waist to pull your further down, sharp breaths hissed between gritting teeth as he delights in the way your womanhood grips at his shaft.

Just as before, there’s no rhythm to him, he takes the sounds that leave you as a direction, huffing into your ear words that your mind could not hope to translate. There’s an indulgence to it, shared between you both as his hand curls tighter against your thigh, spread open and accepting of the brutal pace he takes to have just a taste of what it feels to be a normal man.

His words falter at a point, when you feel your body tightening around him, sucking him in, closer, nearer as your head lolls back. The inferno from before pales in comparison to the blaze that overtakes you now, his voice strained with bliss as you begin to moan for him. With each drag and soar of his cock spearing you open, you’re only brought further to a glimpse of Eden. If this were the fall of man, you find you couldn’t question Eve for relishing in it.

“… you gave me a name,” he rasps, “A home…”

All at once that glimmer of heaven crashes down around you, bathes you in the glow of something lofty and holy as he pulls you close and drives himself to the hilt within you. The throbbing and pulsing of his length pulls you over just as his seed spills within, drips thick and flooding as your own sex drools in tandem, sharing a perfect rapture both clandestine and sacred. He gives you another generous thrust, ensuring that he’s carved a space inside no other man could ever hope to fill.

You fret when you find him weeping, quiet tears rolling down his pale cheeks to spill over your shoulder, but the gentle smile on his face is pacifying as you twist around to face him. “And now you have my love.”

“I’ll cherish it,” he murmurs, voice broken and pitiful as you’re maneuvered upward to rest against the feather-stuffed pillows against the headboard.

You curl against him, head resting on his chest, an arm draped over his waist. He takes your hand into his own, appraising it like the first time you properly met. Hands of a maker. Your mind wanders to significance in that statement, the things that needn’t be told are finding ways to curtain you anyhow when he speaks again.

“Could you fix me?” He asks, tracing over the calluses on your fingertips, still bathing in the afterglow.

The question, though you felt it coming, still hurts to hear him speak it: breathing life into a thought that should have never existed to begin with.

“There’s nothing to fix.” Though you speak true, though you know he feels your sincerity, his eyes are heavy when he looks to you again. “Why would you ask me that?”

The story that he tells you then is one of horror. From his maker down to the things he’s done, seen, felt: hated from the moment he woke into this strange world, the horrible loneliness that pushed and bedded down inside of him like acceptance never would. The people that he’s throttled in some desire to finally have someone like him; men, women, it made no difference. All of it is bared with only one message eternally prevalent: he has only ever wanted to be loved.

In truth, he was a monster. Not because he was given the instinctual urge to be, but because it was all he knew. Gnashing teeth from demons hurling that word out with every stone they threw, every shot and stab at his heart.

You listen, despite the way it hurts, pull him a little closer when he ends his tale with your meeting, how he knew you were the only blessing he would ever receive in his lifetime— however long that may be.

You were good at fixing broken things, but König never needed to be fixed. Only found.

———

“Now you’re supposed to say it,” you hum, as his hands reach to the hem of the hood— his- covering your face. They rove beneath the fabric, curling against the skin of your cheeks, tracing small patterns there, some rotations like the clocks, others the childish hearts scribbled into books.

“I vow to take you as my wife.”

“You’re bad at this.” You giggle when he does finally push the cloth up past your nose, above your eyes and further until it’s pulled back like a veil.

“I will love you endlessly,” he continues, returning your noise of elation with a huffed laugh of his own. “I already do.”

“I love you, too.”

No one in town would ever properly marry you two, not if one look could make a weak man fall to his knees in horror, but here, beneath the roof of a home once echoing the same voice that haunts him… it was good enough. The moon seems to echo your vows with dancing rays, stars twinkling in approval as the calls of night birds carry through the open window.

There are no rings, no written formalities to be stored away with dust-ridden papers, preyed upon by mites. It’s far more sacred, genuine than the flippant affairs and arrangements that go on with those that would so readily cast the both of you aside. In truth— the thought of them rarely comes; doesn’t even rile up that intense fear inside of you any longer.

Everything only seems easier with the blooming garden outdoors, and the man who gazes upon you like he sees divinity itself behind your eyes, in the softness of your flesh.

When you kiss, it’s something from a fairytale, flowers strewn at your feet and the veil removed from your hair by a gentle hand.

Eden doesn’t seem so much like a memory lost to time, after all.

[mintmatcha]

inevitable bonus:

cw: drug use and discussion, hospital mention

A bonus piece for my long fic Inevitable

There's a unique weight to being twenty.

Salt and sadness of tears has settling into your eyelids and the world has become blurry. It's the type of sadness that robs the simple moments of their beauty and poetry.

Touya doesn't speak the entire ride home. He cranks to radio until the cab shakes with the bass, tapping along to the beat against his vomit stained jeans. The hospital bracelet dangles from his wrist along with the beat. It dances as you both walk home, joylessly mocking you with it's presence alone.

His dad called you five times, screaming, never crying. He left a bag of Touya's things with you in the hospital's parking lot, never went in to see his son. He tried to get you to leave with him, you never agreed.

Your boyfriend overdosed. He mixed alcohol and pills and god knows what else and overdosed on a stranger's floor.

You have to live with that fact.

As of today, Touya lives with you. He didn't thank you for the key when you handed it to him; his throat was still raw from his stomach being pumped.

"Do you want some scissors?" you ask the second the door closes behind him. He shrugs his bag off and slaps the lock closed.

"Nah, I'll get it later." He shuffles to the fridge. "Do you have any beer?"

The air sags out of you, not a laugh, not a sigh, but a slow punch to the gut. Touya recoils a bit, gauging his mistake.

"It's a joke."

"It's not funny."

"It's a fucking joke."

"It's not fucking funny!" The scream rips out of you so fast and hard that it aches down throughout your whole body. "It's not fucking funny!"

Touya's shoulder hunch as he scoffs, running his hands through his greasy hair. He closes his fist around the blonde roots and tugs, slightly, out of aggravation and desperation. Your whole world is cockeyed and threatening to capsize.

"Princess-" he tries, but he only prods your open wound further.

"Touya." You clasp your hands together in prayer, the only thing you've ever worshiped standing in front of you, hospital bracelet still dangling around his wrist, hands still shaking.

"Princess."

"You almost died."

The crushed pressure of worry and heartache shorten every breath, constricting around you, but the gap between the two of you feels so big.

"I didn't though." He scuffles forward, then again. You back as he approaches, a hitched waltz. until you're pressed into the kitchen's island. "I stayed for you, huh?"

Hand closing over your shoulder, he presses against you. His body is thin in ways you don't recognize, jagged in the hips and ribs.

"Huh?" he repeats, warm, soft, sweet-

"Touya, don't-"

"Huh? Didn't I?" He's trying to tug your face into his, even as you squirm away. It's supposed to be cute, but he's using too much force, perking your face towards him the second he gets a firm grip.

"Stop, I'm still mad."

"You can kiss me and be fucking mad at the same time."

"Don't-"

He muscles you into his lips. The fight inside you dissipates and you let him keep you there, licking into your mouth and sucking on your tongue like a horny teen. You wonder if he's brushed his teeth before this, if he wants you or your forgiveness.

When he releases, it's with this smile- one you don't recognize.

"It won't happen again, promise," he says. "Don't give up on me, princess, I'm not gonna disappoint you again."

It's three weeks later that he overdoses again, this time on your couch. It takes two fingers to scoop the vomit from his throat and he bites you when he starts to seize.

(dividers by @/cafekitsune)

[elizabeth-mitchells]

You're Lenore Usher and you just find out your entire family is sued for mass murder(?) and your grandpa offers 50 million to whoever catches the mole in the family, who his sister promises to murder. then your 27 years old uncle dies under an acid shower during an orgy which your mom willingly attended. but then your aunt gets her face ripped off by a chimpanzee and your other uncle jumps off his balcony because of a cat. your barely-older-than-you step-grandma tells you about giving a blowjob to your grandpa. your lesbian aunt and her partner go out in a murder-suicide. your last aunt tries to kill your step-grandma and dies by shattered mirror ceiling. but your mom is home, your dad is acting insane, your grandpa is speaking in poetry, and his sister is looking for the woman she kissed once like 40 years ago. but now you find out your dad mutilated your melted mom and then died drugged, with his dick out, and cut in half. and you think well this can't get any worse! but then carla gugino is in your bed and you fucking die. but it's okay because at least you didn't have to see your grandpa get killed by his sister who he poisoned and changed her eyes for sapphires but she came back to life and then a house fell on top of them.

[twiisted-king]

♢ Spider-Man Noir BF HC’S ♢

➟ Spider-Man Noir / GN!Reader 🕸️

➟ SFW / NSFW

➟ TW : 1930’s Attitudes, The Great Depression, Injuries/Blood, Sexual Content, & Smoking.

————————————————————————

— Let’s set one thing straight, he is husband material.

— The moment y’all start dating is when he starts thinking of marriage. Obviously he’s from the 1930’s so he probably thinks more in terms of “ I Man, I Husband “. I don’t think it’s to the point of being toxic though :)

— Peter has a gun, yes a gun, that he is not afraid to use especially when it comes to you. He’s always clutching you close to him whenever y’all go outside and keeping a close eye on the environment around him. He already lost Uncle Ben, he is NOT losing you too.

— A total gentleman : flowers, taking your coat, kissing your hand, he goes the whole nine yards.

— It’s hard for him to just be comfortable sometimes. Experience the Great Depression and being Spider-Man has left him a nervous wreck who just can’t calm down. He’s always expecting the worse. In other words, please treat this man like he’s the best thing in the whole world, he needs it.

— A music lover who would be even more smitten if you danced with him. He’ll hum to the tune and spin you around the livingroom with this big, goofy smile on his face.

— Peter runs off of coffee, cigarettes, and adrenaline. He doesn’t have the easiest line of even as a civilian and often works late into the night. He’s always exhausted when he gets home and just wants to fall into bed beside you.

— Is pretty always big spoon. It’s just easier since he’s more then a likely taller than you plus he likes taking on the protector role.

— A decent chef. He can definitely make a mean dinner and has learned a few tips/tricks from Aunt May.

— Patch up his wounds! He’s a good patient who just sits there with this glint of admiration in his eyes as you clean up any blood or stitch close a deeper cut. He’ll absolutely tease you by asking if you can “ kiss it better “.

— He writes sappy poetry. It’s mostly just for kicks and giggles though he can definitely whip out something that really touches your heart. He gets flustered if you thank him for the poetry and just hides his red face behind his hat Jotaro style.

— Peter wants to eventually move away from New York to somewhere much quieter. He wants to marry you and have a big house. If you want kids that’s more than okay with him and if you don’t he’s content on settling for a dog. He absolutely loves dogs.

♢ NSFW ♢

— While not the most experienced person sexually he still knows how to have a good time.

— Peter’s libido isn’t the highest and sex is more of a celebratory/occasional thing. You got a job promotion? Cool! Peter wants to bang you on the couch until the walls are white and the multiverse rips apart.

— I think Peter definitely gets aroused a lot he just doesn’t act on his feelings. He doesn’t exactly have time to take an hour away for some much needed love making.

— But when he does get that hour away? Oh boy howdy prepare yourself.

— I already discussed that there is more than likely a height difference and he takes that to his advantage. It’s easy to just scoop you up no matter how heavy you are and have sex with you right against the kitchen wall.

— Like he’ll rip your clothes off in the heat of the moment then promise to buy your another shirt later.

— RIDE 👏🏻 THIS 👏🏻 MAN 👏🏻 - He doesn’t mind just kicking back and letting you take control for a bit. He lets out the hottest noises and when you’re thighs are aching from bouncing on him? He just manually fucks you on his cock all while telling you about how nice you feel tensing around him.

— No surface in your place is safe. Kitchen counter, bed, couch .. you’ve been banged on all of them.

— Wants to stuff you full of as much of his cum as possible. He’ll cum into over and over again until your stomach is bloated with his release.

— He’s big! It can be an adjustment taking his dick and he’s fully aware of his size. He’s always whispering encouragements to you, telling you about how good you look taking him like this. His balls are big too lmao.

[lordsukunas]

best! friend sukuna headcanons

yall, ngl, he's just a red flag. he has his 'nice' moments but he's still an asshole! uh this is bound to be at least a little ooc bc lets bffr being his bff is unrealistic. anyway, pls enjoy! :3

best friend! sukuna who kicks the backs of your legs when you're standing, and then snicker when you crumple to the ground.

best friend! sukuna who skips the line and drags you along with him. he ignores the pathetic bitching and whining from the people who were in front of him. if they wanted their spot so bad, they should've got back in front of him.

best friend! sukuna who takes your phone off of the charger to charge his. and once his is on a hundred, he won't put yours back. you don't need your phone when you're with him anyway.

best friend! sukuna who insists on walking with you to the convenience store. it could be late at night or he could be in the middle of ripping someone's throat out for not giving him his damn money, and he'll still go.

best friend! sukuna who always makes sure you eat. post-sleepover and you're hungry? he's up, getting you something luxurious to eat at ten in the morning, and back at his apartment in a flash. he may have violated several traffic laws to do it, but at least you aren't starving.

best friend! sukuna who, ironically, cannot cook for shit. he always uses too much seasoning or disregards the given temperature from the recipe or doesn't bother with a crucial ingredient because he finds it nasty.

best friend! sukuna who enjoys poetry. it's something calming, peaceful, a stark contrast to all the blood he sheds daily. if you ask him for recommendations, he'll have an entire list engraved in his mind, tailored just to suit your tastes.

best friend! sukuna who eats up all of your snacks. oh, you have a bag of hot chips? he's eating them. the second he hears the rustling of a wrapper from your direction, he's holding his hand out. he knows you'll share. you always do.

best friend! sukuna who claims he only went to college because he was bored. while that does have some truth to it, isn't it convenient he's attending the same college as you? especially when he's never mentioned going or even caring about it, and the waitlist was so long.

best friend! sukuna who only cares for the things that directly interest and benefit him. he lives for him and him alone. you're lucky you've entertained for him as long as you have with that pretty smile, that annoyingly joyous, pure laugh and those endless rambles about the shows you've rewatched more times than he can count on one hand.

best friend! sukuna who hates how his breath catches when you show off a new outfit, how heat creeps up the back of his neck and warms his cheeks when you genuinely thank him, how he wants to cup your face in his massive, rough hands and press a kiss to your forehead.

best friend! sukuna who has never cared to love or be loved, not until he met you.

note: at some point i'll quit changing the way i format these posts... maybe idk. ALSOO i wanna write sumn abt yuuta to combat this post bc hes just a corny romantic n i love him ><

if u saw this w/o the cut... no u didn't.

[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?”

[artinvain]

your darker sevika fic ideas have my brain going brrrrrrrrrrrrrr and i think we must be on similar wavelengths because lately i've been thinking about reader being obsessive and stalker-ish toward sevika and sevika just finding it charming 'cause she's a little fucked up like that ugh i love her

good lordddyyyy

cw: stalking, slight violence, blood mention, smut, dark!reader

(men, minors, ageless and blank blogs dnf)

It starts off small, you start training to serve at the last drop and sevika is your first customer. you’re flustered and she’s laying it on thick with charm just to see you smile. she can tell you’re taken and it just makes we want to woo you more. It seems different, you don’t want anything from sevika - you seem to want to give things to her.

you’re both immediately enamoured, sevika much less revealing about it. you start to ask around about her not knowing it would get to her but it does.

then she sees you in babette’s she’s pissed because “why did you start working here?” she spits when you come to the table. In all honesty it’s because you know where she likes to go, and you wanted to make sure of something.

“I needed the extra money, I’m just bar tending sevika I promise,” you seem to reassure her, even though she doesn’t deserve it - you two don’t know each other.

“I’ll get you a whiskey,”

when you leave, you take a detour in the back of the kitchen to the rooms. lottie was one of Sevika’s favourites and she had a big mouth.

you figured if you could get your message to lottie she would surely pass it on.

“charlotte,” you whisper and she crooks her head at you, watching you in the threshold of the door through the vanity mirror.

“what do you want?” lottie spits. you were new around and you asked too many questions, you were some kind of freak she’d heard - a new one to town speaking of practicing arcane and all kinds of nonsense

“I need to ask you for something,” you ask smiling small and locking the door behind you. lottie stands and faces you, she stands close like she’s trying to be intimidating. but there wasn’t a bone in you that cared.

she was trying to hold on to someone who did not belong to her. sevika was yours.

“and what’s that?”

“I like you lottie - so I’m warning you. stay away from sevika,” you place a hand gingerly on her cheek and she frowns in confusion.

“sevika has lots of girls”

“that’s why you’ll warn them,” you nod and your nails sink into the skin on her belly button, you rip the ring from her stomach and let it clatter to the floor as she does with a scream.

you sigh and kneel over her as she scrambles away from you, “you’re a fucking freak,” she gasps, red seeping down her skirt. “I hope you can heed my warning before something serious happens,” you say and leave her room.

when you get back to your tables sevika is gone, and everyone refuses your service, you couldn’t do shit and you were tipped any. by the end of the night babette lets you go.

when sevika goes back the next day she’s satisfied to see you gone. smirked at the thought of turning one of her girls over imagining you whining out her name below her.

only none of her girls will even see her, the scamper away - more afraid than usual, looking around paranoid.

when she finds out (because she will always find out) she can’t help but lean back in her chair and chuckle

she’s always the one chasing, the one possessing and to have someone want her so desperately.

it makes her hips buck. oh she’s fucked.

and then she starts getting gifts, food and knitted sweaters and baked goods and letters - poetry and “I hope I’m not too forward - I just want to make sure you’re taken care of,”

you never sign your name and you don’t have to.

she’s not surprised when — as she walks through your apartment, fingering as your lingerie and looking over your book titles — you walk into your apartment and you don’t scream.

“sevika,” you exhale, “you’re here,” you approach her slowly.

sevika pulls you in close and cups the back of your head.

“you could’ve been in serious trouble for what you did to lottie if I didn’t protect you,” she mumurs into your ear and toy swallow.

“I’m sorry, she just wouldn’t back off and I told her to. it was a warning,” you say looking over her face and all you see is soft grey eyes and furrowed brows and bitten lips.

“why?”

“because I belong to you sevika and you have to see that you belong to me too,” you whine desperately and sevika swoops down to kiss you, pressing her hips against yours.

“so you’ll do anything I say?”

“of course,” you mumble against her lips as her hands squeeze your ass

she has you brought to her loft and she’s kissing every piece of flesh she reveals.

“oh fuck good girl, better than anyone else - shit, look so pretty letting me ride your face.”

sevika groans as she holds your head still and fucks your waiting tongue, twisting against her and tasting her.

and then she’s laying herself over you, strap sliding in deep as your eyes roll back.

“m’gonna come home to you every day and fuck you senseless,” she moans as she winds her hips “gotta make sure my pretty little housewife is all taken care of,”

you whine backing into her and yelling into the pillows as she rubs your clit.

😚🏷️ @lesbian-useless @archangeldyke-all @sexysapphicshopowner @sevsbaby @iamaboringrattat @lavendersgirl @bimboprincezz @opropheticsoul @ariariarr @femme-historian

[shadowqueenjude]

Who pulls the most bitches?

So I saw someone do something like this and I kind of wanted to do my own version with sjm characters. They get no bitches (besides that one girl who's a sucker for losers): Tamlin, Hunt, Ithan, Declan (only bc he's gay not for lack of game; he pulls ALL the men), Tarquin They get more than none but less bitches than you'd expect: Fenrys (bc he's with Maeve, poor boyo), Tharion (bc he's stuck with the river queen's daughter, oof), Aedion, Mor (because she has to hide her sexuality, rip) Now let's rank the remaining: Rhysand: for the supposedly most powerful fae guy to ever exist, he gets a surprisingly low amount of bitches. Perhaps it is due to his creepy evil reputation and the hatred for him within his own court: turns out a pretty face a male does NOT make. Even gold-diggers have standards! Cassian: I turned this over in my mind many times, but I realized Cassian pulls less bitches than Azriel after the line "I don't need to resort to poetry." He gets plenty of bitches because he's a bigass dude with muscles, but his shitty poetry is a turn-off to most eligible ladies. Azriel: he doesn't need to resort to poetry; he's a pretty boy with a cut body, but points have to be deducted for lack of game and pining over Mor for 500 years and being obsessed with having a mate (yuck). Dorian Havilliard: Come on, guys! He's a hot prince! Of course, he gets all the bitches. He's a little immature but he grows out of it! I mean he pulled the fucking man-eater, for God's sake. Points deducted for falling for Celaena wayyyy too fast (and getting rejected) and for his healer girl getting decapitated (rip Sorscha). Rowan: we KNOW this guy gets aaaaaaaalllll the bitches. Come on, he's Rowan-rutting-Whitethorn! Points were deducted for the whole Lyria thing AND serving Maeve for so long. Lorcan Salvaterre: He gets even more bitches than Rowan because... "Battles, riches, females- Lorcan always won, at any cost." And it's even said Rowan often allowed him to win. So yeah, he pulls a lot of bitches and participates in crazy orgies with his homie Rowan. Points deducted for being Stockholmed by Maeve (poor Lolo). Ruhn Danaan: I mean we already know the man's got game (evidence: CC2 chapter 3 plus all ruhnlidia chapters). He's also a young (by Fae standards) prince who lives in a fucking frat-boy house. And that sad-boy thing he's got going on? Girls love that. Eat it up. All the bitches wanna sit on him to take away his sorrow. Points deducted for crushing on a lesbian (oops). Tristan Flynn: Man gets even more bitches than Ruhn because he's just hornier and he's obsessed with his hair. Also, did you see the fire sprites becoming his cheerleaders? King shit. Points deducted for failing to rizz up Ariadne. Eris Vanserra: Come on, he's an Autumn Court male. Plus he's a Vanserra! It's practically in his blood! Points deducted for being rejected by Mor and Nesta tho. Chaol Westfall: Man gets a shockingly high number of bitches despite being a human character who until Dorian became king had a pretty lowly position. I mean, there was a literal PRINCE and his cousin hanging out and the girls were all drooling over Chaol. When he had a disability (which unfortunately due to prejudices that exist, often make you "undesirable" in the eyes of many) and he rizzed all those women, including Yrene, harder than Kashin. EVERY. GIRL. CHOSE. CHAOL. OVER. A. LITERAL. PRINCE. Both in Adarlan AND the southern continent. You're telling me he doesn't have the rizz??? A half a point deducted for being too hung up over Celaena (I don't blame him but still). But still, he pulls sooooo many bitches. Lucien (Vanserra? Spell-Cleaver? Cunt-Server?): Come on. Is there anyone else fitting to be number 1???? Man's got EVERYTHING Chaol has, PLUS he's the son of a High Lord and he's got that Vanserra rizz. Fuck it, he wouldn't stop at bitches. He'll pull every mfer to ever exist. If it breathes, it's into Lucien Vanserra. He is THAT guy.

[avocado-writing]

I will forfeit all my worldly possessions for some gortash nsfw, you’re amazing keep up the good work!

cws: hate sex. gn!reader x gortash. enjoy!

you fucking hate him. oh, you hate him.

you make sure he knows it every time you run your nails down his back, rake them, really; leaving hot red welts in their wake. you want him to cry out in pain. instead he hisses in pleasure and buries himself in your further.

it is delicious. it is torture. it is heavenly.

when he’d suggested you’d work together, you’d swallowed your pride and done it for the good of baldur’s gate. the people loved him after all, even if it was all due to his campaign of faux grandeur. ‘a man of the people’. as if. if he was in a lineup and you had to choose the person who you thought had crawled out of the hells, you’d pick him every single time.

but still, despite it all, despite his devilish upbringing and baneite loyalties, there was a bigger enemy to face, and he was a powerful ally.

so ally you did.

it started off innocent enough, him calling meetings with you, just you. strategising, he reasoned. no point in not sharing information. you looked at him with disdain over his map of the city, he just arched a brow.

you hated yourself for having a reaction to it, burning white hot in the pit of your stomach. a mix of rage and lust. when everyone was asleep that night at the elfsong, you shoved your hand between your legs to ease the pressure he had built up, cursing him as you came.

his honeyed words dripped on you. dulled your senses to the lurid colours of his purulent personality. he was evil. viciously so. no good to be next to in the long run.

yet when he hooked the finger of his gauntlet under your chin and brought you in for a kiss, you did not pull away. you met his challenge head on. you teethed at his tongue when it slipped between your lips. you wanted him to know you’d take what you needed from him and hate him as you went. he wanted you to know he didn’t care and would enjoy it anyway.

and now: this.

his hand slipping up your thigh during your meeting until he cups your sex. you near-snarling in return and ripping at his fine clothes, hungering for the meat of his body. you are no aesthete. there is no use in pretending you care about what your tear away - he surely has the best tailors in this city at his beck and call, and it goes some way to soothing your wounded ego when his gown is in scraps from your ardour.

and it is wounded, of course, because you debase yourself like this.

he sits you on top of the map of the city, lays you out over it, and fucks you. there’s a poetry to your bodies combining on top of your shared home. he thrusts and you growl in the back of your throat, smothering his smug smile by forcing him into a near-violent kiss. hate him. you hate him.

his cock slides into your body, thick and hard, and despite your better judgement there is a little thrill in knowing that you get this powerful man to have such a reaction. that the roseate of his cheeks and heave of his chest is because he desires you with his whole being. you purr when his head dips between your legs and he ravishes you with his tongue, just as clever when it fucks as it is when he speaks.

you want to take him apart piece by piece. as he thrusts down into you, dark and dangerous eyes boring into yours without missing a beat, you know he wants to do the exact same in return. reduce you both to parts. jigsaw them together and let the combination of the two of you rule this city, rule the brain, rule the world.

every time you couple, you let yourself get lost in the idea of it for just a moment. the idea of him. the idea of him and you.

but when it is over and you are both sated, your mind and sense return. you cannot trust this man, even after he has been inside of you, when he knows the most intimate etchings of your soul.

so you bid him goodnight, and no more. he is once again an enemy held as close as a friend.

“until next time,” says Gortash with an easy smile, and you want to tell him there will be no ‘next time’ - but it would be a lie neither of you would believe.

[catsteeth]

Sugar & Violence

Podrick Payne x reader 

+:✿ Chapter 8 ✿:+ : Bad Poetry

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Summary: You’re a Mormont being held hostage by House Lannister.  You are acting now as the Handmaiden for Margery Tyrell, whom you’ve grown quite close with. But it seems that a squire has caught your attention as you have caught his. 

CW: afab reader, Proposal, NSFW themes, mention of non-con, misogyny, mention of violence, mention of arranged marriages, mention of alcohol consumption, mention of NSFW themes, mention of parental death.

Word Count: 5.7k

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

After you and Podrick’s heated reunion in the snow behind the walls of Castle Black, you and Podrick attempt to resume your duties as normal. He attended his training, and you continued to pester the old Maester. 

However you came together again in your chambers that night. Now that you were near, Podrick would waste no time. Any moment he had he gave it to you. So naturally he and you coupled again. But that night he told you of what happened in the RiverLands. The dead black fish you saw in your dream was not only a black fish but the BlackFish, Brynden Tully. And that was not the end of your dreams.

That night, you dreamt of an old friend. Margaery. You thought of her long hair, the pale auburn of her hair. Only in your dream, she looked far different than how you remembered. Her hair was uncurled, her clothes were modest and dull, and her crown hung heavy at the top of her head. Her smile was gone and left was an expression of anger. 

And suddenly a flash of green, bright blinding green. And a siring, burning, all too vivid pain ripped through your skin. You saw the bricks of a great and tall building crumbling, and seven pointed stars falling with it. The green grew, and burnt through it all, through your skin, through your bone, until you finally broke free from your dream.

You woke up with your eyes still closed, screaming from the pain.  

Your screaming naturally woke up your lover sleeping beside you. He instinctively wrapped his arm around you pulling you in closer. His other hand came to your face, holding it firmly, “(Y/N)!” He shouted waking you from your dream. As soon as your eyes opened, your screaming ceased. Your eyes wide, darted around the droll room until they finally settled on Podricks face. He looked at you with his sleepy, scared, and watery eyes “What is it?” He asked in a hush tone, “What’s wrong?” He asked as he brushed your cheek with his thumb.

“Green, green, green fire…” You whispered, muttering incoherently, you felt the remnants of the pain you felt in the dream. Your eyes began to water, and you began to pant and shake as your mind began to understand your dream.

He held you closer, your face nuzzled into his neck, “It’s alright, it’s alright…” He whispered as he ran his hand up and down your side soothing you.

As you catched your breath in his arms, your dreams' meaning came clear to you. 

You knew that Margaery’s life was in danger, that she was going to die a terrible death. A terrible and undeserved death. 

So you peeled yourself away from your lover's arms. Stumbling around the cold room, beginning to dress yourself. 

“What’re you doing?” Podrick asked as you dressed in haste. “The sun is hardly out.”

“I have to leave here.” You said lacing your corset quickly. 

Podrick sat up in your bed, looking at you suddenly wide awake “Leave where?”

You looked back at him as you quickly shoved your feet into a pair of boots, “Leave here, Castle Black.” 

He threw the blankets off of himself and stood as you fastened your baldric holding your sword around your waist. “You can’t-“ He asserted. 

“Podrick, I have to.” You asserted back, you felt rotten with guilt but you knew you’d no choice. 

Podrick came close, putting his hand on the back of your neck, “What did you see?” He asked earnestly.

You took a breath, “Destruction. The Sept, in the Capitol. It erupted into a wildfire.” You said with fear in your eyes.

Podrick shook his head in confusion, “Why go then?” He wasn’t angry with you of course, but he couldn’t understand why you would put yourself in such danger.

“Margaery is there.” You said with a tilt of your head.

“You could die!” He said as you moved away from him, grabbing hold of your cloak and slinging it over your shoulders.

“She will! If I don’t go, she will.” You insisted desperately attempting for him to understand. Though of course a man would not understand the connection you and another woman would have. You continued to dress yourself, shoving your hands into your leather gloves.

Podrick, knowing he’d exhausted all his options, stood in front of the door. “I won’t let you.” 

You shoved your hand into your leather gloves. You stopped and stared, completely still once he said those words, “What?” you asked with narrow eyes.

“I said I won’t let you.” He asserted with a false confidence. 

You finished placing your hands into your gloves. Then stepped in front of Podrick, staring him down, “Say that one more time.” You said softly but intensely. 

He swallowed hard, and attempted to puff out his chest, “I won’t let you leave. I refuse to allow you to try to kill yourself.” He shook his head. Attempting to dominate the situation. 

“You won’t let me leave?” You asked with a raised brow.

He nodded, “That’s right.” As soon as he said those words you turned around and opened the window shutters of your chamber, beginning to climb out of it. He must have forgotten your chamber was on the ground level. “He-“ He began before rushing over to the window that you were jumping out of, “(Y/N)!” He shouted out the window as you landed on the ground. 

“I’ll return!” You shouted back to him as he watched you run towards the stables. 

Podrick, still half naked from waking up beside you, stumbled around the room attempting to dress himself quickly enough to catch you before you left the gates. 

However by the time he was dressed and running outside, the gates were closed. And your brown horse is now gone. 

Podrick stood there for a moment just staring at the gates. Unsure of what to do next. When he looked beside him, he noticed the tall lady knight he served. Brienne was entering the courtyard for Podricks training, as they did each morning. She looked upon his helpless expression with confusion.

“She’s gone.” He said breathless and defeated.

“Gone where?” She asked, irritated with a furrowed brow. 

“Kings Landing.” Podrick said in a huff.

Brienne scrunched her face, “Hm, She seemed strange but not stupid.”

“She’s not stupid.” Podrick nearly snapped, which was very out of character, especially towards her. “She’s strong wielded.” He said more calmly. 

“Then go.” Brienne said as if it were the obvious answer… which it was. 

“What?” Podrick asked, he never thought of himself capable of it. 

Brienne rolled her eyes, “Gods- Podrick, if you fear for her then help her.” She huffed, “Honestly you thinking you’d be able to stop her was pathetically idiotic.” 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Your journey south was pitifully uneventful. You knew now where to avoid in the roads and what Inns would throw out day-old food. It was getting into the capital that proved to be a challenge. And you knew that getting into the castle walls would be even harder. However it wasn’t long after arriving that you had heard enough murmurs among the smallfolk that Margaery was not in the walls of the castle at all, no she was in the Sept. 

You knew then that your time was running thin. But at least in the sept there was a way in. You snuck in through the Septa’s quarters. Hiding your sword and cloak there. You dressed in the gray humble smock, and a matching gray headdress to conceal your hair. 

Soon after stumbling through the sept long enough you found where they were keeping her. 

As you looked in through the small crack in the door, you could see her curled up in a corner of the room. 

“You there!” A voice called out, 

You were startled, and jumped slightly as you looked over to the voice who called out. You saw it was a younger boy holding a tray of food. 

“Are you giving the Queen her supper?” He asked innocently. 

You nodded, and took the tray from the boy. “Can you open the door?” You asked, “I seemed to have forgotten my keys in my quarters." 

The boy rolled his eyes in annoyance, but did as you asked. 

As you entered the room you made sure that the boy closed the door behind him, and waited to hear his footsteps fade. Then you approached Margaery. 

She was curled up in the corner of the room facing away from you. You walked closer to her, placing the tray of food by her feet. 

She looked nothing like herself. Her feet were dirty, almost black, and she was dressed in a gray rag. 

“Leave it and go.” She said defiantly. It was nothing like the Margaery you knew. 

“Margaery-“ You whispered. 

She turned to face you, recognizing your voice. She pulled your headdress down, looking at your hair as it fell out of it, “What are you doing here?” She asked terrified of you. You coming here was a dangerous choice. She knew the risk you were taking was great. Not only for you but for her as well.

“I’ve come to take you away from this pious shit.” You said quickly, knowing your time had run thin, and it was now or never for her to leave this place. 

She looked at you with narrow eyes, “This pious shit is going to let me stay queen.” 

You looked at her with confusion. Not understanding how she could possibly wish to remain prisoner. “It’s going to kill you. I saw it.” You grabbed her by her shoulders, “They’ll never listen to you and it will kill you.” 

She shook her head, looking at you with the same confusion you looked at her with, “You don’t know that.” She stood, 

You stood with her, “I do, I dreamt it.” You said with a nod. 

She stifled a laugh, “You didn’t come all the way here for a dream I should have hoped for.”

“They come true.” You said pleading with her to understand, “I dreamt of a dead black fish and Podrick-“ You began explaining but were cut off but a scoff, 

“Oh! Podrick, I am glad he indulges your fantasies. What a doting suitor he is.” Margaery said, rolling her eyes. 

“I know you’re upset with me-“

“Upset?” She asked, her eyes welling up, “You left me.” She said quietly, “Left me, for someone you loved. Someone else.” She said walking across the room, frustrated. 

You felt helpless, you couldn’t give her what she wanted, “Come with me.” You asked in a soft voice, she turned to you with heartbreak in her eyes, “Please.” You begged. 

She breathed hitched as she breathed in. She held back her emotion, closing her eyes for a moment, then finally looking at you with her head held high, “I am the Queen.” She said with teary eyes, “A Queen does not abandon her people.” 

“You are my friend.” You said softly. 

“That’s the problem, that is what I am to you.” She said, lowering her head. “That is not all you are to me.” 

You knew what she meant by it, and so did she. You always knew. And if Podrick had not come along, who knows perhaps you would have. But with him, there was only him. 

You let out a sharp exhale, “Margaery-” You began stepping towards her, 

“Go.” She said heartbroken once again, “Go with your dreams and your lover.” She said sitting back down. 

You stood there in silence for a moment not knowing what to say, “That’s it then?” You said defeatedly, fighting back tears.

She huffed, angrily, “That’s it.” She whispered in a hiss. 

Defeated, and now already mourning the friend you loved. You nodded, wiped your cheek, and headed for the door. 

As your hand touched the handle of the door, Margaery stopped you. Grabbing hold of your hand. Startled you turned around to face her, 

“Your hair.” She said as she handed you the gray headdress. Before you could take it from her hands she began putting it on herself. Tucking your hair into the headdress, you stared at her face. She was holding back tears as she smoothed out the fabric for you. 

You couldn’t help it, you wrapped your arms around her, hugging her close. Her arms did not embrace you for a moment. Hesitant to give into your gesture. Until she heard your quiet sobs in her ear, she finally embraced you, closer and harder than you did to her. 

You wanted to hold her forever, your dearest friend, who you knew would soon parish. But who you knew you had no sway over any longer, and you were unsure you ever did have any sway.  

Before you could pull away, Margaery, while still embracing you, opened the door behind you and pushed you out of the room, closing the door behind you. 

No goodbye.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ 

You managed to find your way back to the Septa’s chambers, gathering your things, and leaving the same way you snuck in. 

As you walked through the streets of the capital, you couldn’t help it but let your tears fall down your face. Knowing that you’d failed and that your dearest friend would soon be dead. You felt even more guilty for leaving Podrick, and even more ashamed to face him again. You knew that you would be dreading it your whole journey back to Castle Black. 

Only what you didn’t know is that you wouldn’t have to wait the whole journey to see him. 

As you walked in the streets, a hand grabbed your arm from behind and pulled you into an alleyway. You yanked your arm loose, and pinned the man against the wall with your dagger. 

With your dagger pressed against his throat, “It’s me!” Podrick said

As soon as you registered it was Podrick, you dropped the dagger. “Oh-“ You said shocked, you held his face, “I’m sorry-I’m so sorry- I was stupid-“

He grabbed your face, “You’re not stupid.” asserting. 

You shook your head, “I’m sorry.” You said, beginning to cry again. Though he did not wish to hear apologies, because he did not need them. He pulled you in close and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was passionate, and desperate. 

Your kiss was an apology, and a proclamation of devotion. 

As you pulled away, you looked around and noticed that the crowds around you were paying more attention to you. “We’d better move.” Podrick said, taking your hand and pulling you along. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

You and Podrick we're now on the rode together for the first time. You aimed your bow and arrow at a rabbit, far into the woods. 

“Sh- If you’re too loud you’ll scare it.” You said as Podrick kneeled beside you as you tried to get your aim perfect. 

Podrick looked out into the woods, “Think we might be too far-” before he could continue, you let your arrow loose, and it flew across the woods. Piercing through the rabbit's skull, “How’d you get so good at that?” Podrick asked in astonishment.

You shrugged, “Time… Lots of it. Boredom.” You said standing and approaching the rabbit. 

Podrick shuffled to stand, and followed you into the woods, “I had time, and lots of boredom. Never had anyone to teach me.”

“My father taught me some before he up and left and then my brother taught me some before he up and left too. Then my aunt.” You continued, holding your skirts as you walked further and further into the woods. 

“Most girls get taught how to sew, needle point-” 

You took his hand, “I can do some of that. Sewing up wounds and all that.” You said as you turned his palm over, showing him his scar of the wound you stitched up. Making him smile. You kept holding his hand as you continued, “My mother was a young bride. From what I hear she would have taught me to make dresses and embroider silks. But…I killed her when I came out of her.” Before Podrick could respond to what you had said, you got to the dead rabbit in the woods. You picked it up, holding it up by its legs, “Do you know how to skin a rabbit?” 

That night, Podrick, somewhat in an attempt to impress you, built you a fire, and cooked you that rabbit. However much he had improved he was not much of a cook. Though you appreciated the gesture all the same. 

As you ate it, you attempted not to grimace, “It’s not bad.” You said to Podrick, who knew you were being polite. “I like mine burnt anyway.” You shrugged and he smiled at you softly, “You don’t need to know how to cook to be a knight.”

“Suppose not.” He smiled, taking another bite of his burnt rabbit. 

“You came for me?” You looked back at him.

He looked back to you, “Course I did.” 

You placed the burnt rabbit down, and snuggled up closer to him. “I am sorry.”  You placed a hand on top of his, “I should have listened to you.” 

“People usually don’t.” He shrugged, genuinely not seeing the issue.

“I should.” You asserted, you leaned in closer to him “Your words mean a great deal to me.” You looked down in shame, “I don’t understand this thing. If I cannot change its course, then all it does is torment me.” You said somberly. 

He took your hand, “I want to help you understand your gift. Whatever it may be.” He brought your knuckles to his lips.

You smiled at him as he kissed your hand, “And I want to help become a Knight.”

“You do?” He asked with a giddy smile.

You nodded, “Of course, as long as you’re not a KingsGuard. I can’t have you swearing to chastity. It’d be a great waste of your talents.” You jested.

“Talents?” He stifled a laugh, 

“Your talents that are renowned around all the brothels in westeros.” You teased, and he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you on top of him, “Ah!” you giggled,

As you settled on top of him he looked up at you with adoration and warmth, “You’re the only woman I’ll ever touch.” He said earnestly. 

You smiled and stifled a laugh as you ran your hand through his hair. “Well, I am sure all the whores in the realm will be quite disappointed.” He did not say anything, just continued to look up at you with loving eyes, “What?” you asked innocently. 

His smile tugged on the corners of his mouth slightly, making him smile wider for a moment. “Would you take me as your husband?” He asked you, his grip around your waist tightening ever so slightly. 

You smiled warmly, placed your hands on his cheeks, now covered in an unfamiliar stubble. “Of course, you imbecile.” You thought it was obvious. You abandoned him once, and now we’re determined never again. You pressed his forehead against your own, “You and me.” You whispered. 

His hand that caressed your back, trailed up to hold the back of your neck. Pressing his lips against yours. You rocked your hips teasingly against him, and his hand tangled into your hair. Your hands roamed his chest, and his arms, admiring how strong they’d gotten. He did the same, his hand pawing at the neckline of your gown. 

You were content on ridding him of his pants, and riding him, but you were interrupted by the sounds of twigs snapping under the weight of a person's feet.

You pulled away from him, looking out into the woods. “Sh-“ You hushed him before he could even speak.

“What?” He asked quietly.

“Footsteps.” You replied. You got off of him, and pulled him up to stand. 

Soon the footsteps grew louder as they approached. And soon, a man appeared on a great black horse. A man in Bolton colors, with a Bolton sigil on his horse.  

“Hello there.” The man said with a disingenuous smile.

It was silent for a moment. You were unwilling to respond, simply glaring at the man who spoke to you. Podrick however did, “Hello.” he said in an attempt to ease the tension. 

The man, noticing your glare, smirked, “My Lady.” He said in greeting to you, once again.

“Can I help you?” Podrick asked, attempting to get some of the attention away from you.

The man still looking at you said, “She your lady?” 

Podrick looked at you, noticing your hostile glare, he let out a small sigh before saying “Aye.” 

“Not much of a talker is she?” The man’s eyes still did not leave you, you rolled your eyes at his comment. 

Podrick looked back at the man, “She can choose when she speaks. Can I help you with something?” Podrick asked, trying to understand what the man wanted. 

“No. But maybe, I could help you. Where are you traveling.” The man still holding up his pleasant facade.

“You can’t help us.” You interjected, knowing the man was “Will make our own way.” 

“Not a polite birdie, are you?” The man asked, grinning at you. 

“He asked what you wanted.” You said, your eyes hard and narrowed at the man. 

The man bit his lip, and stifled a laugh. He shrugged, “I want to know what you’re doing here.” “Then we can’t help you. Now fuck off.”  You said with a tilt of your head. Podrick felt a dread growing inside of him. 

Your words riled up the man, he huffed and began to speak again “Listen-” 

“Stop talking.” You commanded, 

The man was thrown off by your words, it angered him, “I will not stop talking, woman. If I have something to say-” 

You aimed your bow and arrow at the man, “I said stop talking. Leave.” 

“You let your woman speak for you?” The man asked mockingly, looking at Podrick. 

“He’s one of Bolton’s men.” You said to Podrick, in a low tone.

“And I take it you two aren’t?” The man said with a crooked grin.

“She told you to leave.” Podrick said, reaching for the hilt of his sword.

In return, the man pulled out his own sword, and pointed it towards Podrick. 

Your eyes narrowed, “I don’t like men who don’t listen.” You just released your arrow. It flew and hit the man in his eye, killing him just like the rabbit you killed earlier that night. 

You looked at Podrick, who looked at you in awe. Never having seen you kill another person. “We’d best keep going then.” 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

By the time you had arrived back to Castle Black, tensions between the Starks and the Boltons had risen. As soon as you set foot within the walls of Castle Black Jon summoned you. He handed you a letter written by Ramsay Bolton. A letter threatening killing, pillaging, raping, burning, and varies forms of torture to all tratorus houses. 

“Like bad poetry.” You said as you finished the letter. 

“We’ve been threatened with war. If we are to take back Winterfell we will need an army, an army we don’t have.” Jon said with a brooding face. 

“You want the Mormont army? You’ll find it to be lacking in numbers, no doubt. Though our men and women fight harder than any other army.” You said proudly. 

“So you’ll give us the men?” Jon asked, you could sense the desperation in his voice.

You shook your head, “I have no sway. Lyanna is the Lady of Bear Island, not I.” 

“You are the eldest living inherited Mormont, you have claim-”

“Out of the question.” You interrupted him, “Lyanna stepped into her role admirably in place of my aunt. She’s served the house well. I will not return just to take it from her. I do not want it.” You asserted adamantly.  

“Convince her then.” Jon pleaded with you, “Lyanna Mormont has been unwilling to provide aid to anyone.” He said as he handed you another letter. 

As you unscrolled the letter you read the words, “Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark." In your cousin's writing. 

You smiled at her writing, “She is just like her mother.” You rolled the scroll back up and handed it back to Job, “I’ll go. Though I am not sure it will help you. Mormont’s hold grudges, and I left them holding a rather large one.”

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

And so you did. You got on a ship with Davos Seaworth, Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, and of course her sworn sword Brienne, and her squire Podrick. Who was now your intended. 

As your ship approached the docks of Bear Island, you looked out the front of the ship at the giant green island you were approaching. You felt uneasy, like your stomach aches. Nervous for what the people of the island would say. But you’d never let that show.

Podrick, who stood behind you, leaned forward to hold your hand, but was interrupted by Jon’s voice. 

“Any… advice?” He asked, unsure if you would be able to help at all. 

“Don’t rely on flattery or small talk. She might be young but being called pretty will not soften her judgment.” You spoke plainly as you looked at the green mountains of the island, “Infact do not attempt small talk with anyone on the Island. Be blunt, and harsh with your words. It is the only way to get their attention.” 

“You suggest we walk in and demand their army?” He asked, displeased with your answer.

“Essentially, yes.” You nodded and looked back to Jon, “You remember how to handle my father?” You asked with a raised brow,

Jon scoffed, “You believe the girl of ten and three is as hard as he is?”

“Harder.” You asserted, looking back to the ship's port. You noticed someone as your ship docked. A man by the name of Dareon. Ser Dareon, a man who once loved you, who fucked you only once when you and he were both quite drunk. However you did not love him back. Since that day he and you shared a mutual disdain for one another. “Fuck…” You murmured under your breath.

Podrick, hearing what you said, leaned in close to you, “You know him?” You looked at him with an uncomfortable and concerned expression. 

Unable to explain it to him, and he unable to prod you for more information, your ship docked into the port. As you stepped off the boat, you looked at the knight with irritation. Irritated simply by his presence. “Hello, Ser Dareon.”

“Fuck is she doing ‘ere?” Dareon asked Jon, angry that he had brought you.

“This is my home, Ser Dareon.” You said irritated. 

“It’s your home when it suits you?” He said mockingly, he turned to some of the other men beside him, “Tell Lady Mormont, the deserter has returned.”

“I’ll see my cousin now.” You said, not willing to wait. 

“Aye, she’ll see you. Not them.” A guard from the house said. Your arrival must have been announced already. “The Lady wishes to speak with her kin, then she’ll speak to the rest of you.” He said looking at Jon, Sansa, Davos, and Podrick. 

“He comes with me.” You said linking your arm with Podrick’s. After all, if you were going to marry him, he would soon become her kin as well. 

“Who the fucks he?” Ser Dareon spat, his tone oozed with thinly veiled jealousy.

“My betrothed, Podrick Payne.” You said with your head held high, it made Podrick smirk to himself. “Now get the fuck out of my way.” You said with venom dripping from your voice as you pushed past him with Podrick’s arm linked to yours.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ 

As you entered the great hall of your home. You looked around, the familiar interior seemingly offering you no comfort as you stood in front of your younger cousin, Lyanna. You bowed your head respectfully to her, as did Podrick. 

“And who is this?” Lyanna asked, already exhausted by the situation. She sat at a large table in the great hall, the same chair your Father used to sit. 

“Some westernmen by the name of Podrick Payne, My Lady.” Ser Dareon said, intentionally wanting to get under your skin. 

“My Intended.” You added, proudly. 

“Payne?” Your young cousin said, “Of House Payne?” Her voice dripped with disdain, “The same house which raised Illyn Payne? The same Illyn Payne that took Ned Stark's head?” She attacked with her words.

“His name isn’t Illyn, is it?” You defended. Podrick stood unsure of how or when to interject. This was your home, and he desperately wished to be accepted, even if you yourself hardly were.

Lyanna’s small, and beady eyes landed on you again, “You leave us to travel across the seven kingdoms, become the Queen’s handmaiden, and return with a westerman for a husband?” She questioned you hard. 

Though her words were hard, you spoke softly. “I left, that's true. I left after I had nothing left here. I was kidnapped by the Lannisters and forced into their service. Once I was able to escape, I did.”

“Once my mother was killed.” She added. 

“No.” You asserted emphatically. 

“You want to be head of house now? Now that you’re the eldest Mormont. Eldest inherited Mormont.” She was accused. 

You shook your head. “No. Truth is I would hate to be in your position.” You spoke plainly, “And you seem to be better suited to the role.” You said earnestly.

“She is.” Ser Dareon interjected, 

“Enough out of you.” Lyanna snapped at Ser Dareon, and then turned her attention to Podrick once again, “Let’s hear from him then. What house do you fight for?”

“My Lady,” Podrick said respectfully, stepping forward, “I squire for Brienne of Tarth, the sworn sword to Lady Sansa Stark.”

“House Stark then?” Lyanna asked, attempting to get to the point.

“No, my Lady.” He shook his head, “I fight for (Y/N).” He looked at you, “My house is (Y/N).”

NOTE: I am so sorry this sucks lmao, I have the worst brain fog from covid it is insane.

Y/N: I don’t be giving no fucks. I say whatever I want I do whatever I want. I’m counting up-

Podrick: Money for fun! ☝️😜

Bambi

BELOVED TAGS:  @ryn-away @boojaynaqueen @holierthancunt @symonedoesart @siimiasoi  @evilunicorns4minions @randomgurl2326 @theunknownduck0

[delicious-in-imagines]

Hi! Could i request Kabru with a s/o that likes his eyes a lot? Like a lot, they're complimenting him 24/7 about it, and they even give him nicknames based on it like "pretty eyes" or something (it's all i could come up rn rip) but yeah.

Ty!

He really does have the prettiest eyes, doesn't he? Requests are still OPEN!

Kabru of Utaya

Normally, Kabru is able to play it cool in front of everyone whenever you're doting on him. But, the moment that you mention his eyes, he'll get a little quiet and embarrassed. Mickbell and Holm might tease him, though they mean it all in harmless fun - they know just how soft this man is for you.

Whenever you cup his face, staring at him with an unbearably fond expression and he'll poke fun at you, asking if you like what you see. Of course, you rise to the occasion, smiling as you croon back to him about the bow of his lips, the slight furrow in his brow - and of course, the bright blue of his eyes.

You'll sit there and wax poetry about the clear sky of his eyes, the cloudy storm reflecting his anger, and the bright splash of waves and the freedom of the open ocean. With each and every comment, he'll duck his head, trying to laugh off his embarrassment. He'll give you a gentle kiss, showing his affection and appreciation and murmuring sweet little 'thank you's.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Some canine poetry that made me think of you and König :)

“I love like a rotten dog, something not worth loving back. I know I can be cruel. I’ll learn to love the muzzle.”

“The hand that feeds deserves to be bitten when it beats.”

“Kick me all you want, I’ll forgive you in the morning.”

“I have always known i am the type of dog to be put down — fur too matted, teeth too sharp from eating trash-thrown bones.”

Idk canine poetry just does it for me. The thought that König loves like a dog, that he bares his teeth to the world (but not her, never her), he’ll sleep at the foot of the bed if it means he’ll be closer to her, he roams like a mutt with his snout on the ground, hunting for scraps, wagging his tail at the slightest affection. His love is like wilted flowers and rotten fruit. He loves like a dog and takes what he is given.

Bawling actually because these are so good and so precious and so so accurate! 💔❤️💔

The sad thing is, reader is only beginning to realise that König is not only a crazy bloodhound on the loose but also a stray who develops separation anxiety the moment he gets petted and fed instead of yelled at and kicked straight in the ribs. He may not be one of those dogs who completely lose it and piss themselves from joy when they see their human but he’s totally the dog who rears up on their hind legs and tries to lick your face even though you tell him for the hundredth time to get down and behave. His tail keeps wagging furiously and his eyes stare at you with manic, possessive affection, and he just . won’t . listen .

Give him any kind of half-assed praise and he’ll look at you like you’re a god; say that he’s a good boy and he’ll jump on you again, causing you to tumble down on the floor. That’s when he thinks it’s playtime because you just fell on your back and showed your belly, yeah baby! Time to lick your face again, and if you happen to grimace or laugh or smile and show your teeth he’ll growl and whine from excitement and curiosity and then you basically have to tear him off you by his collar and it’s kind of challenging to do that because this doggo weighs about 250 pounds and is fully determined to show you how much he loves you.

He looks at you like you’re the only thing in this world that matters, the only thing worth fighting for (to the death may I add), when all you did was climb into your cozy little bed and pat it softly to show him that he’s welcome to smother you with his weight join you. He’s like Can I? Can I? Can I truly? Yes, yes, yes, uh-huh, I promise I won’t rip the sheets apart from excitement I promise I won’t bite you and drool all over you I promise I won’t try to mate with you the minute you fall asleep, I know you don’t like that, yes, I’ll behave, I promise. Ok maybe just one little lick please let me have just one lick where it smells good---

…Next thing you know he’s dry humping your leg and panting & whining above you in heat at 2 AM because he just somehow forgot what he was NOT supposed to do. You curse yourself for ever feeding this tortured mutt because what’s even worse is that you notice he has started to mark his territory again, simply because you had to leave him home alone for a few hours that day and he apparently got upset.

[hoseoksluna]

A MILLION YEARS AGO | jhs

pairing: idol!boyfriend!hobi x f. reader 

genre: smut, fluff

word count: 4.6k

summary: when your faith in your healing wavers, hobi is there to go the extra mile for you.

taglist: join | playlist: million | cp: wattpad, ao3 | discord: join

warnings: near car accident, confusion in the body, iffy feelings towards an ex, seeing an ex for the first time in million years, being mistreated, religion, praying, oc smokes, hobi is the perfect boyfriend that i wish i had, oral sex (f. receiving), raw sexual intercourse.

note: i'm crying as i'm writing this because i'm so sad, but i promise this healed me more than i expected. as you know, i write little fics whenever something happens to me—and this is based off what happened yesterday. me and my cousin sat down at our smaller family event (not the one we had on friday, if you follow me on twitter), and she asked me if i were healed. and she told me about what she saw. i think it's meant to move me somewhere forward, otherwise i would've never got to see his face. i don't know. i hope you like this little fic, you know i had to write it out like i smoke out my feelings. i'm proud of this work in terms of the way it's written. think i kinda killed that. i love you guys. and i miss you, terribly. i love you.

side note: sorry for my vulnerability. a smaller side note: this is also for my baby @hoseokkie-caeks. i promised i would write a hobi one shot after berries, and here i am. <3 i love you, baby. miss you.

The night was dark. Too, too dark. 

I sensed it swathing my bones long before I glimpsed at something I should and shouldn’t have—or rather someone, to be proper. 

The trees remained unmoving, despite the summer breeze drifting through the macrocosm that unfolded with each and every footfall I shared with my beloved beside me. Hand in hand, we walked leisurely through streets that were prosaic until our energy imbued them with our intimate poetry. White swallowing, little by little, the dark. There was no one and everyone around us, but we didn’t see them; we merely saw each other, for we were in love and we deserved to be so. Hoseok after his hard, agonizing work regime and unfair treatment from his management and… the whole world essentially. Me after the way I had been treated, handled, tossed aside by the person I found inside the screen of a phone—inside a world that once used to be mine, but now is nothing but foreign. 

Million, million years ago. 

The stars were aligned just right, stringing together a shape of the wholeness and the throb of my heart, and we sat down to eat dinner with one of my closest friends that came to town—one me and Hoseok have settled in within the precious, year-long break that burst open in his work life. Hobi didn’t want to see people, at least not those who didn’t bear familiar faces, and I didn’t want to see the city, so it was the most fateful of compromises, most perfect of the kind that was naturally threaded between us; a conjoined idea that blinked within our brains at the same time. And the laughter that followed after we voiced it out at the same time, the long kiss that spread roots inside the pillows of our lips—to this day, it is a fond memory, or perhaps something beyond that, that embraces me at night before I enter the realm of dreamland, tugging me closer into the snug heat of Hoseok’s safe place that I regard his body to be. 

Though before we arrived, I gazed up at that constellation of me through the windscreen as Hoseok’s car began to make a strange noise that unnerved him. I prayed for its rightness to be true and I prayed for our safe travel, as short as it was. According to our previous plan, we were supposed to wait for my friend, Hyun-Ae, and her boyfriend, Do-hyun, outside of the restaurant because she had a strong yearning to jump into my arms upon seeing me. My excitement for that to happen ripped my eyes away from the nightly heavens, searching for her in the dimmed lights of the mutely lively building, in the shadowed greenery surrounding it, near the trees that didn’t move, yet my hair did. 

Strange, that dark energy. 

I hoped she was peeing somewhere, where the light doesn’t reach. She invariably had a tendency to chug everything she drank and her bladder paid for it each time—but this time, she wasn’t squatting by a bush. 

She almost didn’t get to me at all. 

A driver, merely minutes away from entering our town, nearly swerved wrongly into the traffic lane that Do-hyun was driving through, yanking away the stars from the canvas of the heavens. He had to pull over and take deep breaths in order to stabilize his mental state as the thought of almost getting in a car accident with her being in the passenger seat triggered his long-fought panic attack. And because the woods at the beginning of our secluded town doesn’t have any service, we waited for them for half an hour without any knowledge of their whereabouts. 

I bit my cuticles until they bled. Until Do-hyun’s lungs were lifted of its heaviness with Hyun-Ae’s help, his breathing evened out, and he was able to get behind the wheel and cross the distance. 

Upon hearing what obstacles stood before us, I didn’t understand it at first. Hyun-Ae’s yearning was gratified, we hugged until our necks ached and our arms quivered in our stifling, long-coming hug with her legs wrapped around me, ate the food we always ordered when we were together and not apart while she filled me in—but I didn’t perceive the darkness for what it was until that very last detail. 

One she wouldn’t provide until I promised her, a million times, that I was fully healed and ready to hear it. I didn’t know what she was about to uncoil, sitting beside me as she was, with her hands in her lap. But I should’ve known that those obstacles were put in our path for my preparation. 

Hyun-Ae hinted, before she began articulating her discovery, that it was about my ex-love. I stiffened a little, taken aback. I downed a shot of the spirits that we had left. And I was being tugged in two different directions, thrown to and fro, asked by the lawlessness of life to choose. 

Stay back and not go further—not let her tell me because Hobi doesn’t know the specifics about my last situationship. 

Ask her to hold my hand and give her the consent to proceed as my curiosity was piqued and my wound was healed, a million years ago. 

And in the short dwelling of the manhandling, my spirit of inquiry crowned, my fatal flaw. I chose the latter—because why would I not? I carry my heart in my chest for my beloved beside me proudly, for his waters mine with the fulfilling streams of his laughter and sound effects, gentleness and devotion. He has grown and nurtured monsteras within its past mutilated chambers—and the longer he cradled my life and made it his own, made it his endeared responsibility, the more healing flowers of wild, undomesticated origin bloomed against the verdure. The pair of us—Hobi, the elegant leaves with its perforation symbolizing the dimples above his mouth when he smiles; I, the chamomile that has the gift to make better, but everyone mistakes it for a daisy, tossing it aside. 

Everyone but Hobi, the worker who cultivated it in me. 

And caught in the snare of my pride, I wanted to know if my ex-love still remained in the exile of his emotional unavailability, fucking everything that walks on his solitary Pluto planet while I made love to the Sun three times a day, minimally. 

Hyun-Ae gripped my hand with her lukewarm, refreshing touch as she told me that he was dating someone, fundamentally poisoning the girl with his ways like he did to me. That she didn’t understand what I had seen in him as he looked worse than ever before, a characteristic of the unhallowed set deep within his eyes. My lungs refused to inhale any particles of air; they must’ve taken a break from their work in order to process, at their own time, the information that was given to them. The male who pretended to date me while I edged his planet for years, laboring myself in order to heal him with my prayers and words because I believed him after he said he loved me, but he needed to get right first. Needed to unload his baggage and bandage up the slashes across his heart from his previous relationship. 

All sweet nothing without an ounce of genuineness. He took pleasure from the way I stayed around while he hurt me again and again by entertaining other girls, my feet indented in the soft soil of the planet. It was a form of compensation for him. A some sort of merriment—and madness, unmitigated madness for me. 

I lost my mind, standing upon that edge. And I had to get off in order to find it again, my hands outstretched beyond me—held by the invisible fingers of God while he taught me how to walk again, how to walk in a gravity-filled space of greenery, the rainbows of colors, the rain and the sunlight like a baby. 

And I did. 

I walked until my feet stopped in front of Hobi’s.

At first, I felt a sheer wisp of happiness for the guy that he managed to make such an immense step in that direction, however it flickered in me for mere seconds, replaced by a doom of nothingness that began to swim in me. Heavy, heavy nothingness that felt cosmically peculiar—and my body urged me to go outside and smoke it away.  

But my mouth spoke first. 

Who is she? Show me. 

Hyun-Ae narrowed her chocolate pools at me, her brows furrowing until they darkened. Then, they flicked towards Hobi beside me and I followed her gaze—he was preoccupied with a heated conversation with Do-hyun and he didn’t hear a word shared between us. Hyun-Ae lowered her voice, nonetheless. 

So you could compare yourself to her? No fucking way. 

But I pushed. Driven by that nothingness in me, I desired to feel something. Hurt, pride—anything that would stir my body and give it what it asked. It was used to feeling great clouds of negative emotions in terms of the male, and now it was searching for it, in spite of the million years that have flown by since. And to shut me up and distract my mind from wanting the wrong things, she showed me a picture of him. 

And upon seeing that dark characteristic of his eyes, gone, hollow and dead from the laws and the ghosts of the Pluto planet, my stomach clenched and I averted my gaze. My body rejected him—I couldn’t look at him for more than two seconds. 

My good, smart body. 

I fell into quietness, more gravely than the one this town was weaved with. Hyun-Ae’s eyes returned to their original round size, softening on me, and I held her hand tighter. I needed, vehemently, to smoke the descending nothingness away, and when I asked her to go outside with me, Hobi reached the conclusion of his conversation. Wrapped his slender fingers around my arm, tender sound effects, only for my ear to hear, slinking inside as he rubbed his nose against the place right beside it. 

You wanna go smokie smokie? Hobi asked, gliding his fingers down my arm until he reached my wrist, the belly of his index tracing the blue and violet ‘V’ shape of my veins upon my left arm. 

He grounded me. 

I nodded, my smile natural, my love for him abounding, and Hyun-Ae encouraged me to go, gently slapping the side of my bum. And so I went, hand in hand, with him.

Our inherent, pristine characteristic. 

Hobi stole my lighter once I fished it out of my purse. He didn’t smoke, but whenever he joined me, he thought it gentlemanly and proper to light up my cigarette for me. It’s the least I can do, he had explained and I had kissed him so hard for it that he blushed. 

It’s what he does now, flicking his thumb upon the spark wheel until the small flame erupts and bathes us in a delicate, orange tint. I hold the cigarette steady between my lips with my two fingers and Hobi draws closer, appeasing my inner need. Waits for me to take that first drag before he prepares me for the rush of his enormous affection by heating the small of my back with his palm, rubbing the sensitive place. It’s something that I’ve learned he likes to do; take things slow so I open for him like a bud of flower. It gives him pleasure, the laboriousness of the process and the following harvesting, the dampness of my dew the evidence of his success.  

It’s extremely attractive because he does it more for my sake than for his own. 

He lets me take another drag, our visual connection a string stouter than the constellation up above, and I feel myself, nonvocally, giving over that heaviness of the nothingness with each exhale. I decompress and Hobi can see it, joining his other hand to my loins and dipping his head to my neck. He scatters tiny, weightless kisses upon that tenderness of me and I am lulled by his enticement, soothed and sleep-drunk, his pheromones and the cedarwood of his fragrance unfettering me. 

I want to take him to bed. 

And I tell him, innocently, with my hands that clenched the muscles of his arms rounding towards his pecs and lowering to his abdomen, the ivory smoke following my movement, but never touching him. Hobi knows this is my language of sensuality and his mouth parts as he feels the words. 

“We should go.” 

He lifts an arm and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek, his fingers lingering upon the shell of my ear—his private obsession. His endeared eyes study my features for a fraction of time before he leans in and peppers a singular kiss to the button of my nose. “Why are you sad, muffin?” 

The trees towering behind him move in a daze at last, but it’s a blurred swaying motion that merely divulges to me that the obstacles, the preparation and the dark energy have been conquered. And it helps me to speak a little. 

“Hyun-Ae told me something I didn’t really expect to hear. Can I tell you on our way home?” 

Hobi nods, cradling my cheek, and I melt. 

“I can leave the car here and we can walk home. And in the morning, we can go grocery shopping in the city.” 

I liquefy in his hold and I finish the last of my cigarette, kissing him feverishly and reciprocating the kisses he left upon my neck, sinking our domesticity into the column of his throat while he holds me and I drip into the fullness of him. 

When we return to the restaurant, Do-hyun is by himself, informing us that Hyun-ae has gone to pee. The familiarity solidifies me and I sense upon me a moonlit energy of joy that cleanses me of the past. Hyun-ae perceives it long before I open my mouth and she jumps into my arms, telling me how she’s proud of me. We say our goodbyes, promise that we’ll see each other soon, and Hobi pays for the whole table, calming every inch of me. 

I pray as we watch them drive off. I pray for their safe travel into the city and I pray over our car. 

We walk through our miniature, unlit version of the city, breathing in the purity of the air, listening to the rustling of the leaves being fondled by the breeze. Hobi mimics the act of love, rubbing his thumb over my hand, and I feel at ease when I tell him about my first love, chain-smoking just to help me infuse poetry into my words. 

With each detail, I forget it has happened to me as I unattach myself from it, consider it an element of the past that no longer has anything to do with me. Hobi lets me speak, doesn’t interrupt me, though I notice that as I venture into the brutality of the pain I waded through, his teeth grit and his jaw clenched, the preceding flush of his cheeks withering and falling beneath his skin, pallidness blanketing it in ashen gray. And it pushes me further into my process of letting go and forgetting for another million years to come. 

He stops in the middle of the road once I finish the story. Gives me a mournful look that penetrates me so deeply that I mourn, too. His hands find my forearms, my shoulders and my clavicles. Prepare me for the treasure of the most sympathetic of hugs I have ever received in my life and I loosen up in his strong hold, bury my face in his black-clothed chest as his palm holds my head to him. And he kisses my crown, kisses my temple; strengthens me when he squeezes me until I can’t breathe and I grasp that he is cleansing the pollution of the monstera leaves and the chamomile petals. 

And then he begins to speak, dampening me with a fresh layer of hydration. 

“You had to walk through hell in order to find me and I shall spend my lifetime bringing heaven to you. I swear on my life, muffin,” he says, for the entirety of the peripheral corn fields and the trees to hear, as he cradles my face and makes me look at him. My vision blears as I regard him more as my savior than I ever have before, nodding my head in agreement as my eyelashes flutter, the finality of calmness settling down in me like we did in this town. “You’re mine. You were mine when you were with him, which is why fate didn’t allow him near you. Mine to find, mine to take care of, mine to love, kiss and dance with. Mine. You’re gonna keep blooming in my hands and you’re no longer gonna pray for him, you’d done enough of that already. You’re only gonna pray for yourself.” 

This, I disagree with, dissolving sugar personified. 

“No, I’m only gonna pray for you.” 

Hobi pouts, his mouth rounding downwards, and his thumbs rub my cheeks, smearing my makeup—and I don’t mind. It’s always been his to ruin. He presses his nose and forehead to mine, breathing with me as the breeze swishes past. I slip my hands beneath the hem of his T-shirt, needing to feel his skin, and Hobi sighs against me. Withdraws a tiny bit and steals the breath he gave me. 

“Teach me how to pray for you.” 

I’m so struck with awe, wonder and my genuine love for him that I cannot speak, my lung failing, though differently this time. They swell up with the essence of my feelings for him, my devotion and my besottedness that my eyes well up before I can halt their rivulets. No one has ever prayed for me, certainly not a male I loved and looked up to. I spent years having my empty prayers echoed back to me and now the love of my life, my eternal beloved one, asks me to teach him how to pray for me. 

Only the omnipotent Listener of my prayers could make this possible for me, and before I know it—my mouth gives my beloved the instructions, the contents of my knowledge that I learned along the trajectory of my somber, otherworldly life and then he’s whispering the voice of his heart into my ear. 

“Dear God, please give my muffin the strength not to be pulled back into the life she had before me. Make sure she’s not influenced by it either. Take her burdens and give them to me because I can bear them. Relieve her heart and make her happy. Use me to do it.” He withdraws and drags his thumbs across my eyelashes, asking me to open them and I do. Once he has my attention, he seeks my guidance. “What do I say now?” 

I huff a soft laugh, endeared. Kiss the edge of his hand. “Say thank you and amen.” 

Hobi grins and the Sun peeks through the night. “Thank you and amen.” 

My laughter gains volume and he wraps his lips around it, shushing me, kissing me madly, and I bury my fingertips into his short hair, reciprocating the different, different madness and expanding it. Weightlessness seizes me and I don’t feel my limbs, stupefaction firing me with enthusiasm and then tongues clash and the kiss gains a verve that forces me to collide my body with his and— 

And then we’re dancing. 

To a slow song he begins to hum with the deep raspiness of his voice. Our bodies are one, singular, intertwined as we move to the rhythm of our unified heart and I weep. 

I weep in my joy. I weep in my contentment—and I weep in my love for him. 

He touches my back all over, cupping my hair as if it was water, leading our bodies in the dance, and there’s no one around us, no cars coming, no animals to watch us—only the trees, the fields, the buzzing of cicadas and the breeze and the moon up above. And then he’s twirling me until I’m dizzy and my soft laughter reverberates through the spaciousness of the road that is ours at this very moment. And the Sun beams at me, my Sun, as he pulls me close and continues to dance with me. I feel the jealous shafts of the light of the moon digging into my back that I soon forget about because his lips pursue mine and I dwindle away into his magnetism. 

His hands, his pheromones and his cedarwood fragrance take me to his bed. 

And he’s feasting on me like the dessert he didn’t get to have at the restaurant, bent over as I am over the foot of the bed, my dress bunched in his fist over my loins and my panties pushed to the side. My hungry beloved, my parched Sun, nuzzling his face in my femininity while I drip my dew and moan his name for him. Sucking my clit, he keeps me hovering on the cusp of my orgasm and I tremble in my vulnerable position—face planted on the bedding while the lower half of my body is raised in the air for him. And once my throat begins to let out whimpers and incoherent pleas, he draws back, closes his body over mine until his lips explore my ear and there, there he teases me. 

“What was that, my little muffin?” 

I whine, grinding my ass into his groin, and he hums. It takes me back to his song and I apperceive that it is the only thing I ever want to be pulled back to. Reminiscent of it, his song is blackened by eroticism, by his enormous arousal, drenched by my dew and I need him. While I feel God, the Listener of my prayers, to be a glaring light in me, I need my beloved Hobi to be interwoven with it. 

“I want you inside me. Please, I need it,” I beg, twirling my hips against his hardness like he twirled me in the middle of the road and Hobi sucks in a breath, exhaling it in the form of a whimper and I stoop in my heady longing. 

Abruptly, he plops me onto my back and yanks my panties away. “I’m gonna marry you, you know that?” 

I can only whisper my overwhelming agreement, my bones and my muscles too overcome with elation to do anything else. I would marry him tomorrow if I could. Go grocery shopping with him in the morning, unload it at home, put on my white silky dress and go to church with him by midday. Spend the rest of the day celebrating our union in bed, round after round until we get so exhausted that we submit to slumber, dreaming of our wedding, reliving it. 

He takes off my dress, kisses my forehead, ruffles my hair around me, his thumb dragging across the skin beneath my lower lip as if he was fixing my smeared lipstick for the special day, getting me ready, and I change my mind. I would marry him right now if I could.  

And I tell him. 

“I would marry you right now.” 

His eyes wet, casting a glimmering light upon my naked form, and a paroxysm of his joy gushes out of him and onto me. Hobi tickles my tummy with butterfly kisses, holding me down with his strong hands that he soon pins above my head, leveling with me, my dew drying on his face—yet he still glistens. Glistens with a gleam of bliss that washes over me. 

“Then, let’s get married,” he murmurs, and seizes my lips with his own, kissing me so roughly that I instinctively open my legs for him, the heated pressure in between unbearable. And then he holds my wrists in one hand while the other unbuckles his pants, fisting his length and tugging on it. My favorite sight. He guides it to my sopping hollowness and with one hard thrust, that he knows I am wholly enraptured by each time, he sheathes himself inside me all the way, completing me. Rests at the delicate touch of our mounds. “I’m gonna fuck you like you deserve and then I’m gonna take you to church.” 

And he gives it to me. Doesn’t pull out fully, but pounds me into the mattress. One hand gripping my wrists together, the other my jaw—ascertaining that my attention doesn’t fluctuate but remain fixed on him, on the twists of his features, on the guttural moans, his pheromones and his fragrance that trickle out of him and dunk into me while I struggle to take it all. 

“Am I hurting you?” he whispers, kissing my cheek and breathing against it, slowing down his strokes that scramble my brain. The tip of his cock grazes my cervix and I lose, I lose my identity. 

My eyes flutter and he pries my mouth open with his thumb, providing me something to focus on as I intuitively suck on it, keeping my head afloat enough to answer. 

“No, it’s just too big.” 

Hobi hums, rewarding me with a peck on the mouth and the gradual speed of his thrusts. “You can take it, muffin. I know you can. You’ve shown me before.” 

The praise, the belief in me—it all crests in lowest part of my sexuality and again, I edge around the cusp of my orgasm. Beads of perspiration line his forehead, soaking his hairline and he’s a sight to die for, the final piece to the fulfillment of my release. Blush reddens his cheeks, his irises enlarged and digging into mine. He doesn’t falter, continuing with his fast rhythm and I moan out poetry lines that make him squeeze his eyes shut. 

“I’m gonna come for you.” 

He groans. “Uh-huh, come for me, muffin. Give it to me. Show me again how well you can come on my cock. Yes, yes—”

Pluto bursts and ceases to exist. I come so vehemently that my spine arches off the mattress, colliding into Hobi’s chest. I shun out all constellations, all planets, the entire universe collapsing under the weight and gravity of my orgasm and our own marble, green, yellow and white with no one around but us, is called to creation with the bloom of Hobi’s own climax. 

He stuffs me full, my hollowness and my mouth, kissing me so hard that I become dizzy all over again. Moans my pet name as he shoots out his ivory love for me, fucking into me sluggishly while the twitching of his cock enamors me even more. I swallow his voice, swallow his grunts and little curses. My iridescent, entranced spasms caused by his exuberance prolong until I don’t know where my head stands, where my legs are wrapped around or what body part of his my hands clench. 

My savior, my beloved, linked to me for all eternity. 

This must have been our wedding because I shall never be the same again, my mind and my heart swept clean and filled with brand new oxygen. I no longer remember what happened prior to our love-making and when I share that with him, Hobi is possessed with the need to do it all over again. 

And he does, a million times over, until he marries me in the church of our town, with Hyun-Ae and Do-hyun present, mine and his parents and his sister with Mickey. 

A wedding most perfectly extraterrestrial, on our own Hope planet, with nothing hurting, with no thoughts resurfacing. 

Me and my beloved, me and my savior, me and my Sun. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild ,  @jjk7k ,  @parkinglot-nights , @bethvar , @Sexytholland , @yoongibaybee , @crystaleah , @fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan , @euphoricmyth , @jungkoock , @cinmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk .

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