#gonna miss it for this reason and this reason only

[bunnyvirgo-thechocobunny]

question, could you do general ken x reader headcannons? if it isnt too much,,,

꧁A/N : my brother in Christ you are talking to Ken simp. FRICKIN HELL YEAH THIS ISNT TOO MUCH ITS PERFECT꧂

~General Ken The Butcher X Reader headcanons~

The one thing he hates about you is that you stole his heart…no like, literally and metaphorically. You ripped out his heart and he fell for you in that very moment, hah…he remembers it like it was yesterday.( you gave it back to him don’t worry :D)

When he introduced you to the family as his partner the only two who had complaints are Mud and Mel for very different reasons, for Mel she was fine with one parental figure and that’s enough for her and she doesn’t need anyone else to boss her around(totally isn’t jealous of you) . For Mud is that you are WAY out of Ken’s league and he thinks that Ken had to bribe you to date him.

Ken has a couple of pet names for you that he likes “ Lamb, my heart-snatcher, love and hon.” Those are the usual pet names he uses for you and only you.

Ken’s quite the charmer if you say so yourself. Free meals at the whale belly butcher shop, cementing rotlings who did you wrong, very high quality dates, gifts the whole ordeal

He trusts you enough to talk with other fellow rotlings and wants you to make some friends with his staff in the whale belly butcher shop, he wants you to at least feel at home.

He is sure as hell protective with you, whenever you have a couple of wounds that aren’t exactly bad…Ken wants names and locations here and now. And if was some rival gangsters let’s just say they won’t be bothering you any time soon…

You and Ken had some interruptions on your dates once or twice when he was close to proposing to you but unfortunately never got the perfect opportunity, and those culprits for the interruptions are none other than little miss Melancholy and Mud. Mud said that he was gonna get paid if he helps out with sabotaging the dates and it was Mel’s idea.(Mel was still a kid when you and Ken were still dating at the time before you got married)

_______________________________________

I’m open for any more X reader requests for the Gaslight district cast!!

[ponderingmoonlight]

How you accidentally made Dante look like a hero again

Pairing: Dante x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,6k

Synopsis: All you wanted was to outsmart Dante and prove he was setting you up for demon attacks in order to get closer to you. Instead, you ended up buried under library rubble, fighting off scorpion demons, and getting saved by him — again. This is why you have trust issues.

Warnings: swearing, kinda enemies to lovers dynamic, I just love Dante y'all need to have mercy with me lol

You’re starting to think you’re cursed.

That’s the only explanation for it. How else do you keep ending up in demon-infested alleys, haunted casinos, and - once - dangling upside down from a stolen motorcycle, twice in the same week? No average person deserves so much distress.

But even worse: every time - every damn time - there’s Dante.

Bursting in like he’s auditioning for an action movie. Guns blazing, coat flaring behind him, a cocky smirk plastered across his stupidly handsome face.

God, how much you hate that guy.

…do you?

"Oh no," you mutter under your breath when you spot him swaggering through the chaos yet again.

"Not this asshole."

"Miss me, babe?" he calls, spinning his sword once before cleaving a demon in half like it's no big deal.

You barely dodge a flying claw, pretty used to almost dying by now.

"Dante, why are there hellhounds in the laundromat?! I just came here to do my laundry!"

He winks at you like this is all part of some grand romantic plan.

"You know. Crazy city. You never know what’s gonna happen. Nice panties by the way, wish I could see them up close."

You stare at him, sceptical to say the least, as he shoots a demon that was two inches away from biting your head off.

"This is the fourth time this month. And every time you're 'coincidentally' nearby!"

He strolls over, casually beheading something with his sword like he's just stretching his legs. How many times have you seen this already? Probably like a hundred times.

This month.

"Fate works in mysterious ways, sweetheart."

You gawk at him. No, the thing he calls fate can’t be an accident. There is literally no way in hell that you get attacked even more often than himself. There has to be another reason. Could it be that…?

"Are you setting this up?!"

He gives you a look, all fake innocence and devilish grin.

That bastard.

"Who, me? Nahhh. Demons just have a thing for damsels. Lucky for you... I'm a professional knight in shining armor."

A piece of ceiling collapses dangerously close to you. You flinch for once. Dante doesn’t even blink, just throws an arm around your waist and throws you out of the way with way too much enthusiasm.

You land on your back with a grunt, staring up at the cracked ceiling and wondering what life choices led you here. Where did you take a wrong turn to deserve this? Being liked by a hot guy is all fun and games until the name of that jerk is Dante Sparda, apparently.

Dante leans over you, upside-down, grinning like a maniac.

"You good? Need mouth-to-mouth?" he offers helpfully.

You shove him off you, the heat of his body almost devouring you whole.

"I’m getting a restraining order."

"You say that, but then who’s gonna save you next time you almost get eaten by a possessed vending machine?"

You open your mouth to argue - and realize you have no idea how to deal with possessed vending machines. You groan, burying your face in your hands.

“Maybe you’re the one who possesses everything around me…”

Dante pats your head fondly like you’re some kind of beloved but very dumb kitten.

"You mean like your thoughts? Most definitely, yeah. But don't worry, babe," he coos cheerfully, "I'll always be there to save your pretty little ass."

You’re pretty sure that’s supposed to be comforting. Instead, you start mentally drafting your will.

“Get off me now, I need to get going jerk. And stop staring at my panties”, you hiss through gritted teeth while getting up, packing your things and leaving.

No, this isn’t an accident, not your fault by any means. Dante is the one who sets all of this shit up.

“That fucker…”, you mutter to yourself, slamming the door shut in fury.

You can’t do this anymore, can’t take seeing a demon each time you leave your house. You’ll have to teach him a lesson.

Yes, there has to be a way to stop this madness once and for all.

“I’ll catch you mid-act, Dante…”

You hatch a plan.

A pretty simple one: bait Dante into showing up, catch him red-handed, and finally prove he's arranging all this chaos.

You pick the most boring, demon-unfriendly place you can think of: the public library. No shady alleys, no creepy neon signs, no way in hell anything supernatural is hanging out between the tax law section and the dusty romance novels.

You text him a fake tip, something about "possible demonic activity" near the library, totally urgent, definitely needs his professional attention.

Then you sit back, tuck yourself into a corner with a stack of books, and wait.

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. Thirty.

No Dante.

You start to relax. Maybe he finally got the hint. Maybe he's actually busy for once. Did your words from yesterday finally stir something inside of his brain?

And that's when the ceiling caves in.

You shriek as a massive scorpion demon crashes through the roof, scattering books and terrified civilians everywhere. Librarians are running for their lives. An entire row of encyclopedias explodes in a puff of dusty chaos, taking your sight while you desperately try to crawl out of the scene.

Fuck, this wasn’t supposed to happen. That definitely wasn’t written on your bingo card for today.

"What the hell?!" you shout, diving behind a bookshelf just in time before a whole fucking shelf bumps onto the ground next to you.

"HEY BABY!" a too-familiar voice yells from somewhere in the smoke.

You peek out and see Dante standing atop the checkout desk, dual pistols in hand, grinning like this is the best day of his life.

"Miss me?"

You stare at him, speechless. No, this has to be a dream. This was supposed to be a trap, you set him off in order to finally find him guilty. And now this?

"HOW?!"

He jumps off the desk, unloading a round of bullets into the demon's face like it’s a casual Tuesday.

"You sent me the text! Good instincts, by the way - I was gonna ignore it, but then I figured, ‘Hey, if my girl’s around, probably gonna be some action.’ And look! Action!"

You dodge a flying claw and seriously consider strangling him with a library card cord.

"I SENT YOU A FAKE TEXT!" you shout over the sound of gunfire.

"THERE WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE A REAL DEMON!"

"Aw," Dante replies, kicking a demon minion into a copy machine, "you’re so modest. You’re like a magnet for this stuff."

You have no time to argue. The giant scorpion is bearing down on you. You grab the nearest weapon, a hardcover dictionary about curse words in Spanish, and hurl it at its head. It bounces off harmlessly. Yeah, what a surprise, actually.

Dante whistles low, impressed.

"Good arm, babe. But here - lemme show you how it's done."

Before you can blink, he’s in front of you, sword flashing, doing some ridiculously show-offy spin move that absolutely wasn’t necessary but looks cool as hell anyway.

The demon collapses with a final screech.

Silence falls over the destroyed library.

Books smolder, paper flutters in the air like sad confetti. Somewhere, a printer makes a pathetic beep before dying.

You sit down heavily on the floor, dazed.

Dante strolls over, all proud, offering you a hand up.

"No need to thank me. It’s kinda my thing."

You stare at him, mind still processing what just happened. Your mission failed – miserably, so say the least.  

"I literally TRIED to set you up."

"And look how well it worked!" he declares brightly.

"You lured out the bad guys! You're a natural at this demon-hunting stuff. I'm so proud."

You want to punch him. You want to kiss him. You want to punch him then kiss him.

Instead, you let him pull you to your feet, dusting off your scorched jacket.

"I'm never texting you again," you grumble.

"Sure you will," Dante coos, flashing that stupid, charming grin.

"You can't resist me."

You open your mouth to argue - and immediately get tackled to the ground as a second, smaller demon leaps from the wreckage.

You land with a painful thud, pinned beneath Dante’s weight as he shoots over your head, finishing off the last monster.

When the danger’s over, he stays there for an awkward beat too long, smirking down at you.

"See? Told ya. Always there to catch ya when you fall."

You groan, covering your face with your hands while absolutely hating how good his body weight feels on top of you, how surprisingly good that asshole of a man smells.

"I'm going to die of second-hand embarrassment."

"Nah," Dante retorts confidently, getting up and pulling you with him again.

"If anyone’s gonna kill you, it’s gonna be something way cooler. Like a demon. Or a possessed espresso machine."

You squint at him.

 "You’re not gonna let this go, are you?"

He slings an arm around your shoulders like he owns the place, like the ablaze library isn’t his fault at all, and leads you toward the exit.

"Nope. You're stuck with me, sweetheart."

You sigh.

Maybe getting a new phone and a new name wouldn’t be the worst idea.

…Or just giving in.

[pomegranatelifethis]

We love you

English is not my native language

The Wayne Manor was a labyrinth of shadows and secrets, its towering walls steeped in history and whispers. To you, it was home—not because of the grandeur, but because of the people who filled its halls. The ones who saw you, who knew you, in a way that made your chest ache with warmth. Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Cass, Steph, Duke—they were your family, your anchors, their affection a constant tide that kept you afloat.

But there was one shadow you could never quite reach. One figure who stood apart, his presence as distant as the stars you could see from the manor’s rooftop.

Bruce Wayne.

Your father.

The thought of him stung, a quiet bruise you carried beneath your skin. You didn’t hate him—how could you? He was Batman, the man who saved Gotham night after night, the man who had taken you in when the world had left you orphaned. But love, you’d learned, wasn’t the same as presence. And Bruce’s love, if it existed, was a ghost you could never catch.

“Dinner’s ready!” Dick’s voice echoed through the manor, bright and warm, pulling you from your thoughts. You closed the book you’d been pretending to read and stood, smoothing your sweater. The library was your sanctuary, but the dining room was where your family came alive.

As you descended the grand staircase, you felt eyes on you before you saw them. Jason leaned against the banister, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Took you long enough, kid. Thought you were gonna make us send a search party.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile crept onto your face. “You’d love the excuse to be dramatic.”

“Guilty,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you reached the bottom step. His touch was grounding, a reminder that you were wanted here, even if one person’s absence loomed large.

The dining room was a riot of noise and warmth. Tim was hunched over his tablet, muttering about some case until Steph swiped it from him with a teasing grin. “No work at the table, nerd. Y/N’s here, and that’s way more important.”

Tim flushed but didn’t protest, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “She’s right. How’s your day been?”

“Fine,” you said, sliding into your seat. The word was a reflex, but the way Cass’s sharp eyes studied you from across the table told you she’d noticed the slight hitch in your voice. She didn’t say anything, but her hand brushed yours as she passed you a plate, a silent promise: I’m here.

Damian was next, setting a glass of water in front of you with a precision that bordered on reverence. “You didn’t eat lunch,” he said, his tone accusatory but his eyes soft. “You will eat now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yes, sir.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile, before he turned to argue with Dick about something trivial. Duke, sitting to your left, leaned in. “They’re ridiculous, but they’re all yours,” he said, his voice low and fond.

Yours. The word settled in your chest, heavy and sweet. They were yours—your siblings, your protectors, your family. Their love was fierce, unrelenting, sometimes suffocating in its intensity. You’d seen the way their eyes darkened when someone outside the family got too close, the way they orchestrated your life with a care that bordered on obsession. But it was a cage you didn’t mind, because it was built from devotion.

The only one missing was Bruce.

His seat at the head of the table was empty, as it often was. Patrol, you told yourself. The mission. Gotham. There was always a reason, always an excuse. You’d stopped expecting him to show up years ago, but the absence still gnawed at you, a quiet ache that never quite faded.

“Where’s B?” you asked, keeping your tone light, as if the answer wouldn’t matter.

Dick’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but he recovered quickly. “Out on a lead. You know how he is.”

You nodded, spearing a piece of chicken with your fork. You did know. Bruce was a storm, always moving, always out of reach. To him, you were a responsibility, a name on a list of duties. He’d saved you, given you a home, but his heart? That was locked away in the Batcave, buried beneath the cowl.

Jason’s hand tightened on your shoulder, a silent warning not to dwell. “He’s an idiot,” he muttered, loud enough for the table to hear. “Doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“Jason,” Dick warned, but there was no real heat in it.

“What? It’s true.” Jason’s eyes met yours, fierce and unyielding. “You’re worth ten of him, and we all know it.

The table erupted in agreement—Steph’s cheerful “Hell yeah!” blending with Tim’s quiet nod and Damian’s sharp “Tt, obviously.” Cass squeezed your hand, and Duke flashed you a grin that promised he’d have your back, always.

You laughed, the sound bubbling up despite the ache. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” Steph shot back, winking.

And they were. You felt it in every glance, every touch, every moment they carved out for you. Dick, who’d cancel patrols just to watch movies with you. Jason, who’d sneak you onto rooftops to stargaze, his gun never far but his arm always around you. Tim, who’d hack into your school’s system to make sure you never got in trouble. Damian, who’d paint your portrait in secret, then blush when you found it. Cass, who’d teach you to fight not because you needed to, but because she wanted you to feel strong. Steph, who’d fill your room with silly notes to make you smile. Duke, who’d tell you stories of Gotham’s light to remind you there was hope.

They were your family, your everything. Their love was a wildfire, consuming and protective, and you were at its heart, safe and cherished.

But still, you couldn’t help glancing at the empty chair.

The next morning, you woke to the soft clink of metal outside your door. Blinking sleep from your eyes, you found a tray waiting—fresh coffee, pancakes, and a single rose, its petals still damp with dew. A note in Damian’s precise handwriting read: You will eat breakfast. – D.

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. This was their way, your siblings. They didn’t just care—they insisted. Their love was a demand, a vow, and you were its willing recipient.

Downstairs, the manor was alive. Dick was in the kitchen, flipping more pancakes, while Tim and Steph argued over the best syrup. Cass sat on the counter, watching you with a quiet smile, and Jason was cleaning his guns at the table, a habit Bruce would’ve hated but one you found oddly comforting.

“Morning, superstar,” Dick called, sliding a plate toward you. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, taking a seat. “Thanks for the food, Damian.”

Damian, perched on a stool with a book, didn’t look up. “It was necessary.”

Jason snorted. “He means he loves you.”

Damian’s head snapped up, a blush creeping across his cheeks. “Todd, silence yourself.”

You laughed, and the sound drew Tim’s attention. He abandoned his argument with Steph to sit beside you, his laptop already open. “Hey, I was thinking—wanna help me with a case later? I could use your brain.”

“Only if I get to pick the music,” you teased.

“Deal,” he said, his smile soft but his eyes intense,like he was memorizing you.

This was your life now: surrounded, adored, needed. They didn’t just love you—they craved you, their affection a living thing that wrapped around you, tight and unyielding. You’d noticed the way they orchestrated your days, keeping you close, keeping you theirs. A classmate who’d gotten too flirty had mysteriously transferred schools. A teacher who’d been too harsh had suddenly retired. You didn’t ask questions, because you knew the answers lived in the shadows of their eyes.

And you didn’t mind. Not really. Because in their love, you were whole.

But Bruce… Bruce was a different story.

You saw him that afternoon, passing through the manor like a specter. He was in his civilian clothes, but the weight of the cowl clung to him, his shoulders tense, his eyes distant. You were in the living room, curled up with a book, when he walked by.

“Bruce,” you said, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

He paused, turning to you. For a moment, you thought you saw something—regret, maybe, or longing. But then his expression hardened, the mask of the Bat slipping into place. “Y/N,” he said, his voice clipped. “You’re… doing alright?”

It wasn’t a question, not really. It was an obligation, a checkmark on his endless list.

“Fine,” you said, echoing your answer from dinner. The word felt hollow.

“Good.” He nodded, already moving toward the study. “I have work to do.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stared at the empty space where he’d been, your book forgotten in your lap. The ache was back, sharper now, a blade that cut deeper because you’d dared to hope. He was your father, but he didn’t see you. Not the way the others did.

“Y/N?” Cass’s voice was soft, her presence sudden but welcome. She sat beside you, her hand finding yours. “You’re sad.”

You shook your head, but the tears prickling your eyes betrayed you. “It’s stupid.”

“Not stupid,” she said, her voice firm. She squeezed your hand, her gaze fierce. “He’s wrong. Not you.”

You swallowed, the lump in your throat heavy. “I just… I want him to care.”

Cass’s expression darkened, a rare flicker of anger crossing her face. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Before you could respond, Jason appeared in the doorway, his eyes narrowing as he took in your expression. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, but Cass’s grip on your hand tightened.

“Bruce,” she said, the word a condemnation.

Jason’s jaw clenched, and he crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. “Hey,” he said, his voice softer now, meant only for you. “Forget him. You’ve got us. You don’t need him.”You nodded, but the tears spilled over, and suddenly you were surrounded. Dick was there, pulling you into a hug. Tim’s hand rested on your shoulder, steady and sure. Damian stood at your side, his posture rigid with protective fury. Steph and Duke hovered nearby, their presence a quiet promise.

“We love you,” Dick murmured, his arms tight around you. “We’re never leaving you.”

And in that moment, you believed them. Their love was a fortress, unyielding and eternal. Bruce’s absence was a wound, yes, but it was one they’d bandage with their devotion, their obsession, their everything.

You were theirs, and they were yours. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

[b1eedthefreak]

I Like It

daryl x sunshine!girly!reader

requested :3

⸻

When you first arrived at Alexandria, the world didn’t feel real anymore. The fences were too clean. The houses had welcome mats. There were kids riding bikes and fresh baked bread and dinner parties and beds with more than one pillow. It felt like a dream… or a trap.

But you smiled anyway.

You smiled through the awkward glances. Through the whispers. Through the way the townspeople looked at your fuzzy slippers like they were some kind of apocalyptic sin. You smiled because it was all you knew how to do. Because if you didn’t, you’d cry. And if you cried, you might never stop.

So you always had your hair done and painted your nails with Carol. You found a lip gloss that had survived the fall of civilization and you wore it proudly. You cleaned your new porch with a pink rag and a humming tune. And when you saw him, grimy, brooding, arms crossed and expression unreadable, you smiled at him too.

“Hi!” you’d said, the first time. That was all.

He stared for a second. Grunted. Walked off.

You beamed anyway.

It became a routine. You’d bounce up to him with a new dress, a new story, a new flower tucked behind your ear, and he’d grunt. Maybe say a few words if you were lucky.

“You always this loud?” he’d mutter.

“Only when you’re around!” you’d chirp.

You thought maybe he hated you. He always looked annoyed. Always acted like you were the most unbearable person on the planet. But then… he never left. Never told you to stop. Never moved too far away.

And you caught him looking. A lot.

That week, there was a party.

It was thrown for Aaron’s birthday, but you didn’t need a reason to dress up. You wore a short white sundress with ruffled sleeves and little embroidered cherries across the front. Your hair was done perfect. Your lips glossed. You felt like a girl again, not a survivor.

Daryl walked in late, shoulders tense. He didn’t take his vest off. Didn’t smile. Just found a wall to lean on and stayed there, arms crossed, jaw tight.

You grabbed two plastic cups of wine and made your way through the crowd like a mission.

He saw you coming. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

“Don’t gotta,” he said, taking the cup anyway.

You giggled, sipping yours. “You don’t dance, do you?”

Daryl gave you a look.

“You’re missing out,” you teased. “I’m an excellent dancer. Could teach you. First one’s free.”

“No.”

“Not even for me?” you pouted.

He scoffed. “Especially not for you.”

You gasped dramatically. “You’re such a liar Daryl!”

That made him choke a little on the wine, looking away with a grumble. “Shut up.”

You found him again later, sitting on the porch steps outside. The music was muffled through the walls. Fireflies blinked in the grass. He looked more relaxed in the dark, away from the crowd, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

You sat beside him without a word, your bare legs curling under you, your dress rustling softly in the night breeze.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Then,

“…Ain’t cold?” he asked, eyeing your legs.

You smiled. “Trying to say I’m underdressed?”

He shrugged. “You’re always wearin’ somethin’ short or shiny.”

“Because it makes me happy.” you said simply.

He blinked. Didn’t argue.

“I like dressing up,” you continued, gently. “Even now. Maybe especially now. I like being girly. I like being soft. I like feeling like myself, you know? It’s not… it’s not for anyone else. I just wanna bring light into the world. ’Cause if I don’t, who will?”

Daryl looked down at the cigarette between his fingers, then out across the empty street. His voice was quiet.

“Yeah… I like it.”

You turned your head so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash.

“Wait—what?!”

“I said I like it,” he muttered.

Your eyes lit up.

“I knew it,” you grinned, jabbing him in the arm. “I KNEW it. I KNEW it, I KNEW it, I knew it!”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, shaking his head, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“The whole reason I brought it up was to get it out of you,” you said triumphantly, “because I KNEW you liked my skirts and my lip gloss and my cute little outfits and—”

He groaned and dropped his head back. “Shoulda never said nothin’.”

“But you did!”

“Regretin’ it.”

“You do like me!”

He made a strangled noise, but didn’t deny it.

You scooted closer, your shoulder brushing his. The porch light caught the shimmer of your lip gloss when you smiled.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me be soft around you.”

Daryl glanced at you, eyes a little softer now. “Ain’t lettin’ you. Just like that you are.”

Your heart fluttered so hard it almost hurt.

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

And for once, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just let you stay there.

⸻

a/n okay guys i’m working on all the requests right now please bare with me :3

[mintyys-blog]

hai! Can you do Nicole! Or Jecka! Reader with Mark variants? From class of 09 🤭🤭‼️‼️‼️

HEADCANONS | mark variants with Nicole or Jecka! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: smoking, swearing

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work (AI generated or otherwise) without my permission. @mintyys-blog

MAIN MARK

Mark never fully understood what drew him to you. Maybe it was how you laughed at things you shouldn’t. Maybe it was the way you always said what everyone else was too scared to. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because despite your dark humor and unapologetically brutal mouth, you never once lied about who you were.

You were curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, makeup smudged, eyes bored as you scrolled through your phone. “Some girl on Twitter just said you’re the reason half of Chicago is dead. She’s not wrong.”

Mark looked up from the kitchen, confused. “Are… are you okay?”

You turned slowly to him with a smirk, “I’m fine, boy scout. Why? Gonna cry if I say something mean again?”

“No,” he muttered. “You’re just—You’re a lot sometimes.”

“Good,” you replied with a wink. “Be more worried if I start acting soft. That’s how you know I’ve been kidnapped or lobotomized.”

You didn’t flirt like other girls. You insulted him and then smirked when his ears turned red. You were quick-witted, toxic as hell, and had zero interest in playing the role of doting girlfriend. But when he was injured, when he dragged himself home bloody and half-conscious, you always patched him up. You always made sure he ate. You cussed him out the whole time, but he never missed how your hands trembled while stitching him back together.

“I don’t need your help,” he said once.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, and I don’t need birth control, but here we are making bad decisions together.”

For all your venom, you never made him feel unsafe. Even when you called every man a walking red flag, even when you mocked him for getting teary during a movie—you still climbed into bed beside him every night. You were fire. And sometimes he burned, but God, he couldn’t stop coming back.

SINISTER MARK

Sinister Mark was used to liars, manipulators, and people who smiled sweetly before stabbing him in the back. But you? You were different.

You never hid what you were.

You called yourself a sociopath in the first ten minutes of meeting him. Made a joke about how you only cry when your dealer dies. When Mark raised an eyebrow, you just gave him a crooked grin and said, “At least I’m honest about it.”

He found you fascinating.

Not because you were evil. He’d met evil. He was evil.

No—you were comfortable with your darkness. You wore it like silk. Made it look glamorous and sharp all at once.

“Your eyes are twitching,” you said one evening, stretched across his couch in a stolen Viltrumite cloak like it was just another thrift store piece. “You thinking about murdering a planet again, or are you mad that I flirted with the bartender to get a free drink?”

He didn’t answer. He was still watching you.

“You’re so fucking creepy,” you laughed. “I like it.”

Sinister Mark wasn’t the kind of man who coddled or doted. But he let you talk. Let you unravel your venomous thoughts without flinching. Most people would’ve tried to fix you—he just let you be.

You toyed with his knives, walked barefoot around blood-soaked floors, and made ruthless jokes at the worst possible times. And when he called you out on it?

“You think I care about moral high grounds? Babe, I’m dating a guy who vaporized a school bus.”

The truth was—he trusted you.

You didn’t have morals, but you had rules. You never lied to him. You never betrayed him. You treated him like a weapon to be admired, not feared. And for someone who was used to being a monster under the bed?

That kind of devotion was addicting.

He didn’t say I love you. You didn’t either. But the moment you laughed while stitching him up, whispering “Don’t die, asshole, you owe me dinner”—he realized he wouldn’t let anyone else have you.

Ever.

MOHAWK MARK

Mark was the emperor of the Viltrumite Empire now—but none of that meant anything to her. She sat on the throne’s armrest in ripped tights, a wrinkled band tee of MSI barely hanging off her shoulder, and a cigarette between her fingers. He didn’t like the smell, but he let her have it. She was one of the only things that still made him feel anything other than rage.

“Shouldn’t you be interrogating someone or vaporizing a planet?” she asked lazily, her pupils slightly blown from whatever she’d taken an hour ago. “I’m bored.”

Mark’s fingers tightened on the armrest, but not from anger. It was restraint. Every time she looked at him with those indifferent eyes, that tired smirk—it reminded him that she wasn’t afraid of him. Not really. And he liked it. Needed it.

“Maybe I wanted to see you instead.”

“Ew,” she snorted. “Cringe.”

He rolled his eyes, pulling her effortlessly onto his lap. She didn’t resist, just exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, still smirking.

“You’re gonna ruin your lungs.”

“And you’re gonna ruin the galaxy. Guess we’re both problematic.”

He chuckled under his breath, running a hand along her bare thigh. “You didn’t answer my message last night.”

“I was busy,” she lied, easily. “Nicole had another freak-out over some dude trying to text her ‘good morning.’ We had to spiritually hex him.”

“Nicole’s psychotic.”

Y/N turned to look at him. “And you’re not?”

Touché.

He didn’t bother arguing. Instead, he kissed her—tasting smoke, lipstick, and the chemical tinge of something that probably wasn’t legal on Earth anymore.

She leaned back with a lazy smile, one hand curling behind his neck. “You gonna marry me or what, Emperor?”

He blinked. “Was that a proposal?”

She popped a pill from a little case in her bra, swallowed it dry, and shrugged. “Nah. Just gauging your reaction.”

He laughed. “I hate you.”

“Love you too, baby.” And somehow, she meant it. In her own messy, numbed-out way.

VILTRUMITE MARK

The silence in the room wasn’t peaceful. It was loud. Thick with tension.

Mark stood across from you, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in suspicion—or maybe frustration. You couldn’t tell. You were too busy lighting a cigarette, one leg casually crossed over the other as you sat on the countertop in his home. Your home now, apparently. Not that you gave a shit.

“Can you not do that in here?” he said tightly, waving his hand at the smoke cloud.

You took a long drag anyway. “And you can punch a guy’s face off, but my Marlboro Light is the problem?”

“You’re going to destroy your body.”

You snorted. “Bit late for lectures, Daddy Warblood. We passed destruction like four exits ago.”

Mark moved closer. “I’m serious, Y/N.”

You flicked ash into a glass. “So am I. You didn’t fall in love with a nun. You picked me.” You tilted your head, smirking with venom. “Unless you’re regretting that.”

Mark glared. “You know I’m not.”

“Then what’s the issue?” you said, hopping off the counter, leaning into his space like you weren’t talking to a genetically perfect super predator. “That I talk shit? That I don’t simper and coo like your little Earth girls? That I know how to make a grown man cry and piss himself in one sentence?”

He didn’t move when you pressed a finger against his chest.

“I’m not soft. I’m not sweet. I’m not your dead mom’s idea of a wife. But I’m real.”

Mark stared at you. You could see it behind his expression—he didn’t always understand you. Hell, he probably didn’t even trust you fully. But you weren’t here to be trusted.

You were here to be feared. Loved. Broken maybe, but beautifully so.

And for all your filth, your cruelty, your manipulation—he never raised a hand to you. Never hurt you. Because some twisted part of him liked it. Liked you.

“You’re reckless,” he finally muttered.

You grinned. “And you’re into it.”

He kissed you then, harsh and possessive, like he was trying to shut you up with his mouth.

Didn’t work. But it was a good start.

OMNI MARK

Omni Mark didn’t understand her.

Not in the way most people claimed to “not get girls”—no. He was a being that had lived centuries, had studied humans, ruled them, ended them. And yet… Y/N—dressed in a pleated skirt, MSI blaring from the busted speaker in the corner, cigarette tucked between her fingers like it belonged there—was a complete enigma.

“You’re smoking again,” he muttered, voice low and unimpressed, standing in the doorway with his arms folded.

Y/N exhaled slowly, then lazily glanced over her shoulder. “And you’re breathing again. Guess we both have addictions, huh?”

She grinned as he stepped forward.

“You’re going to destroy your lungs,” he said, tone flat.

She looked up at him from the couch, her makeup a little smudged from the night before, a pill bottle sitting open beside her. “I mean, if the warlord I’m screwing isn’t killing me, I gotta get creative.”

“You call that creativity?” he shot back dryly, eyeing the mix of medications and the ashtray.

But she just patted the seat beside her. “You knew what you were getting into, Viltrumite Daddy.”

He ignored the nickname. Always did.

Omni Mark never said much about her habits—he’d erase her stash, toss the pills, demand she eat instead of pop a bar—but never yell. He wasn’t a yeller. He was worse—controlled. Cold. And yet, there was a strange protectiveness in the way he watched her—especially when she slept, or when she mumbled his name during a bad trip.

“Sit,” she said more softly this time. “I’ll switch to edibles or whatever if it’ll make you stop hovering.”

He sat beside her, one hand resting on her thigh—not possessive, just grounding.

“You are… volatile,” he muttered.

“Mm. So are nukes,” she replied, nuzzling into his side. “But people worship those too.”

He glanced down at her—eyeliner smudged, fingers trembling slightly from the high, and a playlist of angry electropunk pouring from her phone—and said nothing.

But he didn’t leave. He never did.

NO GOGGLES MARK

There was blood on the floor again.

Not yours. Not his.

Just another idiot who thought they could mouth off to you in front of him.

You were wiping a smear off your cheek with the back of your hand, smirking as you stepped over the crumpled body. The twitching was slowing down. Good. You hated when they made noise for too long.

“You didn’t even let me finish my sentence,” you huffed, glancing over your shoulder at him.

Mark was leaning against the doorframe, hands still bloodied, his expression unreadable under the splatter. His lips twitched, like he might smile—but with him, who could tell?

“You said you wanted a quiet night,” he said flatly. “So I shut him up.”

You clicked your tongue, flicking a piece of brain matter off your boot. “I meant dinner and maybe fucking on the couch while something burns in the oven. Not murder in the goddamn foyer.”

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, looking down at you like a predator sizing up something just as sharp. Just as dangerous.

“But you liked it,” he murmured, his voice deep and calm. “Don’t lie to me.”

You met his stare. Didn’t blink. “I loved it.”

And it was true.

You weren’t like his other versions of Y/N. You didn’t gasp when he tore someone apart. You didn’t flinch at the violence or beg him to stop. You egged him on. You lit the match. Sometimes you handed him the knife.

And when you did it yourself? He watched. Intrigued. Turned on.

The two of you weren’t in love. Not really.

It was something darker. Something fucked up. A deep need to hurt and be hurt. To own each other in a way that was just shy of ruin.

“You ever get bored of this,” you whispered, pulling his shirt by the collar and pressing against him, “you better kill me. Because I’m not letting you go.”

He stared at you.

Then laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

for some reason I found it really hard to write both Nicole’s and Jeckas personalities— so they aren’t the most accurate.

[luvyeni]

TWO DUMB VIRGINS ๑. ( 박지성 )

PART SIX. stomach bug? well no …

𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗘 ──── you wanted to lose it . he was tired of being made fun by his friends. both of you thinking he’d pull out fast enough… but what can you expect from two stupid virgins ? …

( 対 ) park jisung + fem. reader genre young parent au , smau · contains! mentions of sex. pregnancy talk. crude language. jokes among friends mature content

“maybe it’s something you ate.” yuna walked around the small clinic office. “wait the only thing you’ve eaten this past 16 hours is my soup.. oh my god did i make you even more sick?” she said. “i doubt it was your soup , i promise you it’s probably just a stomach bug , they’ll give me some medicine and tell me to take a nap and then i’ll be fine.”

“you better i’ve covered your shift 3 times already; your regular clients are annoying, yes lauren i know what three inches are im sure you do to given the man you’re with.” the door opened just as you were covering her mouth to keep her from saying thing else inappropriate. “im sorry she normally isn’t like this.” the doctor flagged you both off with a chuckled. “don’t worry about it , it’s better to laugh while you’re sick than to be all mopy, it’s good to be around friends.”

“see told you.” yuna said in a condescending tone. “you need me , i’m literally healing you.” you rolled your eyes. “more like getting on my nerves.” you mumbled. “doctor is she okay?” you slapped the girls leg. “yuna let her talk.” you said. “and i already told you it’s probably a stomach bug.” turning to the doctor. “right?”

“no.” your already nervous smile dropped. “huh?” you said , a nervous chuckle. “what is it then?” you questioned you and yuna both looking at each other then back at the doctor. “well according to the report , miss yn it seems like you’re at least three weeks pregnant.” surely she didn’t say that — no of course not. “hu-huh.” you nervously chuckled. “no , that’s not possible.” yuna stood in the corner, shocked. “no.”

“well are you sexually active?” the doctor asked, you don’t think she wanted an answer but you and yuna were both in shock that she answered. “well answer her.” yuna said. “well it was my first time — and did you use a condom?” clearly not and you’re looking at the consequences of that right now. “yn are you serious?” yuna said. “this might be a lot to handle right now , so i’m gonna send you home with some anti nausea medicine that should help a bit but whenever you decide on what you want you should schedule an appointment with the obgyn.” the doctor stood from her seat. “i’ll give you a few minutes to gather your thoughts before you drive home.”

she left you both in the room; and it was like you could hear a pin drop. “yn how could you not wear a condom?” yuna said. “that’s like sex 101.” it felt like a dream — no a sick april fools joke , instead it wasn’t april 1st. “i need to go home.”

and with that you two headed him, stopping only to get the medicine. the ride home was silent , not even the radio was playing as you tried to make sense of this; what the fuck was this? you stared out the window. how were you gonna explain this to anybody? your mom; sure she’d be happy, she always wanted to be a grandmother… but surely not like this. how the hell were you gonna tell jisung; you don’t even have his number, you’d have to ask chenle; which meant you were gonna have to tell chenle. “oh no.” you said , yuna turned to you , hands on the wheel. “are you gonna puke? please don’t.” she said. “no.”

“chenle.” you said. “what about him? oh shit you do have to tell him.” she said. “no , i can’t.” you said. “well regardless of what happens, i think you should.” she said. “unless there’s a reason you cant.” she asked after seeing your face. “theres a reason you can’t tell him?” you sighed. “the guy who chenle brought to the cafe the other day.” you said. “what about him ; i’m pretty sure he’s one of his friends?” the words fell from her mouth; then a bit of silence , before a gasp. “no.” she said. “how did you manage that?”

“i didn’t know , i never asked who his friends were , i didn’t even ask him what school he went to.” you said. “how could i be so fucking stupid?” you said. “this literally can’t be happening right now.” you said. “i’m so fucked.” you said. “let’s just get you home , we’ll figure it out then — i think i just need to be al— i’m not leaving you alone like this , absolutely not , so either we sit in this car in front of your complex or we go to your apartment and figure it out.”

you two make it to the apartment and up to your floor. “we don’t have to talk about it right now , but i won’t let you be alone.” she said as you unlocked the door. “thank you.” you said softly pushing the door open , noticing the extra pair of shoes. “finally we’ve been waiting.” you heard yunjins voice. “what did the doctor say?” chenle emerged from the bathroom. “let’s not talk about that right now.” yuna tried to stop the conversation , but your poor friends couldn’t read the room.

and it was like chenle asking that question made you realize your reality. “i’m gonna be sick.” you ran back to the bathroom , emptying your stomach. “whoa a stomach bug did that.” chenle said , only for you to let out a sob. “yn.” yunjin ran back to the room. “what’s wrong?” chenle turned to yuna , the only other person who had answers. “well it wasn’t a stomach bug.” she said. “what!.” yunjin ran back to the living room. “did she just say she was pregnant?” your sobbing body , hunched over in the bathroom. “yuna? is she really pregnant?”

you dragged your body off the floor and into your room , dropping down on the bed , not even bothering to take your clothes off , just rolling up in the blanket. “but that’s insane she just lost her virginity.” chenle said as they followed you back into the room. “yn.” he knocked on the door. “can we come in?” they heard you hum; pushing the door open. “you okay?” yunjin said. “what do you think?” you mumbled. “you got a point.” she said , sitting on the edge of the bed.

“can we just not talk about it right now.” you said. “i just want to sleep for the rest of the day.” chenle patted your back. “we can put these questions on the back burner until tomorrow or maybe even the next day.” he said. “but we aren’t leaving you right now , not in this state we’d be terrible friends.” he climbed into the bed next to you. “yeah , but let’s not hold off this conversation too long i have questions.” yunjin said. “yunjin.” yuna said , already laying down next to you. “what?” she said.

“i’m just curious , this shit sounds like a plot to a tv show , of course i have questions.”

( 🏷️ ). @starsungwrld @neverbeurs @chocolate-scoups @delinalovesriize @cupid-ville @maiyhw @cosmicwintr @nctislifue @httpsxnox @hyunjinslongasslegs @andyyjw @kookssecret @ithinkulikeme @meowmeowhoon @jae-n0 @413ktz @httpjiprk @antifrggile @ourshin @itskpopular @smiles4hyuck @jaeminnnanaaa17 @bbyinni @sillypaperspyeagle-blog @n0hyuck @catdonut657 @markleesleftpinky @clean-soap @janjoonty @veilstqr @mikeeel @cigsaftersuh @kittykyuuu @akirawhore

𝕼 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒 PREV. TDV. NEXT. .ᐟ

©️LUVYENI

[k3n-dyll]

Haven't and am not watchihng th HBO version of TLOU, nor am I promoting it, bc not only does S2 change so much to the point where it doesnt feel right but also, Neil Drunkmann is a zionist that donated money to Israel! However! I keep thinking about why the idea of Abby being as small as she is in the show bothers me so much and its not just because they did the thing where they take a conventionally "unattractive" woman and change something significant about her to make her more palatable to men, that is part of it, but another reason is simply the fact that game Abby is genuinely frightening. We saw her kill Joel, we see the way she fights - she didnt NEED that man to be injured to take him down that was the whole point of her getting as big as she did. What Abby did to Joel in the game was calculated. It was planned to be that way because she wanted that man to suffer in death. You don't shoot a guy then tourniquet his leg right after because you want him to die fast.

She could have shot him, slashed him with an axe/machete/knife, hell she could have pummeled him with her bare hands and gave him a quicker death if we're being honest, but she didn't? Why would she? He put her dad down like a sick dog and Jerry couldn't really do anything to fight back. She made sure Joel would feel similarly to how her father probably felt in that moment - useless to help himself. And then she beat him into a pulp. It was personal. It felt personal. She looked pained and hurt and angry and even later in the game (before Lev) we see her doubt herself in regard to it.

When we get to show Abby the reasoning for shooting him falls apart in a way? And considering thatt so much of her arc is shaped by Joel's murder it makes her story feel less thought out. Like I said I havent seen it so I could be missing key details (which I doubt), but not only did they apparently make her weirdly attracted to the man that murdered her father but they also just made her utterly unintimidating. That "Abby" didnt have a choice but to shoot Joel first because she simply doesn't look like she has the strength to take him down. It feels less personal based off that alone. And I can't imagine what it's gonna be like near the end where she takes down the rat king or when she and Ellie are fighting (pre rattlers) - and speaking of rattlers - how the fuck do they intend on recreating tht feeling of "Oh my god, thats...that can't be Abby" that myself and I'm sure most people playing the game felt when Ellie cut her down from the post on the beach. I don't know it just sucks seeing one of my favorite games not only be surrounded by and in some ways rooted in zionism, but just seeing this happen again, where the story of a female character is changed significantly from something solid and well written into some fuck shit because they're too scared to show a "unattractive" woman on screen. People suck, I hate it here

[cryingdew]

summary; the reader is stressed after a particularly infuriating hunt, and dean— their lover, is more than happy to be there for them when things go wrong and they need to relax.

pairing; dean winchester x gn!reader 　genre; fluff

wordcount; 2749 ( this is horrifying, it wasn't meant to go past 1500.. )

notes / warnings; none

you stumbled into the motel room, dried vampire blood coating your cheek and a scowl on your face. dean follows behind you, and the only reason you can tell is from how loud his boots are with each step he takes.

the hunt tonight had been anything but clean. after crawling out of a vampire nest barely in one piece, it didn’t even need to be said that you were beyond stressed. your eyebrows were furrowed, and your entire body is like a coiled spring, ready to pop. and when you run your hand across the dried blood, it comes off in flakes that crumble when your fingers touch them. a groan escapes your lips, and you turn your head around to look at dean behind you, and he looks just as bad. covered in the same dried blood, and his jacket has a couple of rips in the fabric. overall, he looks like a mess. just like you did.

“well, don’t we look jus’ fantastic.” dean speaks, and you can hear the sarcastic undertone— it’s hard to miss.

you laugh a little bit, and you can appreciate the sarcasm from him; it lightens the mood just a little bit. his snide remarks always did, even after the shitiest hunts. “yeah, i guess we do, dean.” his name rolls so nicely off your tongue and you give him a lopsided grin. he matches your smile, and you slowly trudge further into the motel room, flicking on the light switch and the room is bathed in a yellow-toned light.

you hear the door close behind you, and you know dean closed it behind the two of you. the motel room is a mess to say the least— papers flung everywhere and tools scattered on the floor, tables and even the bed. you remember the state you left the motel room in, you just didn’t think it would be so messy, but you shrug and just walk past the piles of papers and books. your boots are heavy when they clunk around on the floor, and dean’s steps are even heavier. but when you’re both in the confines of the room, everything outside seems to go silent in the most comforting way, and it’s just you and dean. like it has been for months.

each time a hunt goes wrong like this, both of you are just exhausted. neither of you want to do anything but take a hot shower and relax, and it seems like he knows what he wants when his arms come to wrap around your waist and he presses a kiss to your neck. a small shudder wracks your body before you tug dean’s hands off of your waist, and you turn around with an exasperated sigh and a frown on your face.

“not the time, dean. we’re both covered in dried vamp blood, and we’re filthy. later.” you stare at him, his face a little beaten up, and a smear of dried blood coats his cheek. he still has that stupid cocky grin and the smile even reaches his green eyes that you had grown so used to seeing every morning when you woke up to ‘heat of the moment’ blaring in your ears or just a normal, yet very annoying beeping. “fine, fine.. later.” he mumbles with a tone that you could only call whiny.

finally you smile softly, giving him a gentle look as you bring a hand up to touch his jaw, feeling the unshaven stubble underneath the pad of your thumb. “you gonna shave soon, baby?” you murmur the words, your eyes trailing all over his face— over his jaw, cheek, nose, eyes and those lips of his. slowly, you lean forward just enough to give dean a small peck on his lips. and all you can do is smile when he gives you that dorky grin of his.

“might, if y’give me a reason to, sweetheart.” he smiles at you when you pull away from his face, letting your hand fall back to your side, mirroring the other half of your body.

you snort with a stifled laugh and raise an eyebrow. “is that so? what kind of reason or incentive do you even need, dean?” you pose him the question, already knowing what he’s talking about. it’s kind of hard not to know with how insanely high his sex drive is. “plus, i never said i wanted you to shave it. makes you look like a real hunter, y’know.”

you turn on the heel of your boots, smiling to dean over your shoulder, and you swear you can see the cogs and gears turning in his head, almost like he didn’t know how to respond to you admitting that you didn’t mind the facial hair he had. a small laugh bubbles out of your throat as you watch him try and come up with something to say. goddamn it, he’s so fucking adorable.

as you begin to walk to the bathroom, you pull a towel that you had hung over the door to the motel’s small bathroom and throw it over your shoulder, more than eager to get cleaned up and out of your filthy clothing. you kick the door open with the toe of your boot and your spare hand flicks the light on, and you blink a couple of times, the bathroom lights blinding you slightly since they’re the only actually bright lights in the entire motel room. Tossing the towel onto the counter of the sink, you run a hand through your hair, groaning.

beginning to strip, taking off the pearl snap shirt, running your fingers in-between the seams, and hearing the snaps pop open, and the shirt begins to feel loose around your torso and shoulders. you see yourself out of the corner of your eye in the mirror, seeing the anti-possession tattoo sitting right above your heart, and that frown from earlier comes back. yes, you’re glad you have it, but at the same time, you wish you didn’t need it. but for now, you shrug the black shirt off your shoulders and down your arms, and the fabric drops to the floor in a heap at your boots. man you look like shit. soon your belt comes off, pulling it through the belt loops and letting it be the next thing to fall to the tile of the bathroom floor.

once whatever you were wearing has been stripped off of you, and all you see in the mirror is just an expanse of skin, covered in scars and red and purple bruises that are just beginning to bloom all across your torso. you knew the hunt had been messy and rough, but you weren’t expecting to be so banged up at the end of it, and with a sigh, you tear your gaze away from the mirror and you start the shower, giving the water enough time to heat up so when you step in you don’t get temperature shock.

warm steam begins to flood the space of the bathroom, the mirror growing foggy, and water starts to bead on your skin, running down each sharp and toned curve of your body. as you move, slowly stepping into the shower and the warm water runs down each plane of your skin, through your hair, and down. you hear the bathroom door open, and you know that it’s dean— who else would it be? and your thoughts are only confirmed by the sound of a belt being unbuckled and clothing dropping to the floor loudly.

while you’re scrubbing the blood, dirt and grime from your skin, running your hands all over your face, neck and shoulders, cleaning everything you can off of yourself— dean slips in the shower behind you, and you can tell from just how his hands go to immediately run through your hair, pulling it out of your face and slicking it back on top of your head. “you gonna let me help you, baby?” dean murmurs next to your ear, his other hand going to rest on your stomach while the other stays where it was and continues to card fingers through your hair, his nails soothingly scratching your scalp. goddamn it, he knows how to get you to agree to anything.

“yeah, sure, you can help i guess..” you sigh the words out, giving dean the all-clear to help you wash up, and you already know that you'll end up washing him off unless he says otherwise. and slowly you begin to feel his hands pull off and away from your body. and when they come back and begin to run all across your skin, they’re soapy and rough, trailing over your body with a practised motion, mapping out each part of you again and again every time you two shower together.

by the end of it, you’re both clean of any remnants of the hunt. his hair is sticking to his forehead, and he’s smiling at you like he’s seeing you for the first time again. standing in front of each other, and all you can do is stare at him, into those beautiful eyes of his. you’re almost jealous of how attractive he is, but it all sifts away when you remember that he’s all yours, and you couldn’t be happier. “you know, dean.. i love you.” your words grow quieter and quieter when you finally kiss him. it’s nothing like the kisses you two share at the bar after a good hunt, those ones are so visceral, all tongues and teeth. but this one is soft, meticulous and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. and hell, you just might.

dean’s hands go up and cup your cheeks, his eyes fluttering shut, and he kisses you back. these moments aren’t common enough, both of you know it, but when you get a chance and you’re like this— standing in the shower together with the water still beating down on your back, your eyes closed and your lips against his, you’re reminded of how nice the sweet, small and gentle things in your relationship. but when you both pull away, you stare at him with a look of admiration and love. “i love you too, baby. now let’s get out’a the water, yeah?”

slowly, you nod, stepping back and away from dean, pushing the shower knob in, you feel the water slowly stop. stepping out of the shower and over the edge of it, you turn your head over your shoulder and smile at dean, catching his eyes, and he smiles back at you softly. even through the foggy glass of the shower wall, you can see his smile lines, and goddamn it, he’s so sweet it might give you cavaties.

you grab the towel you had thrown onto the counter, and you run it over your face, wiping the water off yourself slowly and surely while you begin to dry your entire body off. dean’s right next to you, he pulled a towel from the cabinet, and he’s doing the same as you— drying off his entire body, from his shoulders to his hips, and then his legs. and each movement is slow and exhausted, but still eager at the prospect of being able to go to bed clean and dry.

once all is well and done, and dry, dean is the first to leave the bathroom, going to search for something to put on to sleep in, but you’re still stuck staring at yourself in the mirror, like you’ve never seen your own face before. slowly, you trace one of your hands over a scar on your lip, remembering how you got it— from some stupid fuckin’ ghoul that you failed to properly kill on one of your first hunts as a little kid. it’s not your favourite memory, and it reminds you that you were always doomed to become a hunter, but maybe it’s not so bad with dean as your hunting partner and your lover.

you finally pull yourself away from the mirror and out of the bathroom, and when you walk into the main area of the motel room where dean was carelessly getting dressed, you just stare at his back for a momentck for a moment— seeing the red lines on his skin from your nails yesterday night that just refused to fade, and you laugh softly to yourself as you remember how the night went, but rather than say anything to dean, you just whistle a cat-call and grin at him when he turns around and all he sees is your entire body naked with a cocky smile on your lips.

but all you do is step closer and closer, reaching past him to let him continue getting dressed, and you grab a shirt from his duffle and a pair of shorts from your own bag. you tug the shirt on over your head and hair, which is still wet, and the shirt fits comfortably on your shoulders and loose around the neck— and only then do you realise it’s dean’s mangled led zeppelin shirt, and you smile to yourself.

soon enough, you’re both dressed and just staring at each other under the awful lighting of the room, but damn if he doesn’t look good. “did y’really have to go ‘n take my nice shirt, baby?” dean huffs, crossing his arms and just staring at you, his eyes raking up and down your body. “are you complaining, dean? and ‘nice’ is an overstatement, this shirt looks like it lost a fight to a werewolf.” you respond, equally snarky but without his drawl, and he looks appalled at you for even saying that, but he just grumbles, huffs and walks over to the bed, setting some of the books down onto the floor and he gives you a look, one you don’t yet know.

“c’mon, i’m tired ‘n i know you are too.” and dean’s right, both of you are exhausted after today, and the warm shower only made you more eager to sleep. so you walk over to him, watching him get up onto the bed, and you follow suit.

slowly, the two of you crawl into the bed, shuffling under the covers and past the books and hearing them drop and clatter to the floor with loud thuds when they hit the wooden panelling. while dean makes himself comfortable with his back pressed against the headboard, you’re tucked next to his side, and his arm slung around your shoulder, and the back of your head near his collarbone. this had to have been the best way to relax.

while dean clicks through the tv channels with one irritated grumble after another, he continues to flick through one after another, and random clips of shows and movies fill the room before dean clicks to another one. “wait, dean—” you go and point at the screen right before he flicks through it. he had gone past an actually okay movie, which is rare when you’re looking around tv channels for anything good to watch. and he skipped past the 1978 halloween movie, which is practically criminal to you, because out of all the old and messy slasher movies from the late ‘70s, this had to be one of the better ones.

“go back a channel,” you spoke quietly— you didn’t need to be loud, not when it’s just you and dean hidden away in a motel room. “man, you’re feelin’ demandin’, huh?” he responds to you in kind and with that signature ‘dean winchester’ snark that had you enamoured the moment you met him, but he does go back a channel for you, and when he sees one of the scenes from halloween, his groan makes you smile. “this movie is awful, hun.” he muttered and you elbow him in the ribs for his comment. “shut up, dean.”

dean chuckles at you while you try and hit him, he just pulls you closer and sets the remote down with a smile on his lips. “as you wish, your majesty.” dean sighs dramatically and he pulls the covers a little higher up on the two of you while you settle in closer, finally being at some state of calm after the messy night. you turn your eyes to the movie to watch the cheesy horror flick until the next one on the channel plays— or until you fall asleep on top of your boyfriend. either works in the end.

@ cryingdew

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Hey sex witch- possibly weird one. While I enjoy flicking the bean as much as the next guy, that's like...all I can do. For years I've tried fingering myself and I just can't do it. I feel like I'm gonna barf every time like it makes me immediately turned off. Have I been doing it wrong this whole time? Or is it like a mental thing? I can't use tampons for similar reasons- makes me feel sick and it hurts. I've never been to a gyno despite being in my late 20s bc I'm terrified of the idea of someone poking around down there...virgin for the same reasons. Any advice? Thanks!

hi anon,

it sounds like you just profoundly dislike penetration. the solution to that is pretty simple, which is to just Not Do That. jack off other ways, use other methods of menstrual collection, etc. having been pretty unimpressed by vaginal penetration for years, I can attest that the Not Doing That method works pretty great.

what you're describing doesn't sound entirely dissimilar to vaginismus, a condition in which involuntary vaginal spasms occur in response to penetration and make it painful and, sometimes, outright impossible. vaginismus can sometimes stem from negative experiences or other adverse psychological reactions, and is sometimes purely a physical response. sometimes it's a combination of the two; bodies are complex! regardless of the cause, many people find their vaginismus to be extremely treatable with counseling and/or physical therapy involving the use of vaginal trainers, which essentially help practice penetration with vaguely dildo-shaped objects in steadily increasing sizes. regardless of whether or not one has vaginismus, trainers can be helpful for anyone interested in increasing their options for comfortably putting things in their vaginas.

I also want to add, crucially, that you aren't under any obligation to change any of this if you don't want to. it's fine to have a vagina and not want anything inside of it. the only thing I see here that causes any concern is the avoidance of some preventative healthcare, which I would strongly recommend consulting with healthcare providers about to discuss your options. I've heard from many people who lack of sexual partners + and aversion to vaginal penetration has meant their healthcare provider concluded that their risk factors were low enough that they were fine to skip the exam, and some procedures that can be performed via invasive exam can also be done with an ultrasound. there are options, I promise.

and speaking of options, re: your being a virgin I would like to lovingly point out that if partnered sex is something you're interested in and feel that you're missing out on, sex can be whatever you want it to be and doesn't ever need to involve penetration if you're not interested in that.

[pazziiiiiiii]

Hey guys! Sorry this took so long I worked quite hard on this. I’m still gonna keep the angst going despite the ending but yeah I hope you guys enjoy please give me feedback! ily!!

Part 3

Azzi let it go when Paige said, “My dad said something to me. That’s why I’ve been off.”

She didn’t press, even though Paige could tell she wanted to. The look on her face had been clear—quiet, worried, hurt. But Paige had only said enough to stop the questions, not enough to explain. And she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Some things felt too big to say out loud.

Because what her dad said didn’t just stay in the past.

It followed her.

“Of course you wanna visit Azzi. Why don’t you just go live with her and ask her to be your girlfriend? You better not ask her, or you can stay there forever.”

He meant it. Every word. His voice still echoed in her head, louder than anything else. And the worst part? She had stayed. She chose to be here. With Azzi.

That wasn’t something she could explain—not when she didn’t even fully understand it herself.

⸻

Things got weird after that.

Not openly. Just… in the little ways. She kept her distance. Didn’t laugh as loud. Didn’t sit as close on the couch during movies. Didn’t sleep as soundly.

Azzi noticed. Paige could feel her noticing.

But she didn’t bring it up again. She just adjusted. She always did. And Paige hated how that made her feel. Guilty. Grateful. Something else she didn’t have words for.

So when Azzi said, “There’s a party—just a few people. My mom said it’s fine,” Paige said yes.

Not because she wanted to go.

Because she didn’t want to be the reason Azzi stopped asking her to.

⸻

The music pulsed under Paige’s skin the second they stepped into the basement. It wasn’t packed—maybe ten people total, spaced out, talking over red solo cups and snack bowls. Still, Paige hovered near the edge of it all, already uncomfortable.

Azzi moved through the room like she belonged there. Laughing. Nodding along to the beat. She knew almost everyone and pulled Paige into a couple of small circles at first, introducing her, making it seem normal.

It wasn’t.

Paige couldn’t stop watching her. Not because she wanted to. Because she couldn’t help it.

Especially when that tall dude in the red hoodie showed up. Devon, or Darren, or something like that. Paige didn’t care. She just saw the way he smiled at Azzi like he knew her. Like he’d thought about her before this moment.

And Azzi smiled back.

Paige stood across the room with a cup she hadn’t touched, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

She told herself to let it go. Azzi could talk to whoever she wanted. Laugh at his jokes. Let him lean in close. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t her business.

But then his hand brushed Azzi’s waist, and Paige was moving.

“Everything good over here?” she asked, sliding into the small circle, voice sharp.

Azzi looked startled. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

Red Hoodie laughed. “We’re just catching up.”

“Didn’t look like just catching up.”

Azzi turned. “Paige.”

“She looked uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t.”

“You sure?”

Azzi blinked like she couldn’t believe this was happening. “Yes.”

The guy took a step back, clearly picking up on the tension. “I’m gonna go grab a drink.”

When he walked away, Azzi rounded on her. “What was that?”

“He was too close.”

Azzi folded her arms. “And?”

“I didn’t like it.”

“That’s not your call.”

“I’m just looking out for you.”

“I don’t need you to.”

Paige didn’t answer.

Azzi stepped in closer, her voice low. “You can’t pick and choose when to care, Paige.”

“I always care.”

“Then why do you act like you don’t half the time?”

Paige looked at her. The room around them faded into noise. Just Azzi. Hurt. Angry. Confused.

“Forget it,” Paige muttered and turned, walking away before she did something worse.

⸻

The gym was dark when she got there. Cold. Empty.

Perfect.

She didn’t bother turning on the lights at first—just picked up a ball and started shooting. Slow at first, then faster. Every missed shot made her push harder. Her body ached, but she kept going.

Drive. Pull-up. Crossover. Three. Again.

Sweat clung to her skin, burning her eyes. She ignored it.

Her phone buzzed in her bag—over and over. She didn’t check it.

Azzi could wait.

Everyone could wait.

This was the only place that felt quiet.

The only place where her dad’s voice didn’t echo. Where Azzi’s face didn’t float in her mind.

Where she didn’t have to feel anything except tired.

Eventually, her legs gave out.

She didn’t remember falling. Just the cold of the floor against her cheek. The silence in her ears. Her chest tightening.

She blinked. Everything swam.

⸻

“Paige.”

It was far away at first. Then closer. Then sharper.

“Paige.”

She squinted. Azzi.

Kneeling next to her, eyes wide, breath quick.

“What the hell are you doing?” Azzi asked, voice shaking.

“I’m fine,” Paige muttered, sitting up slowly.

“You passed out.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I just needed a break.”

Azzi stared at her like she was crazy. “You haven’t answered your phone in hours. I thought something happened to you.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Bullshit this isn’t nothing.”

Paige looked away.

Azzi grabbed her bag and shoved a water bottle into her hands. “Drink.”

Paige didn’t move.

“Drink it, Paige.”

She did, slowly. Her hands trembled around the plastic.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Azzi asked, quieter now.

“I told you. I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Paige looked at her. “I don’t need saving.”

“I’m not trying to save you. I’m trying to be there.”

Paige flinched. “I didn’t ask you to.”

Azzi pulled back like she’d been slapped.

They sat in silence for a long time.

“You can’t keep pushing me away and pretending it doesn’t matter,” Azzi finally said.

Paige stood up slowly. “I’m going back.”

She didn’t wait for Azzi to follow.

⸻

The ride home was silent.

The Fudd’s was asleep when they got in. A single light was on in the kitchen. Azzi didn’t say anything as she grabbed a glass and filled it with water.

She set it outside Paige’s room (the guest room she only started staying in two nights ago that she hates) and knocked once.

The door didn’t open.

⸻

The next morning was tense.

Paige came downstairs late. Her head throbbed. Her limbs felt heavy. Azzi sat at the island, scrolling her phone, barely touching her food.

Katie glanced between them when she walked in. “Y’all good?”

“Yeah,” they said, too fast, too flat.

Katie raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

She left the room, but her eyes said we’re not done here.

Azzi didn’t look at Paige. Paige didn’t try to talk.

She knew she should. Knew she’d crossed a line—again.

But she also knew the line wasn’t just about Azzi.

It was about her dad.

His voice.

His threat.

The weight of choosing to stay.

Paige finished two bites of toast and left the kitchen.

⸻

She ended up back at the court later that day. Not to train this time. Just to sit. Think.

She didn’t even notice Azzi had followed until she heard footsteps behind her.

“I figured I’d find you here,” Azzi said.

Paige didn’t answer.

Azzi sat down on the bleachers beside her.

“I didn’t tell my mom what happened last night.”

“Thanks.”

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you at the party.”

Paige shook her head. “You were right.”

Azzi studied her face. “You don’t talk to me anymore.”

“I do.”

“Not about what matters.”

Paige swallowed hard.

Azzi waited.

Paige stared at the court. “I told you my dad said something.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t tell you what.”

Azzi didn’t push. She just nodded, waiting again.

Paige kept her eyes forward. “It was about you.”

Azzi didn’t speak.

“He said if I asked you to be my girlfriend, I could just stay here forever.”

Azzi blinked.

“That I might as well live here. With you.”

The words felt like knives in her throat.

“He was yelling,” Paige added, quieter. “Like I’d already done something wrong.”

Azzi’s voice was soft. “And did you?”

Paige shook her head. “No.”

They sat with that for a long moment. The sun was starting to set, long shadows stretching across the gym floor.

“You’re scared,” Azzi said.

Paige didn’t deny it.

Azzi leaned back against the bleachers, voice low. “I wish you’d just let me help.”

“I don’t know how.”

Azzi looked at her, like she wanted to say more. But she didn’t.

They sat there, inches apart, with miles of silence between them.

[formulaonecrumbs]

switching it up!! still pcos reader, maybe a race. except let’s go with alex albon or daniel ricciardo 🤭

-🧸

not today hormones ✋

Alex Albon x PCOS!reader

summary: reader experiencing a flare up while at track and alex naturally cheering her up.

warnings: pcos mention, chronic pain, alex and his sarcastic ass

A/N: AAHHHHH FINALLY. THIS IS WHAT IVE BEEN WAITING FOR. AN AELX REQUEST. i already wrote for daniel and have (surprisingly) NEVER written for albono so it was time. i feel that i don’t naturally write alex very well (or anyone except lando 😭) but i made him all silly and cute cuz that’s how i see him. imma make a more serious and helpful albono if u so please, all u gotta do is ask. anyways ENJOY, 🧸!!! LOVE U.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

it starts with your alarm not going off.

which means you wake up twenty-five minutes later than planned, heart pounding, hair a mess, and your suitcase only halfway packed. your phone buzzes violently against the nightstand — a string of texts from alex, each one more worried than the last.

alex:

where r u

u ok??

do i need to come rescue u from a sleep coma again

he would, too. dramatic little menace.

you send him a quick “omw don’t panic” text and rush through the rest of your morning with exactly zero grace. makeup half-done. hair thrown up. you’re pretty sure you put two different socks on, but there’s no time to fix it. it’s either that or miss your flight to barcelona, and alex will absolutely never let you live that down.

by the time you make it to the paddock the next day, you’re sore, irritable, and bloated beyond belief. your body’s staging a full-on hormonal protest — classic pcos. your jeans feel tight. your skin’s breaking out. you’re half convinced your uterus is trying to punch its way out of your body, and to top it all off, someone hands you a media pass that says “alex’s girlfriend” like it’s a job title.

alex finds you slumped on a folding chair near the williams motorhome, sunglasses on, head tilted back like a dramatic victorian woman fainting on a chaise lounge.

“there she is,” he grins, crouching beside you. “my radiant queen of punctuality.”

you glare at him through your sunglasses. “don’t.”

“what?”

“i swear to god, if you say anything about how late i was or how my face looks like a tomato or how my jeans are cutting off circulation to my soul, i will throw myself into the nearest tyre wall.”

alex lifts his hands in surrender, a smile still playing at his lips. “i was just gonna say hi.”

you eye him suspiciously.

he nudges your knee with the back of his hand. “hi.”

“hi,” you mumble.

“you want to talk about it?” he asks, softer now, eyes scanning your face like he already knows the answer.

you shake your head. “just one of those days. hormone hurricane. pcos is being an asshole.”

he gives you a look — not pitying, not dramatic, just… warm. understanding. “is this the kind of hurricane that needs snacks or space?”

you consider that for a second. “both.”

he stands up immediately. “done. five minutes. trust the snack man.”

you watch him walk away, still wearing his fireproofs and a backwards cap that’s barely hanging on. a few fans wave at him and he waves back, never missing a beat. a kid shouts his name and he shouts back something about being cooler than lando today.

you sigh. leave it to alex albon to be charming even while sourcing snacks.

when he comes back, he’s balancing a water bottle, a banana, a chocolate croissant, and — for some reason — a small stuffed duck wearing a williams hat.

you raise an eyebrow.

“his name’s turbo,” alex says casually. “he’s our emotional support duck.”

“you stole that from the merch table, didn’t you?”

“it was a rescue mission.”

you snort and reach for the croissant. “thanks, honey.”

he plops down beside you on the bench, shoulder pressed into yours, like he’s casually shielding you from the chaos of the paddock.

“you don’t have to thank me,” he says. “your body’s doing its own weird olympics right now. least i can do is bring you carbs and emotional poultry.”

you laugh despite yourself, mouth full of pastry. “you make it sound so noble.”

“it is noble,” he insists. “besides, you put up with me during the off-season. now it’s my turn.”

you bump your head against his shoulder. “you’re annoying.”

“you love it.”

“unfortunately.”

by the time qualifying rolls around, you’re planted in the williams garage, headphones on, duck in lap, watching alex put in a solid session despite the heat. the engineers are buzzing, data flying everywhere, and you can’t help but feel proud — even if you’re still cramping and a little dead inside.

afterwards, he finds you again, towel around his neck, face flushed.

“p10,” he says, still catching his breath. “not bad, right?”

“you’re magic,” you grin.

“you’re biased.”

“always.”

he steals a sip of your water and gives turbo a high five. “how’s the uterus?”

“still raging,” you say. “but the croissant helped.”

“i’ll bring you another tomorrow.”

“turbo demands it.”

alex grins and tugs you up by the hand. “come on. let’s go annoy logan and pretend i’m not sweating like a swamp creature.”

you follow, hand still in his, thinking maybe today wasn’t so bad after all — bloated hormones, chaos and all.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

the moment you get back to the hotel, it hits you like a freight train.

the cramps.

the heat.

the way your bra strap feels like it’s trying to cut into your shoulder blade and your jeans feel like medieval torture. your back aches. your mood’s a mess. you think about crying for literally no reason — like, someone on the street smiled at you and you were like, why would you do that to me right now, and now you’re spiraling.

alex, ever the optimist, holds the door open to your room like you’re royalty.

you barely make it three steps inside before faceplanting onto the bed with a groan that sounds borderline inhuman.

“was it something i said?” he asks lightly, dropping his bag by the window.

“it’s everything,” you mumble into the pillow. “i hate my body. i hate my ovaries. i hate the entire concept of pants.”

“you know,” he says thoughtfully, “if i had a dollar for every time you declared war on pants, i’d probably be able to retire.”

you roll onto your back and glare at the ceiling. “don’t make me laugh. it hurts.”

alex tosses his hat onto the chair, then joins you on the bed with all the grace of someone who’s been in a race car all day and now feels it in every joint. he lets out his own old-man groan before leaning on one elbow and looking down at you with a little frown.

“alright,” he says. “emergency protocol time.”

“what does that even mean.”

“it means,” he says, already leaning down and kissing your forehead gently, “we’re implementing the albon healing system.”

you blink at him.

“patent pending,” he adds, and then — another kiss, this time to your temple. “one kiss for stress.”

you snort. “you made that up just now.”

“obviously. it’s a cutting-edge technique.” kiss. cheek. “this one’s for bloating.” kiss. your jaw. “this is for hormonal rage.” kiss. the tip of your nose. “and this one’s for the fact that i saw you nearly cry when the elevator doors closed too fast.”

“you saw that?”

“sweetheart,” he says, full of dramatic pity, “you whimpered.”

you bury your face in your hands, groaning again. “i hate it here.”

“you love it here.”

“i literally don’t.”

he leans in closer. “you love me, though.”

you peek at him through your fingers. “barely.”

“so rude,” he mutters, but he’s still smiling as he kisses your forehead again — this time lingering, warm and soft and maybe a little too sincere for a moment like this.

you blink. “was that one for anything in particular?”

he shrugs. “felt like it.”

you go quiet for a beat, just listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of someone laughing in the hallway. your body still aches — your cramps are making your lower back throb and you’re sure your skin is about to erupt into another breakout — but for the first time all day, it feels… manageable. less like you’re being punished by the universe and more like… okay. you’re okay.

alex rests his chin on your shoulder. “you know,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to pretend it’s not awful. i know it sucks. i see how much it takes out of you.”

you nod slowly. “i just feel gross. and ugly. and dramatic.”

“you’re none of those things,” he says, firm now. “you’re in pain. and your body’s going through hell. and you’re still here, joking about emotional support ducks and cheering me on and pretending to care about tyre compounds.”

you smile faintly. “i do care. mostly.”

“you’re amazing,” he says, with so much certainty it makes your throat tighten. “even when your hormones are trying to kill you.”

you shift closer to him, wrapping your arms around his middle. “thanks for the kisses.”

“anytime.” he presses one to the top of your head. “it’s a full-service treatment. comes with cuddles and optional forehead massages.”

“optional?” you ask, already tugging his hand toward your face. “i think you mean mandatory.”

he laughs, stretching out beside you. “fine, fine. i’ll just cancel my plans to be unconscious and rub your forehead for the next twenty minutes.”

“that’s what love is, albon.”

“i wouldn’t have it any other way.”

you close your eyes as his fingers move gently across your skin, his touch light but steady, and for the first time all day, your body starts to unclench — bit by bit, like it knows it’s safe.

and maybe you’re still bloated and irritable and vaguely on the verge of a meltdown, but alex is here. kissing it better.

and maybe that’s enough.

THE END :>

[cowbell-ghuleh]

Skeleta thoughts.

Errr... I just kept writing with this and it turned into a long rambling essay... Idk if anyone is gonna read it but I wanted to get my thoughts down.

One of my vinyls arrived unexpectedly today. Wasn't as stressed out from work as I was expecting so I listened to it. And wow I have a lot to say.

I like it a lot overall, it's an utterly beautiful work of art. I don't think it quite replaces Prequelle as my favourite, but omg this thing is fascinating!

It's definitely a work of art that requires you to engage with it and think. It demands you give it all your attention to fully understand it and appreciate all the themes and layers in the music.

It also feels like an incredibly personal piece to Tobias, moreso than any other Ghost album, and I kinda feel privileged he's willing to share that much of himself with us. Considering he's said Impera burnt him out, I'm glad he was able to write Skeleta to recover without worrying about critics or creating a creatively bankrupt sequel to Imperia.

I'm Gonna need to sit with it, and listen to it, for a while more before really solidifying how I feel about it (that's kinda normal for me, didn't like twenties at first for example and now I love it). This is written after two listens to the album followed by listening to each song on loop.

Long essay below the cut, content warning contains a mention of Self Injury.

So to start off:

My vinyl...

I got the zoetrope version.

Unfortunately I can only see the pictures in focus at certain angles when it's spinning and even then I can't keep my eyes still long enough to see the animated effect. Idk if it's because I wear glasses, or if here's a trick to it I'm missing, or if you need a certain kind of record player. Still looks cool though!

I doubt I'm gonna ever play it again though... especially after my standard version arrives as I'm absolutely terrified of damaging it! Though I think I may have have a slightly miss pressed copy as I had problems with the B side.

The Music

This definitely does not sound like Copia or any previous Papa singing. It's distinctly Papa V, which I love. It's also wildly different from the previous Ghost albums, which in itself is a very Ghost thing to do. This era is entirely it's own thing and that's one of the reasons I love this band.

Some kinda silly / cheesy lyrics but this is the band that wrote Idol-latrine, "grabbing them all by the whoo-ha", " and "fecal trail across the land", so I don't really understand why people are complaining.

It's also a lot gentler / softer than Impera and other albums, there's no equivalent to Faith or Twenties or Mummy Dust here. Though given the more introspective nature of the album I'm not entirely sure if a more heavy/aggressive song would have fitted thematically.

A lot of the songs do kinda feel like they leave you hanging, lacking a proper conclusion, but that kinda works for an introspective emotional album. It feels like you're meant to sit with each song in silence for a bit to fully let their emotional weight land.

I have way more to say about the "new" songs as we've kinda discussed Satanised and Lachryma a lot by this point...

Peacefield

I can't be entirely analytical about this as it's one I heard first at my Rituals, particularly the Birmingham ritual, so it's forever tied to those joyful memories and feelings.

The perfect epilogue to Impera. As others have said it feels like emerging from the pain and trauma, breaking the cycle of empire, and moving on. The future may not be easy but there's hope and we can build something new.

It also sets up the new era, were traveling into dark waters, but we have each other.

As an introduction to Papa V it's also interesting, far less bombastic than Kaisarion, instead of a triumphant leader, we have someone taking your hand and leading you out of the fires and into the night.

Personally I really like this one, feels like the kind of 80s rock anthem that'd score the credits of a fantasy or sci-fi movie.

Though it did make me cry, Mainly due to emotion from the rituals

Lachryma

The one with the music video that had Tumblr frothing at the mouth because they saw a man singing XD

With themes or self deceit and possibly imposter syndrome it hints at the dark places we're going.

Needless to say I love this.

Satanized

We've all been Satanised at this point.

Classic Ghost themes including criticism of religion, and very obvious "satanic" lyrics.

So much fun live too! An absolute banger.

Guiding lights

Kinda flow breaking after front loading the more heavy and rock anthem-y songs. Not in a bad way though.

A train suddenly screeching to a halt followed by Papa yelling "Hey you! Pay attention now! This is where he journey gets dark."

You suddenly get far less filtered (? Idk what the right term is), Raw vocals from Papa. But as you get into the song it gets beautiful but also desolate, as usual with ghost there's layers to the song that you really don't pick up on during a first listen.

It definitely has the effect on you Tobias probably intended. As he's said it's about being unable to talk to a friend who's going down a dark path.

From a personal perspective the sudden break in the flow definitely feels like the horrible moment you realise you've lost someone (in my case a family member) to their own hate, and there's nothing you can say to pull them out of that well. The rest feels like you're almost grieving for a relationship (platonic) lost.

Though I like it thematically, I'm not quite sure if I like it or not musically. I'm not sure if I'd add it to my regular rotation of songs if that makes sense.

De Profundus Borealis

Starts bleak and mellow, building into a power rock style march.

(I can't make out the Whispers at the beginning no idea if anyone has managed to decipher them.)

I don't know if TF ever said what the song is about, and maybe I'm projecting my own mental health issues into it.

But I interpret it as being about Regret and Self Hatred. Anger at, and being unable to forgive, yourself. Being unable to process your own emotions. The voices in your head at 3am that stop you sleeping. How you keep it locked up and frozen but eventually it thaws and the damn breaks, and all that pent up emotion turns inwards and destroys everything within you. (In my case usually manifesting as an SH episode.)

God the ending though, so bleak. Just feels like an empty pit in your stomach. The feeling of nothingness that comes after an episode.

Took a couple of listens but musically it hits the spot for me, idk if they're ever going to play it live but I could hear those riffs killing it in person.

It feels kinda nostalgic in a way but I can't place what / which band / song it reminds me off.

Ctenograph

Unfortunately my first listen to this was kinda "spoiled" because I think my vinyl is slightly warped or scratched on the B side. Fresh out the box and it was skipping and popping a lot...

Yeah... I like this one a lot. Fucking crying again though.

The feeling of grief never really going away but it also in a way means the people you loved never really go away too. Hopeful and comforting on its own way.

"Wherever I go, you're always there, riding next to me."

Definitely had thoughts about my Grandad... He's been on my mind a lot after seeing War of the Worlds last week, he was a big fan and it's a show I planned on seeing with him years ago but we were never able to.

Missilia Amori

Again had problems with it first play...

Gives me the same abuser / stalker talking to their victim vibes as DatHomL... Definitely gives me the creeps... The narrator must possess the object of his lust/love and if they refuse him they must be destroyed.

Given TF has said it's about how love can turn to hate that makes sense to me.

Musically it's not quite my taste, I don't dislike it, but I feel like it's one I'm gonna skip quite often. Then again I might grow to like it a lot more in future...

Marks of the Evil one

Another one that didn't play properly first listen... Skipped / jumped a lot.

Don't really have much to say about this one. I'm not really sure how to interpret it, or what emotion/feeling it's about, or "who" the marks are. Definitely feels like a slight dig at satanic panic and how certain Christians (usually those with a profit motive) see the devil everywhere.

Again it's a song I think I'm gonna have to sit with... Not sure if I like it or not.

Umbra

Full disclosure, this is not a song I can be analytical about...

First time I heard it was at my first ever concert (I kinda missed Peacefield at the Manchester ritual), so it's forever associated with those feelings and the pure joy I felt there.

I fell in love with it immediately, had the chorus stuck in my head all week which has never happened to me on one single listen to a song before, and I am so happy to be able to listen to it again.

I do think the live version is slightly better, but that's kinda to be expected for Ghost.

Though I definitely get more creepy vibes from the album version, like it's more about unhinged lust rather than love, which coming after Missilia Amori makes, this song seem way less comforting.

I've said it before but this song gives me chills and joy and makes me cry all at the same time.

Excelsis

Raw vocals again. Like guiding lights it feels like a stopping point. A real punch to the gut after the joy of Umbra.

While, it didn't effect me like Life Eternal did when I first heard that song, I appreciate what TF was going for. And it might be another song I need to sit with some more to fully get it. It's really reminding me if a Beatles song, but I cannot for the life of me figure out which Beatles song it is... Maybe it's just the raw vocals reminding me somewhat of Lennon...

As a cap to the album I like how it feels like Papa V taking your hand again. It's the end but that's okay we all walk this path in the end.

And like others have commented it's a fascinating contrast with Life Eternal from a character perspective. You've got Copia longing for a life eternal never wanting this to end, while Perpetua accepts his time is limited and that's okay. (I have more comments on that on the concluding thoughts.)

And holy shit though that ending. So bleak. Just drop the floor out from under us Tobias... Again it's an interesting response to Peacefield, if Perpetua is our something to believe in, here he is admitting he's scared and vulnerable too, human like all of us... (Again not something I could ever see Copia doing.)

Concluding thoughts

It's such an interesting contrast to Impera. Impera all bombastic and grand, and Skeleta is reserved and introspective. They really do complement each other so well. They feel like they have the same DNA but but express it in such radically different ways. Again

I kinda love how that feeds into the twin theming of Copia and Perpetua. The brash, extroverted, and limelight loving Copia forced into a behind the scenes role, Vs the reserved, introverted Perpetua who has suddenly been thrust into the spotlight.

----

Thank you so much to anyone who read this... I don't get to talk about Ghost irl and I really wanted somewhere to talk about this beautiful album!

[domesticatedstew]

OK SO

I might have written, some more mud/diligence but this time... it's smut. this is also my first time posting any smut I've actually written so it's not gonna be great 😭 (also I'll tag any tw needed!)

MINORS DNI

It had been a long and exhausting day for everyone in the resturant, and the last thing Mud wanted to do was sleep on the meat hook.

But until they got enough scarab to buy everyone a bed, he was stuck with the freezer. Maybe Mud would get lucky and the meat hook would kill him as he slid onto it so he'd be able to fall asleep without practically shuttering his skin off (what's left of his skin anyway.)

He pierced his spine onto the frigid metal in hopes his idea would work, but instead it just shot waves of pain through his entire skeletal structure. Mud groaned as he pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his coat tighter around his shivering body. Fate was merciful to him tonight, as sleep quickly enveloped the rotling and he soon couldn't feel the throbbing pain coursing in his bones.

Opening his eyes, Mud could see dark orange skies through a beautiful stained glass window. It illuminated a circle around where he sat but everything else was shrouded in darkness; anything could've been hiding in that darkness. It made Mud feel more vulnerable than he cared for.

Mud tried to stand but immediately felt the tug of rope against his wrists and ankles. Something was horribly wrong, he'd never ever get into this situation (not even willingly.)

His breath quickened and a knot formed in his stomach. He tugged on the rope with all his might but they didn't budge. It was like all his strength was sapped out of him. Panic was setting in and Mud knew he needed to get the hell out of here, where ever here was.

"Well well well, if it isn't my favorite disgusting coward," A sultry voice spoke from behind him, causing Mud to snap his head around to see who said it, he nearly snapped his head off his neck in the process. That would've been infinitely better than being tied up with some mystery person. A hand grasped his shoulder, digging rough nails into his flesh and pulling the chair to their direction.

Diligence. The Virtue finallt caught up to Mud after thousands of years of hiding.

"You've certainly gotten more repulsive over the last few thousand years! I miss every second I had to not stare at your face, but staring at this," Diligence dug his metallic nails into Mud's chin, forcing him to stare into the Virtue's brain. "As I rip you to shreds will make everything worth it."

Being this close to the monochromatic robot sent chills down Mud's back, but for some reason ignited a heat in his lower stomach he hadn't felt in eons. It made him squirm in his seat.

Diligence let go of Mud's slimey face, wiping the excess goo off onto his trench coat. If Diligence had eyes, Mud would've been able to see the pure disgust they felt within them. "Hmmm, now what do you think would make for a good start to your endless torment, run away?" The Virtue placed their boot directly in between Mud's open legs, the heel dangerously close to his groin. He had to bite back a groan as Diligence applied more and more pressure, the knife like heel digging a hole into the wooden chair.

But nothing could get passed the Virtue, not even the moans Mud tried with all his might to hide. "Do you enjoy this? You really are no different than every other pathetic creature under my rein, but you intrigued me." There was a hint of laughter in the way they spoke, like they were planning some big joke at Mud's expense. "I don't like this you rotten-" "The only rotten thing here is YOU." Diligence shoved the chair to the floor, causing Mud to slam the back of his head into the stone floor.

The rotling couldn't hold back a groan that time, but at least it was out of pain and not pleasure this time. He was embarrassed with himself for even liking being around the very thing he escaped from.

"You need to be taught a lesson, even if you enjoy it for some sick, deprived, reason." The robot circled around the now laying down Mud. They looked even more intimidating than usual, but their long slender legs glistened under the orange light. He was never more glad to not have a 'package' than he was now. There was always something so appealing with how Diligence was designed, whoever made their body clearly had favorites.

A large heeled boot slammed beside his head, missing Mud's sludgey head by a few mere inches; the stone floor cracked under the sheer force of their legs. Mud gulped and avoided looking directly up at Diligence who now stood over him.

"You are the most revolting creature I've ever had the misfortune of commanding." Diligence, now crouched over top of the still tied up (and also now very horny) Mud.

It was unbearable, the shame and the pleasure mixing in a horrible concoction of emotions in his stomach. He wanted to stare at the beauty in front of him but logic told him that "beauty" was nothing more than a beast who wanted to torture him. "Whatever you want, I'm not telling you." He spat at the glass face of the Virtue, a large green blob of gunk slid off and landed back on Mud's coat; leaving a nasty translucent trail down the robot's face.

Diligence simply chuckled at his pathetic attempt at standing his ground, "I don't want information, I just want to ruin you, you stupid rotling."

They wrapped their long metallic fingers around Mud's neck and lifted him up, chair and all, all while nearly breaking his wind pipe. Mud was never more thankful to be sitting upright again, but Diligence's grasp on his neck didn't waver. The lack of oxygen was starting to get to the tall rotling and his thoughts became more and more delirious, and more and more sexual. He started hoping that anything would help with the growing need in his crotch, even the horrible being who brought him here in the first place.

The Virtue seemed to read his mind. Both hands clasped Mud's thighs, dangerously close to where Mud actually wanted them but not close enough. He wanted to let out a frustrated moan, but was cut off as Diligence leaned in right beside his ear. "You want me to ruin you, correct?"

Instinct from his days as a soldier immediately kicked in, but the arousal didn't dampen for a single second. "Yes sir," He croaked out, shimmying to try and get Diligence's iron grip on his thighs to go closer to where he actually wanted them.

One hand dug it's nails into the flesh of Mud's thigh, bright purple blood pooled around their white fingers. The pain clouded his vision, Mud didn't even notice that Diligence let go of his other thigh and had finally reached towards his crotch.

"G-Gah!! You sick fuck, I'd shoot you down i-if fuck if I wasn't tied to this chair," Mud struggled to form a coherent sentence, pain and pleasure combining together into a cloudy haze in his brain. "You stop talking, or else I end this now and just kill you like a horrible, gross, insect," Diligence pressed harder into Mud's groin, causing the rotling to jolt in his seat.

Diligence rubbed the growing heat in Mud's pants, feeling a sopping wet mess forming under their fingers. Mud threw his head back, completely disregarding any shame he once had as the knot in his stomach threatened to break him. Sharp and pristine white claws sliced open his thigh, but it didn't ruin the moment, it only amplified every amazing feeling running through his body.

More and more moans filled the room like the bright orange light filled the skies. Mud was so close to cumming. He didn't give a shit that the creature making him cum was his ex commander, or that his ex commander was probably gonna kill him the second after he cums. All he cares about was finallt being able to release after so many years of no action.

"Mud." Another voice joined in, much fainter and distant. He ignored it, so so so close to cumming, he didn't want anything ruining this.

"Mud!" There it was again, louder now and more annoying.

"MUD!! WAKE UP YOU LAZY BUM, ITS AN HOUR PASSED OPENING!!!"

Suddenly Mud was ripped from his confusingly sexy dream as he was tossed to the ground. All the pain from his sleeping hook and the cold from the freezer brutally made their way back into the forefront of his brain.

"Get up and go do your job or SO HELP ME." Ken stomped his way out of the freezer and back into the dining room, completely oblivious to Mud's deep red face and ruined dream.

"God fucking damn it."

[a-cross-the-universe]

      SHAPR TONGUE

Nagumo Yoichi x f!reader | Part X: Heat Beneath The Tension 🔥💖💫

                                   ***

You woke up at 3 a.m. to the sound of someone snoring lightly.

Nagumo had fallen asleep in the chair, arms crossed, head tilted back. His weapon leaned against the corner, and his jacket half-slipped off one shoulder.

You stared for a moment, heartbeat annoyingly loud. Then you reached for your phone and snapped a picture.

For insurance. Or blackmail. Probably both.

                                   ***

The room was finally quiet. No nurses, no Shin or Lu barging in, no beeping machines or sterile overhead lights. Just sunlight seeping through half-drawn curtains, warming the scratchy blanket on your legs. You were dressed again in civilian clothes—well, what passed for them, anyway—and had your bag slung over one shoulder.

Nagumo leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable smirk.

"You gonna miss the five-star treatment?"

You snorted, tugging your zipper higher. "Definitely. Loved being stabbed with needles and told to rest every five minutes. A dream, really."

He tilted his head. "You gonna miss me?"

You hesitated—just for a second—but that was all it took. His grin turned sharper, like he’d caught you blinking during a spar.

"You were here maybe twice without Lu or Shin acting as chaperones."

"Yeah, well," he said, pushing off the doorframe and walking closer, "you don’t exactly make it easy to get a moment alone."

You met his gaze. He was close now—close enough that if you leaned forward even a little…

You looked away instead. “You didn’t have to stay.”

Nagumo’s voice softened. “Didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Your chest tightened. The easy way he said it, like it wasn’t a big deal—like it didn’t knock the air out of you.

You shifted your bag. “So... that night.”

He raised an eyebrow. “The one where you pretended to be asleep and definitely didn’t hear me say something embarrassing?”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. That one.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Still stand by it. I didn’t mean to screw things up between us. I just… I didn’t think you’d take it that hard.”

You looked at him, really looked. “It wasn’t just about the mission. You were the one person I thought I could trust.”

Silence. Then, quietly:

“I want to again. But you can’t keep pushing and pulling like this.”

Nagumo’s face was uncharacteristically serious. “Then let’s stop pushing. Just… tell me what you want.”

You exhaled. “I don’t know yet. But I want to figure it out.”

He smiled—small, almost hesitant. “That’s a start.”

You turned to the door. “Come on. I’m getting out of here before they try to inject me with vitamins or something.”

Nagumo opened the door for you, mock bowing. “After you, princess.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing past him. He followed with a smirk—and maybe, just maybe, a little less tension between you.

Outside, the sun was warm, and for once, things felt almost normal.

                                    ***

Week 1 after being discharged from the hospital.

It was a slow afternoon at the shop, the kind where the sun came in through the blinds in golden strips and even Shin looked half-asleep at his station.

You were perched on a stool by the snack shelf, flipping through an inventory sheet. For whatever reason, Nagumo had decided that his new favorite pastime was hovering. He leaned over your shoulder, close enough that you could feel the whisper of his breath against your ear.

“Your handwriting still sucks,” he murmured.

You didn’t look up. “Thanks for the input. I’ll make sure to write your name extra ugly on my kill list.”

“That mean I’m finally making the top spot?”

You turned a page. “Depends. How long are you planning to keep breathing on me like that?”

He tilted his head. “Wouldn’t dream of stopping. You smell nice. Like antiseptic and danger.”

You shot him a flat look. “You have a thing, don’t you?”

“Only for deadly women who tried to kiss me in hospital beds,” he said casually, plucking a pen from behind your ear and spinning it through his fingers. “And then pretend they didn’t.”

Your cheeks betrayed you with a slow burn, but you held your ground. “Pretty sure that was you.”

He smirked. “Semantics. Let’s test it again sometime. For science.”

“Oh my god,” Shin muttered from across the room.

Lu let out a groan and dropped the magazine she was reading. “Nope. That’s it. Time out.”

You and Nagumo looked up at the same time, innocent in unison.

“What?” you asked.

“I knew something was up,” Lu said, pointing between the two of you like she was holding a grudge. “The minute you walked in, it was like watching a tension-filled rom-com, but with more knives.”

Shin added, “I’ve seen hostage negotiations with less intensity.”

You blinked. “We’re just talking.”

“Yeah,” Nagumo said, slouching against the counter with the most obvious fake-casual tone ever, “just a little banter between friends.”

Lu raised an eyebrow. “Right. ‘You smell like danger’ is how I greet all my friends too.”

You tried not to laugh. Nagumo didn’t even bother hiding his grin. You did glance at him, though—and of course, he was already looking at you again. That lazy, too-sure look that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

Heat crept up your neck.

Lu threw her arms up. “There it is again! The look!”

You deadpanned, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Me either,” Nagumo added, tilting his head innocently. “We’re just professionals.”

Shin muttered under his breath, “Professionals my ass.”

                                  ***

Two weeks after that...

The shop buzzed with its usual rhythm: the scent of grilled fish in the air, Lu singing off-key in the background, and Sakamoto humming as he wiped down the counter. You were seated on a stool, flipping through a mission log, pretending not to notice the way Nagumo leaned across the counter, watching you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

“Report that boring, huh?” he asked lazily. “Or is it that you miss me already?”

You didn’t look up. “I was enjoying the peace and quiet. Then you spoke.”

He clicked his tongue. “Mean. You always this grumpy when you’re trying not to smile?”

Your lips twitched, but you kept your eyes on the page. “If you’re trying to flirt, it’s not working.”

“I’m not flirting,” he said, way too quickly.

“Sure,” Aoi muttered from a nearby table.

Nagumo turned her way. “We’re just talking. Normal coworkers. Totally professional.”

Aoi blinked. “You called her sunshine with a pistol last week.”

“That was a metaphor.”

“That was disgusting,” Sakamoto added as he stepped into the room, arms crossed. “And you were staring at her like a kicked puppy when she got injured.”

You glanced at Nagumo. “Were you?”

He snorted. “Please. I was mostly annoyed you didn’t finish the mission.”

You threw a wadded a pen at his face. He caught it without looking, winked.

“I’m just saying,” Aoi said, pointing between the two of you, “the tension is getting out of hand.”

“There is no tension,” you and Nagumo said in unison.

Aoi looked at Sakamoto. “You hear that?”

“Loud and clear,” he deadpanned. “They’re totally not into each other while throwing bedroom eyes across my shop.”

Nagumo raised his brows at you. “Do I throw bedroom eyes?”

You gave him a once-over. “Your face looks like it’s stuck on ‘smug idiot’ mode.”

“Hot,” he said, grinning. “You think I’m hot.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But you’re not denying it either,” he said, still smirking.

You opened your mouth, but Aoi cut in. “Okay, seriously, I need a spray bottle or something.”

You shook your head and turned back to your report, cheeks just a little warmer than before. Nagumo leaned on his elbow, watching you in silence for a moment, and then—

“I’m still not flirting,” he said.

“Neither am I,” you replied without looking up.

And neither of you believed a word of it.

                                   ***

You and Nagumo sat across from each other at the long table, supposedly reviewing blueprints for an upcoming infiltration op. Supposedly.

In reality, every time you looked up, Nagumo was already looking at you—like he’d been waiting for it. He smirked, kicked your foot lightly under the table, and raised an eyebrow in challenge. You narrowed your eyes, nudged him back—harder—and kept talking to Hyo like nothing happened.

“You’ll need to bypass the upper level sensors before the second shift arrives,” Hyo was saying, glancing between the two of you with an amused look tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Assuming you’re both... focused?”

Nagumo didn’t even look away from you. “I’m laser focused.”

You crossed your arms and gave him a look. “Funny, your brain’s usually set to stun.”

Osaragi coughed behind her hand—definitely a laugh.

Shishiba just sighed from where he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “If you two are done flirting with your shoes, maybe pay attention?”

“We’re paying attention,” you both said at the same time, then exchanged a blink of surprised silence.

“that was creepy,” Osaragi muttered, sipping her drink.

Naoko, who had been silently fuming in the corner since the meeting started, finally spoke up. “Unbelievable. This is what we’ve come to? Flirty bickering and footsies during ops?”

You turned to her, expression neutral. “We’re working.”

“Sure you are,” she snapped, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at you like she could set you on fire with sheer hatred. “You’re always so efficient with Nagumo, huh?”

Nagumo looked over, brows raised. “You jealous?”

Naoko scoffed. “Please.”

Shishiba cut in before it got any uglier. “I don’t care who is jealous. Just don’t screw up the mission with whatever this weird will-they-won’t-they situation is.”

“It’s not a situation,” you said.

“It’s definitely a situation,” Osaragi replied.

Hyo finally gave in to a quiet chuckle. “They look at each other like they’re one smirk away from making out in the middle of a briefing.”

You opened your mouth to argue—but then Nagumo tilted his head at you, slow and amused, eyes glittering with challenge. That look that said go on, prove them wrong.

You closed your mouth. Damn him.

Naoko looked like she was about to combust.

“Great,” Shishiba muttered. “You broke Naoko.”

                                ***

You adjusted the wire in your ear, voice low as you crouched behind a stack of rusted barrels. “Two guards by the door. One’s asleep. The other’s dumb.”

Nagumo’s voice came through, cocky as ever. “So basically, you’re saying it’s unfair. Should we even bother?”

“I’d hate for you to strain yourself,” you murmured, peering through your scope. “Wouldn’t want to damage that fragile ego.”

“Please. My ego’s made of steel.” A pause. “Though it does bruise a little when you pretend you don’t miss me.”

You rolled your eyes. “We saw each other three hours ago.”

“And yet, here we are again. Me, risking life and limb just to be by your side.”

“Funny. I thought this was an infiltrating mission.”

“Call it whatever you want.”

You smirked and gave the signal to move. You made it to the second floor in near silence, Nagumo close behind. The tension between you wasn’t just professional—it never was, not lately. When your hands brushed as you crouched by the vent, you glanced sideways.

“Your heart always beat this fast?” he teased, breath tickling your ear.

You deadpanned, “That’s yours, genius.”

He grinned, but just as he leaned in to quip again—

Bang.

An explosion rocked the north side of the building. Instantly, smoke began pouring through the vents.

“Poison gas!” you yelled. “We have to move.”

“Plan’s blown,” Nagumo cursed. “Stick close.”

You ducked low, sprinting through the narrow hallway, vision blurring from the smoke. Someone fired from above—Nagumo threw himself in front of you, knocking you down behind cover.

“I had that,” you snapped, coughing.

“I know,” he said, checking you over quickly. “But I still get to protect you.”

Your breath hitched. You stared up at him, taken aback by the fierceness in his eyes.

“I’m not saying you need it,” he added, a little softer now. “I just want to.”

You blinked, heart hammering, adrenaline mixing with something warmer. “…You’re such a dumbass.”

“You like it,” he muttered, pulling you to your feet.

The rest of the mission was a blur—gunfire, gas, sprinting through collapsing scaffolding. You didn’t realize how much gas you'd inhaled until you stumbled, the edges of your vision dimming. Nagumo caught you before you hit the ground.

“Hey,” his voice echoed, panicked now, urgent. “Stay with me. You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

                                 ***

Hospital Room – Late Morning

You blinked against the white light, groaning. “Ugh. Not again.”

Nagumo was sitting beside you, arms crossed, expression caught between relief and exasperation. “You seriously need to stop making a habit of waking up in hospitals.”

“Maybe if someone didn’t tackle me—”

“You passed out from gas exposure, smartass.”

You smiled. “Still. You carried me out?”

“I made someone else do the heavy lifting. I just yelled a lot.”

“Hmm.” You reached for the cup of water on the nightstand. “Still want to protect me?”

He leaned in, eyes half-lidded. “Every damn time.”

You bit your lip, the flutter in your stomach too strong to ignore. “You’re being way too sweet. Are you sure the gas didn’t affect your brain?”

“Just your face,” he said casually. “Nearly gave me a heart attack. I’d rather get shot than see you drop like that again.”

You swallowed, the sincerity cutting through the banter. “I’m okay now.”

“I know.” He leaned forward, brushing your hair away from your face. “Still—you scared me.”

You flushed, breath catching. “You’re scaring me now. Where’s the annoying guy who calls me names and makes fun of me?”

He grinned. “Still here. Just—might also want to kiss you when you’re not dying.”

You raised a brow. “That a confession?”

He shrugged. “More like a warning.”

You laughed, and he took your hand casually like it wasn’t a big deal—but it was. His thumb brushed your knuckles like he couldn’t help it. When the nurse came in to discharge you, neither of you moved for a second.

“Guess you’re stuck with me again,” he said once you were dressed and gathering your things.

You gave him a sideways glance. “I can live with that.”

As you walked out of the hospital room—banged up, hearts racing, and hands almost brushing again—you both pretended not to notice how you kept smiling.

                                    ***

You took one step out the hospital doors and sighed like a prisoner tasting freedom for the first time.

Then your stomach let out a dramatic, echoing growl.

Nagumo, leaning lazily against the railing with his hands in his pockets, raised an eyebrow. “...Was that a bear?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, rubbing your stomach. “I want real food. If I have to eat one more cup of bland gelatin, I’m going to start screaming.”

He tilted his head. “Real food, huh?”

You eyed him warily. “Why do you look like that? That’s your ‘I have a dumb idea’ face.”

“Come on.” He was already walking ahead. “I know just the place.”

                                 ***

The bell jingled as you walked in, warm steam and the savory scent of broth wrapping around you like a hug. Your stomach practically applauded.

“I swear, if one more person brings me hospital Jell-O, I’m going to strangle someone with my IV line,” you muttered, sliding into a seat at the bar.

Nagumo smirked. “Careful. You say that too loud in public, someone’s gonna think you’re serious.”

“I am serious.”

He gave the ramen chef a casual nod. “Two miso—extra pork, soft-boiled egg, no bamboo. And tea.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Did you just order for me?”

“Yup.”

“You know that’s annoying, right?”

“Yup.”

You huffed, crossing your arms—until the bowls arrived, steaming and perfect. You blinked at yours.

“…How did you—this is exactly what I would’ve picked.”

Nagumo shrugged like it was no big deal. “I’m observant. Deal with it.”

“Ugh. Don’t act like you care.”

“Don’t worry. I care about food. You’re just a side dish.”

You kicked his shin under the bar. He didn’t flinch—just nudged his knee back against yours. And then… left it there. Bold.

You pretended to focus very hard on your soup.

After a few minutes of comfortable slurping, Nagumo leaned closer, voice low. “We’re not talking about work.”

You paused. “Huh. Weird.”

“Feels illegal.”

“Feels like a date,” you blurted out—then immediately stared into your bowl like it held the secrets of the universe. “I mean—not that it is. Obviously. I’m just saying. Statistically. Hypothetically. It has date vibes.”

Nagumo stared at you for a second longer than necessary.

“…Wow.”

“What?”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not!”

“You are.”

“Shut up, Nagumo.”

You turned back to your ramen with a scowl. He just grinned and sipped his tea.

“…Yeah,” he said. “Definitely feels like a date.”

You threw a napkin at him.

...

You both finished your bowls with the kind of silence only satisfied ramen eaters could achieve. The kind where you briefly forget betrayal, poison gas, and complicated feelings—all thanks to perfectly chewy noodles and rich broth.

You stretched, reaching for your wallet. “Alright, I got this. My treat for not dying this week.”

But as soon as you stood, Nagumo was already at the counter, sliding bills into the register tray with the ease of someone who had clearly planned this.

“what are you doing?” you protested, half-standing from your seat.

He looked over his shoulder, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Be quiet. You almost died. Let me buy you noodles.”

You frowned. “That’s not how debt works.”

“No, but it is how flirting works,” he shot back, turning just in time to catch the flush creeping up your neck.

The ramen chef chuckled under his breath. “You two dating or fighting?”

You choked on your own breath. “Neither!”

“Both,” Nagumo answered at the same time.

You elbowed him in the ribs as he rejoined you. “I was gonna pay.”

“I beat you to it. Plus, now you owe me.”

“Oh god,” you muttered. “That’s your whole thing, isn’t it? Making people owe you so you can cash in later.”

He wiggled his eyebrows, smug. “Exactly. I’ll collect in the form of—let’s say—your time, attention, and unwavering affection.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but I just bought you ramen, so technically I’m also irresistible.”

You narrowed your eyes but couldn’t stop the tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Fine. But next time, I pay.”

He opened the door for you, leaning close as you passed.

“We’ll see.”

And maybe it was the steam or the lingering miso warmth—but you didn’t hate the idea of a “next time.”

You both stepped out of the ramen shop, the warm glow from inside contrasting the cool evening air. The streets were quieter now, just a few people milling about, the buzz of the city calming down. Your arms were folded, belly full and mood warm.

“That hit the spot,” you said, stretching slightly. “I was two hospital meals away from chewing my own arm off.”

Nagumo chuckled, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. “I believe it. You looked like you were about to throw hands with that nurse who brought you the soggy rice porridge.”

“It was soggy!” you defended. “And flavorless. I almost reported it as a war crime.”

He grinned. “Well, I saved you just in time. Again. That’s two. I should start charging.”

“Charge me and I will report you as a war crime.”

He smirked and glanced at you from the side. “You’d miss me.”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks betrayed you. “Anyway… I should head this way. I need to stop by the market before going home.”

“Oh,” he said, still walking alongside you. “Cool. I'll come too."

You paused. “You don’t have to. You probably wanna go home or… do whatever you do when you’re not being annoying.”

He kept walking. “Nah. Groceries are thrilling. What if you collapse trying to lift a bag of rice? I’d never forgive myself.”

You squinted at him. “I lift more than you at the gym and you know it.”

“Exactly why I should come. I like a challenge.”

You nudged him with your shoulder. “Are you flirting with me in the produce aisle already?”

“Only if we get to argue about tomatoes and then buy a bunch of snacks we don’t need.”

You gave him a look—the kind that meant I’m annoyed but charmed and you know it—and he returned it with a wink that screamed I win.

“Fine,” you huffed. “But I’m picking the snacks.”

“As long as you share.”

You shook your head, smiling to yourself as you both turned the corner, the quiet of the street filling with easy laughter and the sound of a bond that, somehow, felt just a little stronger with every step

...

The grocery store was calm. Calm and unsuspecting. Peaceful, even.

Which is why it made zero sense that you and Nagumo were currently standing in front of a shelf of instant curry arguing about spice levels like it was a matter of national security.

“I’m telling you,” he said, holding up a red-labeled box, “this is the superior brand. Spicy, but flavorful.”

“That’s not spicy, that’s aggressive,” you shot back, pointing to your own selection. “I don’t need my tongue to suffer trauma just to enjoy dinner.”

You were bickering like that—playful and far too cozy, hips brushing every few steps as you moved down the aisle, throwing random snacks and drinks into the shared basket—when chaos struck.

“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH?”

The moment you heard the exaggerated gasp, you froze.

You didn’t need to turn around to know the exact pitch, volume, and utter lack of shame could only belong to one person.

“LU,” you said without looking.

“LU and Shin,” Nagumo sighed, already rubbing his temples as if warding off a headache.

Sure enough, the two of them came marching over with smug grins and the kind of judgmental sparkle in their eyes that only meant one thing: you were never living this down.

“Well, well, well,” Shin drawled, eyeing the shared basket. “What do we have here? Curry for two? Pocky sticks? A romantic stroll in the noodle aisle?”

“We’re literally buying groceries,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms.

“Together,” Lu emphasized, leaning way too close. “At night. Flirting in the spice aisle.”

Nagumo raised a brow. “What kind of flirting do you think involves arguing about MSG content?”

“The foreplay kind,” Shin said with a straight face. Lu snorted.

“We’re not together,” you said, holding up a can of miso soup like it could defend your honor.

Nagumo nodded coolly. “Yeah. We’re just… food-compatible.”

Lu made an exaggerated mmmmhmmm sound while Shin leaned over and inspected your cart like a detective. “This says otherwise. Who buys his and hers instant ramen unless they’re in denial?”

You turned to Nagumo, narrowing your eyes. “See what you did?”

He smirked. “I recall you dragging me here.”

“YOU insisted on coming!”

“You let me!”

“Because you were being weirdly charming!”

“Oh my god,” Lu whispered, clutching her chest. “They’re married.”

“We should go,” you muttered, grabbing Nagumo by the arm and steering him toward the checkout lane.

Lu called after you: “SEND US THE WEDDING INVITE!”

Shin added, “I want curry on the menu!”

Nagumo leaned in close as you paid, whispering, “You know we’re never gonna hear the end of this.”

You groaned. “This is why I usually shop alone.”

“…Wanna do it again next week?”

You glanced at him. “Buy snacks or get heckled by Lu?”

He grinned. “Both.”

                                       ***

I'm sorry I didn’t update sooner, but… I wasn’t satisfied (again) with what I wrote. You know I love the tension, so I had like two more chapters with that vibe—but I realized I was dragging it out too much, and it messed with the story’s flow. So… I deleted everything and rewrote it again. 🧍🏻‍♀️

This is what I came up with, and honestly, I like it better this way. The next chapter will most likely be the last one, but I’m not 100% sure—it might take one or two more to wrap everything up. I’m also thinking about changing the title. 🙂⬇️

[lov3lybarista]

ᴄʜ. 6 ᴀɪɴ’ᴛ ɴᴏ ꜱᴜɴꜱʜɪɴᴇ.

Wattpad:lov3lybarista Pairing: Thomas Shelby x OC Warnings: ptsd Word Count: 2.4k+ Masterlist. ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ Song: Ain't No Sunshine by Bill Withers May 10th, 1923, Arrow House, Birmingham, United Kingdom.

His house had become a personal circus. It made him regret letting it slip in front of Polly that she would be giving him a sleep study—because now the whole fucking bloodline had plotted themselves on his soil.

Arthur had been sipping slowly on his whiskey the entire evening, letting innuendos fall like breadcrumbs against the poker table as he and John tried to make Thomas snap.

"Sleep study eh?" he drew out mid-laugh, John trying to hold in his snicker beside him, "Is that what you call shagging nowadays? I'd love me a bloody sleep study by a pretty doctor."

John tagged along not missing a beat, "Oi Tommy, make sure Frances has new sheets ready. Not for your drool—for what you'll be dreaming about!"

Finn's laugh was silenced by a single stare from Thomas, but that had never stopped the other two before.

Polly had puffed out some smoke, unamused and uneasy that some woman would be watching Thomas while he slept. To her, Thomas Shelby was truly going fucking insane.

"You trust her?" she said, her sharp eyes watching him pretend like he wasn't about to lose his mind.

Thomas said nothing, just sat there with his jaw tight and his eyes burning, his posture stiff as he waited—pocket watch coming in and out of his suit every minute or so.

But she knew. They all knew. Because Thomas Shelby had walked through the nice part of town with her, he had walked alongside her in the market like a man in a painting, and he didn't mention a single word about it. And that is exactly how they all knew it mattered.

Arthur poured another drink, his grin stupidly wide, "She gonna wake you up with breakfast in bed, too?"

John snorted, puffing out some smoke as he smacked Finn's hand away from the whiskey glass, "You gonna lie to her Tommy that it's the nightmares keeping you up eh?"

Thomas was about to shoot all of them.

And then—the door opened down the hall.

Dalia Hassan wasn't just a beautiful woman. She was intelligent. She was deliberate. So today, she showed up wrapped in a pale yellow blouse, soft and luminous with a high collar that sat snug enough to make him wonder how delicate her neck would feel against his hand. Her long black skirt was tight. No flash of skin, no slit, just pure perfection in its structure—hugging her full hips in a way that made him realize he wouldn't get one fucking blink of sleep tonight for a whole other reason.

Her long black hair had been swept into a low twist, though she left some of those deliberate loose strands that made his hands clench and unclench to keep from brushing them back.

The whole room, in all of its obnoxious glory, had gone deathly silent the moment she arrived like a ray of sunshine through the clouds that could only promise a deeper storm. They all stood the second they saw her. Arthur coughed into his elbow like the spirit of every crude joke he had made choked up to him, John fumbled with his cigar, and Finn didn't know if he should try to go for the whiskey again and risk the slap.

Dalia had only met their eyes all once, a slow sweep of the entire room to make each one feel watched, and then she let a devastatingly beautiful smile grace her full lips.

"Good evening."

Bloody hell, he thought.

She turned to Polly, "Ms. Gray, lovely to finally meet you."

Polly could only manage a mumble of a hello, mildly stunned that this was the doctor.

"Gentlemen," she regarded his brothers briefly, sweetly.

John being John was able to recover first: "You always wear skirts that dangerous to your patient's sleep studies, doctor?"

She looked him over once, "Only when I know the patient is a danger to himself."

John bit his cheek. Arthur made a strangled sound. Thomas merely just blinked at her like she had reset his brain. And she gave no room to recover because she was already stepping in like she owned the place, thanking the maids who brought her tea by their bloody names, complimenting a butler on the polishing of the tiles, asking if Finn had healed his arm fracture that Thomas had meekly mentioned to her in conversation weeks ago.

And Thomas could only stand frozen, watching her move through his world like it was exactly where she belonged. And the worst part about it all was that she had barely even looked at him yet. Now she was here, in yellow, in that fucking skirt, with her voice like silk and her eyes like honey, and the study hadn't even begun yet.

Thomas didn't say anything when he had placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her out of the room to his chambers like it was the most natural thing next to breathing.

"DON'T FORGET TO DREAM ABOUT HER REAL QUIETLY NOW TOM—" John had managed to throw one last quip before Polly landed a good hit to his mouth and the look Thomas had sent him nearly shattered the windows around them.

He still didn't speak as he guided her down the hall, and didn't even dare to glance sideways. His silence was made of teeth, his jaw was so tight it began to hurt. She too had said nothing, just politely walked next to him as her heels clicked against the polished floors.

The subtle glint of light off of dark wood lined the hallway to the west wing, dimly lit and private as the night began to roll in like an impending shadow of the uncertainty that always lined his mind. Thomas opened the door of his room and she stepped in without a word. It was cleaner than usual like it had been prepared for a new dip in the bed. But that wasn't what would follow for the night.

In the corner, a desk sat with a plush upholstered chair that had been delivered earlier this morning—for her comfort.

She raised a brow at it, "This for me?"

"It is." He cleared his throat, "Since you'll be here all night least I could do is make it more comfortable for you."

She gave a small nod of thanks, her heels muted on the rug as she walked over to set up her paperwork and post for the night. She lowered herself on the chair, her skirt folding across the expanse of her thighs like shadows down a hillside. He forced himself to look away.

She uncapped her pen, resting her cheek against her palm as her elbow propped on the desk. She was watching him now. Intently. Thomas for once in his life felt awkward to get into the bed in front of a woman.

Pathetic, he thought as he shrugged off each layer slowly, his back turned to her burning stare in the corner.

He didn't speak. Didn't ask why she couldn't just come to observe him from the bed itself, didn't explain the gun he kept tucked away beneath the pillow as he pulled back the covers.

Because Thomas Shelby would tear down cities for her, but Thomas Shelby never slept unarmed. And she didn't comment when the gleam of the barrel caught on the flicker of the oil lamp. She didn't need to, she just continued to watch him with those silent intelligent eyes—half clinical and half impossibly present.

Thomas laid there with the covers pulled to his chest, his arms at his sides like he was just placed into a coffin and not onto a feathered pillow and cotton sheets. She just watched, his gun tucked under his pillow and her dressed in yellow in the corner like the promise of sunlight after a hurricane.

It had taken him longer than it should have to sleep because she was there. Seated only a few feet away, in that comfortable chair he had made just for her, her blouse softly lit like gold by the lamp near her. And then she told him a story.

Nothing dramatic, just something soft. Somewhere far away, in a land where it saw more sun than clouds, in a childhood that held more laughter than tears. A rooftop in Baghdad, a bird landing near her tea cup and refusing to leave until she fed it a piece of her biscuit. For a humoring moment, he thought himself to resemble that bird. Because her voice bared that same rhythm and he found peace in the crumbs. So he didn't remember falling asleep. The last thing that drifted into his mind was the sound of her honeyed voice echoing before the world went quiet.

But this time the dream was worse than usual. It all came in flashing moments at first. Arthur screamed, his fists bloodied as he pummeled some unrecognizable face with too much bone and not enough skin left. He was in and out of the tunnels, first it was dark then it was too bright—explosions.

And then somewhere in the chaos, it was her. But she was dragged—she was taken from him. No matter how much he grasped for her hands they always seemed to slip. He kept trying to reach, trying to shout, to shoot—

He woke up shaking with a gasp that made it seem like he had just gotten waterboarded. He choked on the air around him, his hair sticking to his forehead, back coated in sweat.

It was dark but he felt hands. Her hands. Soft, delicate, warm. The same hands he had just been trying to reach for and failed. Then:

"Tommy..."

Not Mr. Shelby, not Thomas. Just Tommy. Spoken so softly in that sweet, pretty voice that always seemed to bring him back from the edge. He turned to find her already on the bed, her face close as she sat down on the edge of where he slept.

His head dropped instantly to her chest when she went to hold him, pressed between the plush flesh that held her clean feminine scent to his senses that seemed to clear his mind as a shot of coffee did.

She held him like it was instinct, like they had done this a thousand times before and God help him it felt like this was exactly where he was supposed to be. He didn't speak, couldn't even breathe as he wrapped his arms around her slender waist like it was the only thing he could do to keep from sinking.

One hand cupped the back of his head, her nails gently scratching through the short, damp hair as the other rubbed his back like she was soothing a wild horse.

"You're alright," her voice was the only thing that made sense, that felt clear, "You're home, Tommy."

He shook quietly in her arms. Not sobbing, not crying, just coming back to reality as she reeled him in like a lifeboat sent out to a sunken ship. He didn't know how long they stayed like that, but when he went back to sleep, all he could remember was her words and her warmth.

This time, the nightmares didn't come back.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

He had woken up the next morning to pale sunlight and a steady pulse. For the first time in years, he woke up to no dread settled in his heart, just the soft linger of her scent and the warmth of her shadow in the corner of his bedroom.

She was seated still there, legs crossed, heels taken off and her hair let down like a curtain of midnight around her shoulders. She twirled her pen between her fingers, the pages of her notebook filled with words he didn't even want to know that uncovered his sleep.

She was watching him.

"Good morning," her voice was low, the kind of voice that matched a steady morning.

He blinked away the sleep from his eyes, sitting up stiffly.

"Morning," his voice rasps out, "you didn't sleep."

"I'm not supposed to."

"Right."

The table was set for two that morning. But she didn't stay. Instead, she watched him as she stood by the door, her hair brushing against her hips as she tilted her head up to meet his gaze, a single brow arching at the look on his face.

"You could stay," he said casually, a little too casually.

She still gave him that look, amused and unreadable.

"The ethical outline says I have overstayed what is needed for a sleep study," she said, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

His mouth twitched into a brief smile, "You stayed to make sure I didn't choke on a dream."

"I stayed to remind you that you're human," she corrected softly.

He looked away.

Then reached for his pocket to pull out a cigarette. She snatched it before he could bring it to his mouth.

"No."

Thomas blinked in surprise.

She tossed it out the open window, "You eat first, then you can taint your lungs."

He stared back at her, a slow stupid grin spreading on his face.

"Alright."

"Good."

Thomas didn't argue. He didn't argue because the sound of her giving him orders had felt like love.

And then she was gone.

But Thomas couldn't even get halfway through his breakfast before the phone rang—sharp and stinging in the silence she had left in her wake.

He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and crossed to answer it.

By the time the receiver clicked, the voice that came had been dressed in poison and pompous vowels.

"Tommy."

Campbell.

"I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time."

Thomas still said nothing.

"It is quite a lovely morning—with Birmingham smelling like soot and horse shit," he spat, "then again, Mr. Shelby, so do most of your people."

The ticking timebomb in his head was slowly counting down with every syllable that bastard spoke.

Campbell continued, "My intention was not to interrupt a meal, perhaps. A guest, maybe. You did have company, haven't you?"

Thomas's grip almost snapped the receiver in half. Campbell chuckled like a venomous snake rattling its tail.

"Doctor Dalia Hassan. What a beautiful, fascinating woman."

Thomas nearly stopped breathing.

"I heard she sounds like silk and walks like fire," the bastard didn't stop, he kept piling it on, "you really should be careful about who you allow into your house. Women like her are very easy to catch attention."

Another pause:

"Then again, she isn't particularly like any other woman at all, especially to you Mr. Shelby."

And when the line clicked, the bomb had gone off.

Because now Thomas Shelby had the one thing he thought could keep him put together shattered by a single phone call.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

taglist: @moonbeamott @mrsnms @meadowshelby @chaimaarouaine11

author's note: ahhhh its getting more dramatic now! thank you all sosososooo much for reading! taglist and dms are open loves!

[heechwe]

sunghoon + 5 😋 Congrats on 3k btw!!!!

thank you lovely!! i put my whole ass into this one omg

𐔌 𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐈'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𐦯 — dilf!sunghoon can't help himself from sending you a few photos when he's away on a work trip. it's so easy to slip his phone down where his underwear rests to show how much he misses you. you're taken aback, to say the least. just a few hours ago you were sending him photos of the macaroni art your two children made before bed, and now he's asking you to spread your legs for him. he's a demanding man, but he must be incredibly needy right now to be sending you this when he could be out at dinner with the executives he's playing prim and proper for. you should make it worth his while, so you do.

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝟑𝐊 𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓

𐔌 𝐁𝐄𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓 𐦯 જ⁀➴ 𝒔𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉!𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒏, 𝒔𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓, 𝒑𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒙, 𝒎𝒖𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒅𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌, 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒚 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒌

"You really want Mommy bad, don't you baby?" You make a show of slipping your panties past down your hips, your glistening pussy and your naked breasts on full display in the webcam of your laptop's view. Sunghoon still has his phone in his hand, but you can tell from the trembling of the camera that he's wrestling to stay composed with his dick in his hand.

Sunghoon has to be thrusting into his palm with abandon already. A sheen of sweat coats his forehead, the mutual texts of foreplay working him up to a cruel degree that he can't fight his urges now. He's eager, biting down so hard on his bottom lip you think the skin may split.

"Yes, yes, you know I do. If I was there I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off of you, Mommy," he confesses, your pet name leaving his mouth like a prayer. He's grateful for you every day—his goddess, mother of his children, the one who knows exactly what he needs to fall apart.

Most nights, he's the one calling the shots and telling you exactly what to do, and you're more than willing to manage his demands. But right now, you're in control because he's at your beck and call. The only reason he's able to get off right now is because you answered the phone. You want him to, because you love him so much.

When he sees your fingers plunge inside of your cunt, he thinks he might come from that sight alone. But he's no longer the impatient teenager he once was when you both met. He's older, wiser, but still enamoured in a way that defies rationality.

"You know I'd let you touch me wherever you want, my love. Taste whatever you want. Put me in any position," you say finally, your voice breathy as you add another finger to your heat, lost in Sunghoon's groans and your own pleasure. You ride your hand like it's Sunghoon below you, bouncing up and down on the digits like you would his cock if he were there to fill you up instead. And you know he knows that's what you're picturing.

"Fuck, Mommy, I'm gonna come," Sunghoon warns, his voice gravely as he yanks down on the skin of his cock tighter, thrusts into his hand harder, and you can't let the poor man wait any longer. Not when you're also so close to letting go yourself.

"Do it, baby. Come like you're doing it inside of me," you say right before you're blinded by white hot pleasure. He whimpers as he lets go, his hand and the lower half of his stomach covered in cum as he releases completely. He's so spent by the time he's done, he barely registers that you're also collapsed on the bed, fingers drenched in your arousal.

"Clean up your mess, Mommy," Sunghoon whispers, his dominating nature coming back to the forefront. He thought he couldn't get hard again so soon, but then he watches you take your three shining fingers into your mouth, sucking like it's him, and he knows he may need to extend the call for a little longer than he intended.

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @jjunberry @frenchkisstheabyss @prkhaven @tinycatharsis @fangel @aaa-sia @yvnempire @addictedtohobi @innocygnet @filmnings @lovetaroandtaemin @xylatox @dawngyu