#i never know quite how to shade these ones

[lexluvsmegs]

You’re a… what?!

[Choso Kamo x f!reader]

Synopsis ౨ৎ - you and Choso have been friends for quite a while, but after a tipsy game of truth or dare Choso reveals he is in fact a virgin… but you’re determined to change that.

Warnings ౨ৎ - NSFW ⭒ Choso is down bad!! ⭒ unprotected ⭒ riding ⭒ slight mommy and breeding kink ⭒ Choso is a whimpering pathetic mess (but what’s new)

Authors note ౨ৎ - this is a re upload! I realised I needed to fix too many things so I just decided to do another post entirely :))

Word count ౨ৎ - 2.8k

(Minors do not interact!!)

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Choso was your best friend. And best friends tell each other everything… right?

“Hey, you know Gojo is hosting one of his silly frat parties tonight?” A mischievous glance in Choso’s direction tells him all he needs to know. He can only offer a sigh of acknowledgment as he attempts to return to the project he was previously working on, waiting for the nexts words to roll off your tongue. “Well… I was wondering if you maybe wanted to come this time, since, yknow you never leave your dorm unless it’s to study” you poke fun at the darker haired man sat by your side, thighs grazing one another. It’s not a lie per se, he really did need to let loose and at least try to have some fun… like seriously when was the last time this guy got laid?

Choso, however, doesn’t seem amused by your teasing and throws you an exasperated look as he huffs to himself. You take that as a sign to push further “oh c’mon now, you’ve never gone to a proper house party before.” Your argument falls on deaf ears as he actively ignores your every word. “At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone thought you were some virgin nerd” it was a joke, of course it was, but that didn’t stop Choso’s body from going rigid as his head shot up in an attempt to discern if you were kidding or not. His body only slightly relaxes once he realised you weren’t serious. Huh… weird. You decide to keep whatever questioning comments on what just happened to yourself, instead focusing on the task at hand.

You now fully turn your body to face his, sitting cross legged on your chair as you lean in close, close enough that your warm breath can be felt in the shell of his ear. You don’t seem to notice the shiver that racks through his body due to the close proximity. “Please, would you go for me” you all but whine in his ear. Choso has never really been able to say no to you and he definitely wasnt about to start now. His whole face flushes a shade of deep ruby while he attempts to scramble away, babbling something incoherent. “So?..” he turns to meet your gaze as he calms his breathing. “Uh.. f-fine” yes! This is what you’ve been waiting for. Took him long enough. “Perfect! It starts at 8PM, meet me there? Ugh you don’t know how happy you’ve made me Cho!” You squeal and plant a chaste kiss on his cheek leaving him at a loss for words. And with that you jump out your seat and depart, hips swaying side to side.

And god, did you leave Choso a mess…

—————————————————————————-

You look good, if you do say so yourself.

Maybe, just maybe, the thought that Choso was going to be there made you put in a little more effort when getting ready than you normally would have, but he doesn’t need to know that. You were already slightly tipsy when arriving due to the pres that your friend had hosted. Now you were as confident as ever crossing the threshold into Gojos home. Your eyes surveyed the area - thank god for Gojos open plan - it didn’t take long for your eyes to lock with the breathtakingly dark ones that belong to your best friend. Though as you attempted to make your way over, you were stopped by none other than the home owner himself. “And just as I thought you couldn’t get any sexier” ever the flirt Gojo was. “You’re one to talk, I can barely hold myself back from pouncing on you” you joke back with a wink. You and Gojos friendship was very much a playful one, joke flirting with one another was how you came to be as close as you are now. Obviously, the flirting was never anything serious as he was, well, gay. But not many knew that about him.

As you continued your mindless banter with the silver haired man, you felt someone’s harsh gaze on the two of you. You whipped your head round to find the source of the staring and found it to be none other than Choso. Though as you attempted to wave him over, you found his gaze to be solely focused on Gojo. And damn… if looks could kill. You took this as your sign to excuse yourself and made your way over the dark haired man who still had his eyes trained on poor Gojo.

“Damn, what did Gojo ever do to you” you laugh while sliding up beside him and leaning on the kitchen counter. This seems to break Choso out of his stupor. “I don’t like how he looks at you” you were slightly stunned as he spoke, Gojo? Never. Also since when is Choso so involved in who you associate with. “Uh what? Like a friend? I don’t think I have anything to be worried about” you attempt to lighten the tense air surrounding the both of you however Choso still seems to be in a mood. You definitely need to change the topic “why don’t we take shots? You seem pretty sober baby” the pet name was entirely a mistake, your hazy mind letting it slip, however that doesn’t stop the deep blush and stuttering breaths from Choso. “O-okay” he seems to have snapped out of whatever mood he was previously in. You search Gojos cupboards for two shot glasses and pour both with the alcohol you had brought along with you. “You ready?” You hand the shot glass to Choso and sense his apprehension. “Don’t worry about it if you don’t wanna, but we can do it at the same time if you do” the truth was he had never had any hard liquor before, sure he’d had a beer or two, but this? The promise of you doing it together eased his worries and he nodded as you both drank at the same time. This process repeated a few more times and Choso really started to feel its effects. He had already admired your beauty when you had arrived. But now? How could you look even more beautiful than you do on a daily basis? His heart was beating out his chest as he reached his thumb out to swipe the bead of liquor stuck on your lip.

“Truth or dare time guys! Get your asses in the living room right now” Gojos voice rang out, bringing Choso out of his daze and dropping his hand back down to his side where it lay limp. You hadn’t noticed his attempt and instead turned to him excited at the prospect of a game. “C’mon! We have to go play Cho” though he allowed you to drag him away, it wasn’t without comments calling Gojo ‘childish’ for wanting to play such games. You both sat next to each other as the rest of the guests organised themselves. “Rules are rules guys no pussying out or else” Gojo threatened as he was situating himself “you pick a random person and ask the question, once they’ve answered they ask someone else. Pretty simple right? Oh and if you don’t answer you have to take 10 shots or leave, meaning you basically have to answer” he giggles to himself like he was the smartest person on earth for coming up with such a rule. “Ok begin!” A few rounds go by with Geto being dared to kiss Gojo, Nanami being asked his most adventurous endeavours in bed and shoko being dared to sext the most recent contact in her phone. You were having a blast, unable to hold your laugh in as your friends were forced to answer or do whatever was asked of them. It was now Gojos turn to ask a random person, and to your surprise he chose none other than… “Choso, truth or dare?” The man sat next to you was surprised as he was asked the question, obviously not expecting to properly take part. “Uh, truth?” He spoke out unsure. Gojo, however, had a sly glint in his eye as he spoke out his next words “what’s your body count?” The room went silent in anticipation of Chosos reply, no one really knew anything about his sex life so they’d be lying if they said they weren’t the least bit interested. What came next was a blur, as due to his hazy mind, Choso didn’t think twice before blurting “zero” his face was immediately covered by his hands as he realised what he just confessed to. Choso was a… virgin… before anyone could say anything he stood up and bolted to the nearest bedroom as the rest of the room sat in shock.

As everything registered in your mind, you immediately stood up to follow after him, hearing a faint ‘damn’ from none other than Gojo. You paced down the hall and stood outside of the room Choso had disappeared into, unsure how to proceed. You decide the best course of action is to knock and that’s exactly what you do. “Choso?” Your voice quiet. “It’s me.. can I come in?” You hear sniffles behind the door. “Please Cho?” With that he cracks the door open allowing you to make your own way in, he’s already retreated from the door, now choosing to sit on the edge of the bed. “Baby, what’s wrong” his heart swells at the name however, the humiliation still lingers leaving him to turn his head away from your approaching figure. “I-I’m embarrassed” He’s obviously upset about what had transpired, however you allow him to continue. “Now everyone knows I’m a virgin! Now you know..” his voice quiets down as he says the last part. “Cho, that’s nothing to be ashamed of, I promise. You need to wait for the right person to come along.” You argue, your heart hurts for him as he seems so fragile in this state. “I-I know who I want it to be” your chest feels tight. He already… knows? How could you be so foolish to think maybe you had a chance. The next word tumbles out before you have the will to stop it. “…who?” His soft eyes never leave you as his breaths become laboured. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the fact you looked so hurt when he voiced his interest in somebody. Whatever it was caused a sudden surge of confidence as he whispered the one word you had been silently hoping for.

“You.” It felt like the world had stopped. You found yourself leaning in slowly, never once breaking eye contact as Choso did the same. Before your lips could lock, he whispered one last sentence that shot heat through your entire body “please… please take my v-virginity” that’s all the confirmation you needed as you pushed into him, snaking your hand into his tousled hair while pressing your lips to his own. His whimper sent shocks through you as you climbed into his lap. The once slow and passionate kiss turning desperate as you snuck your tongue inside. You could feel his hard length press up against you as your hips couldn’t hold back from a grinding movement. Soon you had to pull away for air, leaving you both breathless. “You’re so beautiful, been waiting so long for this” you could eat him up. His whimpers left you wanting, no, needing more. You pushed down harder on a particular drag of your hips causing him to hiss out, your mouth latched onto his jaw making your way down and leaving pretty purple marks to grace his skin in your wake. You snake your hand up his shirt feeling the hard indents of his abs. “Take this off baby” your sultry voice has him obeying your every word, as he scrambled to take his shirt off you pushed him back onto the bed up against the headboard. “So pretty f’me Cho” god he could cum on the spot, your praising words fuelled his arousal as he began to push up into you causing a gasp to escape. His needy hands knew no bounds as he ripped your top in pure desperation with the promise of buying you another one which left his mouth in huffs.

“You gonna let me ride you?” You could almost anticipate the response you would get but nothing compared to the real thing, his head nodded desperately as plea after plea was hurriedly rushed out. A giggle escaped you at his eagerness. “Take these off for me then baby” you slightly tug at his sweats and he rushes to pull them, as well as his boxers down in a one-er. Your eyes widen slightly, displaying your complete and utter awe at the length of him, his flushed tip such a pretty pink ready to sink deep inside you. The attention caused poor Choso to squirm. “Is it… bad?” Oh what a precious boy. “Quite the opposite Cho” you wink while removing the rest of your clothes leaving you completely bare before him. His cock twitches against his stomach at the new skin revealed to him, and oh you were much, much better than what he had imagined. You clambered back into his lap, now resting atop his flushed dick allowing your slick to coat his length. The new feeling left him speechless as he babbled to himself, utterly drunk off the feeling of your puffy pussy. “Wan’ more..” Choso could hardly find the words, lost in pleasure. “Good boys use the magic word” you lightly slap his blushing cheek prompting a string of pleas. “Mmm good baby”. You sit up on your knees and reach your hand down to stroke his now slick-coated cock, circling the head and tracing the mouthwatering veins. Slowly you lower yourself, deeming him ready for the real thing. You push the head of his blushing cock through your folds, the gasp that sounded from him when he caught in your hole was heavenly, however you felt you had teased enough and slowly lowered yourself down, swaying your hips in a figure eight as you did so. “F-fuck” he was filling you up so good, you knew in that moment he’d ruined you for anyone else. Choso was unable to keep quiet, tears of ecstasy streamed down his cheeks as he finally bottomed out.

“P-please move, can’t wait” his eyes screwed shut at the overwhelming feeling while your hips moved atop his, finally riding him like you promised, one of his big hands found your tit while his other rested on your hip keeping him grounded. “So pretty, so so pretty f’me” were the only words he could force out between the whines and moans, you wouldn’t be surprised if the whole house could hear these noises, not that you could care in the moment, too lost in pleasure. Choso surprised you by taking one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling and nipping as he bucked his hips up into you at an uneven tempo. “C-Choso so good” for a virgin he was doing pretty damn well. Your hands once again found purchase in his dark locks slightly pulling on it as the pleasure crashed over you. You could tell he was close and you couldn’t deny you weren’t far off either. You pull Choso away from your nipple and instead guide the hand that rested on one of your tits down to your clit where you instructed him to rub his thumb over. As he did so your walls squeezed him ever so tight. “Y-yeah just like that baby”. His noises were soon cut off by another searing, sloppy kiss fuelled by nothing but desire. Choso was nearing his finish, your gummy walls making it hard to hold out. “C-cum for mommy, Cho” and with that he was seeing stars. Choso had never came so hard, filling you up as you came along side him. “Filling me so good Choso” you whine out. His cum spurting inside you seemingly never ending. “Take it, take it all” he repeated as he kept you firmly on top of his pulsing dick, almost as if he was breeding you.

You soon collapse down onto his broad chest as you catch your breath, legs sore from keeping you up. “Fuck that was so good” Choso voices, clearly dazed and out of breath, he’s never looked so happy as you lean in for another kiss, this one softer and more heartfelt.

“Does that mean you’re my girlfriend now?” He questions with an owlish expression, you can’t help but giggle, still on a high after what just transpired.

“Yes”

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© lexluvsmegs 2025 ➳ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

PLEASE DO NOT Copy, Translate, Re-Upload, or Steal ANY of my work.

Thank You, Beautiful People!

[wrestlingwithlife]

Chew Toy (COD MONSTER AU)

When you have a mouthy werewolf on the team it pays to have thick skin (or scales).

COD!Monster!AU x Male!Kaiju!Reader

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Y/n let his eyes follow Soap’s pacing figure as he practically stalked around the common room, obviously restless.

His clawed hand came up, scratching at the skin around his collar.

Price had argued against it, but the higher ups had insisted on the kaiju wearing some kind of “fail safe” of sorts, should he go rouge.

So they settled on a shock collar, much to the displeasure of the task force.

Price had been badgering Laswell to get the order revoked, and the human female was doing her best, but Y/n wasn’t going to complain.

This was a massive upgrade to what he was used to.

“Is it like this for every werewolf?”

Soap’s eyes honed in on the Kaiju, zoning back in to process his question.

His eyes were a much more vibrant shade of blue, atleast they seemed to Y/n.

The werewolf flopped onto the couch with a huff, the cushion dipping and making him accidentally lean closer to the warm body beside him.

Allegedly.

“It’s different for every wolf, but they all experience atleast something similar on full moons.” Soap shrugged, tail flicking back and forth.

Seemed like at least one part of his body insisted on being active.

“Do kaiju’s get anything like that?”

Y/n clicked his tongue, leaning his head back in thought.

He’d only ever met one other Kaiju in his life cycle, and she’d seemed nothing but perfectly calm and capable at any given moment.

“Not that I know of, nothing like this though.” He mused, nodding to Soap’s twitching. “There’s no set time for it, at the very least.”

Soap mulled over his words before his thoughts were cut off.

“How do you cope?”

His eyes flickered back to the kaiju, eyes locking on to the intense e/c hues.

He was honestly shocked, and quite pleased, at how much he was putting into the conversation.

“Depends, sometimes I’m just put in quarantine, most of the time guys come in and help me blow off some steam.”

He caught the way Y/n stopped, giving him a look out of the corner of his eye.

In his defense, coming out of Soap, you just never knew.

“Not like that.” The werewolf huffed, swatting at the larger hybrids arm, before giving him a grin. “But if you wanna…~”

“Down boy.” Y/n snorted, shrugging the wolf off him.

Soap barked out a laugh, tossing his head back, tail speeding up.

“We’ll see~”

・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜・

Y/n stood behind Ghost, watch over the wraiths shoulder through the one way glass into the padded training room.

Soap’s wolf prowled around, occasionally lunging at the few training dummies that had been left inside.

“Shouldn’t he have calmed down by now?” Gaz mused, leaning against one of the walls of the viewing room with his arms folded over his chest.

Price sighed, scratching his beard with a nod.

“Doesn’t normally take him this long. I’d say we go down, but he’s more mouthy than usual.”

“I can do it.”

All eyes turned onto the Kaiju, mostly out of surprise that he’d even spoken up at all.

“You sure? You’ve not gone through…” There was a loud rip as Soap tore the head off a dummy. “…this.”

Y/n shrugged, his heavy tail scraping the concrete floor behind him.

“My skins impenetrable, atleast to anything he can do, even like this.” He motioned to the wolf still throwing a fit below them.

Price mulled over it for a moment before reluctantly giving in.

“Fine, but if he gets to wild I’m pulling you out.”

Y/n made his way out of the viewing room and down towards the training room door.

Soap had honed in on him the second he’d heard the door click, posture ridged and ears forward.

His tail was wagging, and Y/n would have taken that as good sign, had he not immediately come barreling towards him.

Y/n braced, catching the wolf on his shoulder and stopping him in his tracks.

He heard the snapping of jaws, but even in the places they were able to connect, they couldn’t break the Kaiju’s skin.

Y/n managed to get his arms around the werewolf’s neck, trapping him in a headlock and dragging them both to the floor.

Soap’s tongue lolled out as they wrestled, blue eyes widening as Y/n’s arm came within reach, lunging for the exposed limb.

The s/c skin immediately changed black as it hardened protectively, the werewolves ivory teeth bouncing off uselessly.

Soap broke away, eyes wide as he stared, as if offended, at the slowly fading color of Y/n’s arm.

He huffed, curiosity seemingly taking over whatever fight he had left as he padded closer, sniffing at the skin of the arm.

The kaiju offered the arm to him for a closer look, happy to do this instead of wrestle.

Soap gave the skin a tentative lick, eyeing Y/n’s face before taking the arm back into his mouth and biting down again, softer this time.

Once again, the skin changed color, hardening where the teeth pressed.

He let out a rumble, the brown canine clearly unsure what to make of his new discovery.

The door to the room opened again, the rest of the force making their way in, but Soap hardly looked up from Y/n’s arm.

・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜・

“Got any threes?”

“Go fish.”

Gaz groaned, drawing a card from the pile, giving Y/n a skeptical look.

“You’re cheating.”

“Who cheats at ‘Go Fish’?”

His wings fluffed, almost hitting Price who was sitting behind him, watching over his shoulder.

Ghost was doing to the same to Y/n, leaning closer to peer over his cards.

“Nope, he’s got a clear conscience.”

Y/n gave a pleased hum, shifting a bit as Soap moved his tail once more.

The wolf was splayed out behind the group, the Kaiju’s black, scaled tail held between his two front paws as he gnawed on the end.

Y/n could hardly feel the pressure, and besides the wolf drool, there was no evidence of anything out of the ordinary when the wolf would pull back to look at his work.

“Got any fours?”

Gaz grumbled, but passed the card to Y/n who added the pair to his ever growing collection.

“Yer getting obliterated.” Price chuckled, dodging a wing slap from Gaz.

“I know that!”

The outburst drew Soap’s attention, the werewolf now keen on being apart of the circle.

Y/n felt his tail drop, looking back only to see the quickly approaching wall of fur and muscle.

Neither Y/n nor Ghost stood a chance as the werewolf came crashing down onto the them, pinning the two under his massive weight.

“Get off, ya mutt.” The wraith hissed, fighting to free atleast one of his limbs, shadows pulling and pushing on the canine to try and will him to move with no such luck.

Y/n groan as the air was forced out of his lungs, dodging playful licks to the face as best as he could.

The cards were scattered everywhere, Price and Gaz blinking in surprise at the turn.

“Does this mean I win?”

Soap whipped his head around, tongue lolling, giving Y/n a chance to catch his breath.

Soap reached out with a massive paw, hooking it around Gaz. Price, who’d been sitting to close, getting dragged in along with him in a mass of tangled wings and thrashing tails.

Price grunted, getting tucked right next to Y/n beneath the mass of fur.

“Come here often?”

Price rolled his eyes playfully at that, swatting the e/c eyed male with his tail.

“More often than not.”

“So this is normal?” Y/n nodded up at Soap, who was now giving Gaz the same treatment he’d give Y/n moments before.

“Eh, something along the lines of it. Never seen this before.” He mused, using his one free arm to gesture to the dog pile they were trapped in.

Y/n puffed before settling back, as if accepting his fate, and Price followed suite, head flopping back against the padded floor.

The dragon felt the scraping of other scales against his tail, finding that his tail had instinctively wrapped itself with the thicker tail of the Kaiju beside him.

He was about to apologize, to move his rouge appendage, when he felt the other’s tail tighten around his in return.

No words were said, they didn’t need to be, Price was already turning a pretty shade of pink.

—————————————————————————

Boom, only took me way to long to get this done haha

Sorry if the ending felt a bit abrupt, I wanted to end on something fluffy but obviously nothing romantic has been established in this story line and I didn’t want to have them acting to out of character.

So I still haven’t decided on a call sign yet, but I have narrowed it down to two choices for you guys to pick from below, so please let me know!

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #08 死

† chai †

"Sweetness doesn’t have a place in Jeon’s life, or at least it didn’t, until now. Because he’s been craving vanilla and cardamom and… chai? Hoseok is as annoying as always, and the fact that you may be at tonight’s celebration is… something he doesn’t quite know how to process."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 6.3k

rating: mature

content: snippet into jeon’s head, jeon’s POV, jeon being emo, sad vibes, insomnia, mental health issues, pills, suicide jokes, j-hope being a good friend and also a good doctor, celebrations, booze, female friendships, moon being surprisingly good at mixing drinks

☠ author's note ☠

I can literally HEAR all your "I can fix him" screams from here and honestly? SAME. I, too, want to fix the emotionally constipated sniper who probably sleeps with his combat boots on (￣ω￣)

Here's the thing—I started this whole endeavor thinking I'd stick strictly to the protagonist's POV. Very tunnel vision, very "we only know what she knows" vibes. But then Jeon's broody ass started living rent-free in my head and I was like... fuck, I want to show what's happening in that disaster brain of his too???

I'm sure you know the feeling. When reading, you just NEED to know what the hell is going on behind those cold eyes and that jaw that could cut glass. But it gets tricky, especially when you're trying to do this whole slow reveal thing without dumping too much info at once.

And trust me, the character of Jeon is like a cocktail made by a bartender who's having an existential crisis—way too many conflicting ingredients, definitely going to give you a hangover, but you're still going to drink it because you hate yourself. Or love pain. Or both.

So I decided to include snippets of his POV sometimes. It feels necessary—some conversations need to happen when our protagonist isn't there, and some emotional baggage needs unpacking for you readers to understand what's actually going on (like back in chapter 2 when we got that glimpse into his head).

Now, I'd love to ask for your opinion on this whole POV-switching business, but let's be real—this story is pretty much gonna be completed by the time you're reading this author's note. So... I'm just gonna trust my chaotic writer instincts on this one.

And if you don't like getting glimpses into Jeon's beautiful disaster of a mind? Well... you're gonna like it today anyway (•̀ᴗ•́)━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

⚔ socials ⚔

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

Jungkook doesn't do sweets. Never has.

His world operates in darker shades, tactical operations and precise calculations. Sweetness belongs to a different universe—one of bright colors and soft edges that he left behind long ago.

Sometimes a piece of candy appears in his pocket, usually after a meeting with JM who keeps bowls of them everywhere. He'll unwrap it absently, the crinkle of plastic echoing in his quiet office. Let it dissolve on his tongue while reviewing mission reports. The initial sweetness isn't unpleasant, stirring something old and forgotten in his chest.

But it never lasts.

The sugar becomes too much, coating his mouth like an unwelcome invasion. 

Cloying. 

Suffocating. 

He usually tosses the rest, wondering why he even bothered.

Lately though, something's changed. 

He finds himself reaching for vanilla cookies in the cafeteria. Ordering cardamom tea instead of his usual black coffee. Small impulses he can't explain, like his body's searching for something his mind hasn't caught up to yet.

And now?

Now the clock reads 4:16 AM. 

It's yet another night of minimal sleep—three and a half hours if he's being generous. The neon numbers mock him from his bedside table, surrounded by an array of pills that could probably tranquilize an elephant. 

All prescribed by J-Hope.

All increasingly useless.

Benzos. Narcotics. Nothing touches the corners of his insomnia anymore.

He's been fighting with his sheets for the past hour, tangled evidence of another failed attempt at rest. The black covers pool around his feet like spilled ink. His bedroom surrounds him in familiar darkness—walls painted to absorb light rather than reflect it, matching the void that lives behind his ribs.

The king-sized bed stretches out like empty territory, conquered by nothing but restless thoughts and the occasional phantom of memory. His room is a fortress built of clean lines and minimal decoration, a cell of his own design where even the shadows know better than to dance.

But lately, even this usually comforting solitude feels... different. Like something's missing. Something warm and sweet that he can't quite name.

Jungkook steps into the cold, the floor a shock against his bare feet. The shadows stretch across his bedroom, making the space feel hollow and vast at 4 AM. His movements are silent—years of training making even his insomnia graceful.

The lounge area of his wing feels abandoned. Empty sofas and tables wait like props on a stage, missing their usual cast of lieutenants and strategists. During the day, this space buzzes with mission plans and tactical discussions. Now it's just him and the quiet.

He closes the door to his wing, crossing into the neutral territory of the entrance hall. It's the DMZ between his domain and V's—a thought that makes his head hurt. Even at this hour, he can feel the shift in energy. 

V's presence lingers here like a bad taste.

The access card feels heavy in his hand. A small piece of tech that reminds him of his rank, his responsibilities. AD's security system responds with a soft beep, elevator doors sliding open on silent tracks. He steps in, presses the button for the common area. It's not his usual haunt—too exposed, too public—but lately he's been drawn there.

The descent gives him time to think. His mind drifts between fragments of nightmares and that strange, persistent craving for sweetness. It's been haunting him for weeks now, this urge for vanilla and cardamom. 

For chai and spices.

Maybe his brain is trying to balance out the bitterness that fills his days, or maybe he's finally losing it.

The elevator announces his arrival with a quiet ding. The corridor stretches before him, dark and empty. Somewhere down there is the snack area, and maybe, if he's lucky, a moment of peace.

He moves towards the corridor. Posters and artwork splash color across the cream walls—a jarring contrast to his stark quarters. He never quite understood the need for decoration, but the members insist on making the space "lived in." Whatever that means.

After 3 minutes, the common lounge sprawls before him, so different from his wing's militant precision. Here, rank means little. Divisions blur. The high ceiling should make the space feel cold, but somehow it doesn't. Maybe it's the worn leather sofas or the gaming consoles scattered about like abandoned toys. 

The air smells of polish and something unknown yet weirdly tranquil—comfort, maybe. 

He pushes that thought away.

Vending machines hum quietly in the snack area. Behind the glass, rows of sweets beckon. His eyes linger on a vanilla protein bar, then drift to some cardamom cookies. The craving hits again, piercing and mercilessly insistent.

But he's not alone.

AD slouches in a puff chair, bathed in the blue light of his game screen. His face twisted in its usual scowl, fingers jabbing at buttons with unnecessary force. 

The sight stirs something in Jungkook's chest—regret, maybe. 

Or guilt. 

Both emotions he'd rather not examine.

Their eyes meet. The air grows heavy. Unspoken words. Shared trauma.

The gaming console beeps softly. AD's character dies on screen. The silence that follows feels like an accusation.

Jungkook notes the way AD's blonde hair glints in the dim light as his eyes snap to Jungkook. His fingers still on the controller, body shifting into something more guarded, more alert. 

Jungkook feels his muscles tense automatically. The late-night sugar craving fades to background noise as AD's frosty stare pins him in place. 

Like a fucking needle cutting into skin. 

His hand hovers over the door handle, and he can't decide whether to stay or retreat. There's too much history here, too many buried regrets—and AD's presence brings it all rushing back—memories Jungkook would rather keep locked away with his other nightmares.

He immediately clocks the way AD's face contorts—sharp and bitter—and it makes Jungkook's chest tighten with familiar remorse. 

The younger man has never quite forgiven him. 

Probably never will.

Just as Jungkook decides to leave, to return to the safety of his isolation, AD's voice slices through the silence.

"No need for you to scurry off." The words barely mask the hostility underneath. "Was about to leave anyway."

Jungkook forces his shoulders to relax, though his jaw remains tight. Their paths cross rarely these days, and when they do, it's always like this—loaded silences and measured distance.

AD sets the controller down. Sharp. Angry. His movements are stiff as he rises, radiating enmity in waves that fill the common room. The scent of fresh lemons—AD's signature—grows stronger as he approaches.

But Jungkook doesn't move. 

Doesn't flinch. 

He deserves this, after all. This anger, this hostility, this remorse that reminds him of betrayals he can never make right.

The collision comes swift and deliberate—AD's shoulder slamming into his with force. The impact jolts through Jungkook's body, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the guilt that floods his system. His throat tightens with dusty apologies he knows AD would never accept.

He watches him stride away, the blonde's back rigid with years of accumulated anger. The sound of his footsteps fades down the corridor, leaving Jungkook alone with the quiet hum of the vending machines and his own thoughts.

There was a time when AD looked up to him, when their dynamic was different—better. Now all that remains is this bitter aftermath, this chasm Jungkook carved with his own choices. The memory of who they used to be makes the present cut deeper.

The gaming console's screen still glows, enhancing AD's absence in the empty chair he left behind. The 'GAME OVER' message blinks mockingly. Jungkook's fingers twitch, remembering late nights spent teaching AD new gaming strategies, back when trust wasn't such a foreign concept between them.

He should feel angry at the shoulder check; at the constant hostility that feels like a reprimand. 

But all he feels is hollow. 

Empty. 

Because how can he blame AD for hating him when he did this? When he destroyed something irreplaceable with decisions he can never take back?

He can't help but stare down the empty corridor where AD disappeared, the bitter taste of their encounter lingering longer than he'd like. His craving for sweetness feels almost desperate now—a childish attempt to wash away the guilt that gnaws at his chest.

His throat tightens. He swallows hard, trying to maintain the aloofness expected of Kkangpae's deadliest sniper. 

But it's hard, when AD's hostility has cracked something open inside him, letting old memories seep through like poison.

The vending machines hum quietly, offering a welcome distraction. He scans the selection without really seeing it, until—

Croissants.

Something shifts in his stomach at the sight of those packaged pastries. They're nothing like the fresh ones from the cafeteria, the ones you always grab during breakfast. Not that he's been watching. It's just that you're always there when he is, picking up one of those flaky pastries along with your coffee.

He's noticed, despite himself, how early you arrive to snag them before they run out. Same time as him, though his early mornings are spent running from nightmares rather than hunting down breakfast.

The memory of your routine feels oddly grounding after his encounter with AD. It's something simple, predictable. 

Unlike the mess of guilt and regret that follows him through these halls at night.

It's a strange comfort, this knowledge of your habits. 

One he doesn't understand.

One he probably doesn't deserve.

The scent of fresh lemons still lingers in the air, like a ghost of bridges burned and trust fractured. But as Jungkook stares at those artificially-made croissants, he finds himself thinking of chai tea instead.

He tears his gaze away, scanning other options until he spots a nutty protein bar. Practical. Sensible. The kind of choice the Chief of Tactical Assassinations should make. 

He jabs at the keypad hastily, and then, the machine whirs and drops his selection with a dull thud.

The wrapper crinkles in his grip as he retrieves it. Such a simple thing—choosing a late-night snack. No one gets hurt. No trust gets broken. No consequences ripple through the gang's hierarchy. 

Just him and a protein bar at 4 AM.

The common room feels different now that AD's gone. Quieter. Jungkook lets himself breathe, really breathe, for what feels like the first time since AD's shoulder slammed into his.

He should feel worse, probably. Should let the weight of past betrayals and broken friendships crush him like they usually do. But something about this moment—this stupid protein bar in his hand, the quiet of the room, the lingering thought of croissants and early mornings—makes everything feel a bit lighter.

His lips almost twitch into what could be a smile. It's weird, this tiny bubble of something in his chest. Almost like contentment. He doesn't examine it too closely, afraid it might shatter.

The corridors don't feel as suffocating as he makes his way back to his wing. The shadows seem less interested in reminding him of his sins. 

For now, in this small hour between night and dawn, he allows himself this moment of peace.

He probably doesn't deserve it. But for once, he takes it anyway.

Jungkook stares at his lunch without really seeing it. 

The cafeteria bustles around him, but he's carved out his own bubble of silence at the far end of a long table. It's better this way—no small talk, no pretending to care about division gossip.

His chopsticks push a piece of fish back and forth across his plate. The encounter with AD keeps replaying in his mind, each memory tasting bitter like the coffee he's been nursing for the past hour. Some wounds, he's learning, don't heal with time. They just scab over, waiting to be picked open again.

And then, a tray clatters across from him. 

J-Hope drops into the seat, his white medical coat slightly rumpled from what's probably been a busy morning in the infirmary. The doctor's eyes scan Jungkook's face with scrutiny, his mouth pulling into that familiar worried frown.

"You look like shit," J-Hope announces, ever the picture of bedside manner. "Two hours of sleep? Maybe less?"

Jungkook shrugs, still focused on mutilating his fish. "Don't count anymore."

"Those new meds I gave you—" J-Hope starts, unwrapping his sandwich with more force than necessary. "You're actually taking them, right?"

"They don't work." The words come out flat. "Nothing does."

"Jesus christ," J-Hope mumbles through a bite of sandwich. "Have you tried, I don't know, taking them before you spend six hours staring at your ceiling? Maybe with some tea?"

The concern in J-Hope's voice makes something twist in Jungkook's chest. 

He doesn't deserve this—the worry, the care, any of it. 

Not after everything. 

But J-Hope is one of the few people who still treats him like a person rather than a cautionary tale, so he tries to sound less dismissive when he responds.

"I don't need a lesson on how to take pills. They just don't work for me."

The doctor sets his sandwich down, eyebrows pulling together. A bit of lettuce falls out. "Look, I know you've built up tolerance, but we need to find something that works. You can't keep going like this."

"I'm fine." He's not, but he doesn't truly care. "Function better on less sleep anyway. More efficient."

"That's bullshit and you know it." J-Hope's voice rises slightly, anger seeping through. "You think I can't see what this is doing to you? The mood swings? The isolation? This isn't healthy, Jungkook."

Jungkook flinches at the use of his real name. "I don't need a lecture. I'm handling it."

"Oh yeah, real healthy coping strategy." J-Hope's scoff holds more concern than mockery. "Just pretend everything's fine while you run yourself into the ground."

Exhaustion weighs heavy on Jungkook's bones. Three hours of sleep and memories of AD's hostility from last night make his tongue looser than usual. "Maybe you should prescribe me your finest benzos. Let me wash them down with vodka. That ought to do the trick."

The slam of J-Hope's palm against the table makes the silverware jump. Several heads turn their way, but Jungkook can't bring himself to care. 

"If you want to kill yourself," J-Hope's voice is deadly quiet, trembling with rage, "don't you dare make it my prescription."

The cafeteria suddenly feels too small, too crowded. J-Hope's worry tastes bitter in the back of Jungkook's throat, mixing with guilt he doesn't have the energy to process. He shouldn't have said that—shouldn't have joked about something so dark. But three hours of sleep and a lifetime of regrets make it hard to care about much of anything anymore.

Silence stretches between them. Jungkook stares at his mangled fish, not really eating anymore. He knows what's coming—J-Hope never could leave well enough alone.

The doctor's voice softens, trying a different approach. "Have you considered meditation? Or maybe some calming music? I know a sleep therapist who—"

"I don't need a damn therapist." Jungkook's tongue plays with his lip ring, a nervous habit he can't shake. 

The metal tastes bitter, or maybe that's just the exhaustion talking.

Because J-Hope is wrong. Therapy won't fix this. Pills won't fix this. Nothing can erase what happened, what he let happen. Some stains don't wash out, no matter how hard you scrub.

"Look, Jungkook." J-Hope uses his real name again, and his throat constricts uncontrollably. "Ever since what happened with—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharp enough to cut.

J-Hope holds his gaze, unflinching. "You can't keep punishing yourself forever."

"I'm not discussing this." His voice turns to steel, matching the cold weight that's made a home in his chest.

Another sigh from J-Hope as he leans back. "Fine. But you know where to find me when you're ready to actually try and fix this."

Jungkook's jaw clenches so hard it hurts, a muscle jumping under his skin. But he stays quiet. What's the point of arguing when J-Hope doesn't understand? 

Some things aren't meant to be fixed. 

Some people don't deserve to be.

Jungkook pushes his half-eaten lunch away with a tired sigh. He can feel it coming—the same conversation they have every year.

"So," J-Hope starts, right on cue. "Making an appearance tonight or pulling your usual disappearing act?" He peers at Jungkook over his coffee mug, eyes too knowing for comfort.

"Haven't decided." The words come out clipped, because he feels already exhausted by the mere thought of socializing.

"You should come." J-Hope takes a careful sip. "Might help to interact with actual humans instead of just your rifle for a change."

"I interact plenty." It sounds defensive even to his own ears.

"Glaring at people from across the room doesn't count as interaction." J-Hope's voice is dry as desert sand. "Neither does grunting one-word responses."

Jungkook's tongue finds his lip ring, playing with it absently. "It's just a casual thing. Not mandatory."

"Right, just our leader's rise to power celebration. Totally insignificant." The doctor's sarcasm could cut glass. "Definitely not something a Council member should show face at."

"RM himself said it's not formal." 

"Maybe not officially. But you know what it means to everyone else. Especially the newer ones—shows them what we're about, what matters to us."

Newer ones. The words make him hold his breath. He thinks of Yunjin's bright enthusiasm, of your sharp wit. Of how you'll probably be there tonight.

The thought doesn't help him decide whether he wants to go more, or run faster in the opposite direction.

"You seem perfectly capable of handling traditions without me."

"For fuck's sake, Jungkook." The doctor's frustration bleeds through. "This isn't about tradition. It's about you actually being part of the team for once. Don't you ever get tired of the whole lone wolf act?"

Something bitter rises in Jungkook's throat. His tongue presses against his cheek—a habit from childhood he never quite shook.

Silence. He takes a slow breath, measuring his words. 

"I'll think about showing up."

It's not a yes, but J-Hope takes what he can get. The doctor's shoulders relax slightly as he leans back, apparently satisfied with even this crumb of compliance.

"Got patients waiting," J-Hope says, collecting his things. The coffee mug scrapes against the tray. "Try to sleep before tonight, yeah?"

Jungkook makes a noncommittal sound, already drifting into thoughts of empty corridors and quiet corners where he won't have to pretend to be social. Where he won't have to see AD's hatred or V's cruel smile. Where he won't have to watch you move through the crowd, chai-scented and d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶a̶c̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ irrelevant.

J-Hope's footsteps fade into the cafeteria buzz, leaving Jungkook alone with his cold coffee and colder thoughts. 

Another conversation that changes nothing, fixes nothing.

Just like everything else in his life.

"What?"

The word tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

Smooth, real smooth.

Chaewon snorts, eyes crinkling. "Right, keep forgetting you're still a baby gang member. Tonight's the whole 'RM took over this shitshow' party."

You frown, because seriously? Four months in and you're just now hearing about this? Some Seduction Division recruit you are.

"It's not a big deal," Chaewon adds, probably seeing the confusion on your face. "RM didn't even start it. We just got drunk on the first anniversary and now it's a thing."

Eunchae pops her head between you and Chaewon, her light brown hair tickling your cheek. "Plus, you know. Give gang members an excuse to drink and we'll run with it."

You lean back against the couch, letting your head fall back softly. 

Great. 

Another Kkangpae tradition you and Yunjin missed the memo on. At this rate, you'll still be the clueless newbies when you're both grey and wrinkled.

"So what, we just show up and get wasted?" you ask, trying to sound casual. Like you're not low-key freaking out about what to wear or how to act around the higher-ups when they're three sheets to the wind.

Chaewon shrugs, picking at her nails. "Pretty much. Some people get all fancy, others come in sweatpants. It's not like RM gives a shit either way."

A flash of bubblegum pink catches your eye. Yunjin shuffles in, hair wrapped in a towel and dripping onto her shoulders. Perfect timing, as always.

"Did someone say alcohol?" She plops down on the sofa arm, water droplets flying everywhere. "Because I'm not playing nurse again tonight."

"That was one time!" Eunchae's voice pitches up in defense. "And that mark needed me to drink!"

Kazuha snorts. "You could've said no."

"To free drinks?" Eunchae spins around, hand on her chest like she's been mortally wounded. "In this economy?"

"She's got a point," Sakura drawls from her sprawl across the couch. Her long legs dangle over the armrest, taking up way too much space.

Yunjin tugs at her towel, rolling her eyes. "Well, don't come crying to me when you're hugging the toilet later."

You can't help but laugh. These idiots are really your team now. "I take it parties get pretty wild around here?"

"Oh honey." Kazuha's lips twitch. "There's a reason strip poker got banned."

"I'm sorry, what?" Your eyes go wide. Because what.

"It was brief but iconic." Eunchae grins, nudging your shoulder. "Sakura tried to slide across a table."

"And I would've made it!" Sakura calls out, not even bothering to lift her head. "That loose board was sabotage, I swear."

"Sure, blame the table." Eunchae turns to you with a conspiratorial wink. "Just wait till you see what happens when someone breaks out the tequila."

You raise an eyebrow, already mentally noting which Council members to avoid when the drinks start flowing. 

"Thanks for the warning. I'll stay away from any furniture surfing attempts."

Your teammates' laughter fills the room, and something warm blooms in your chest. It's weird how these chaotic idiots have become your f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶y̶ friends in just four months.

Chaewon leans back, crossing her legs. "Tonight's pretty chill though. Eat, drink, try not to pass out in a bush somewhere."

"Now that's what I'm talking about." Eunchae bounces in her seat like an overexcited golden retriever.

"Open field, 8 PM." Chaewon's voice shifts into what you've dubbed her 'mom tone.' "We're doing BBQ, and there'll be enough booze to knock out a small army. Wear whatever, but bundle up—it gets cold as balls out there."

"That's two hours from now!" Eunchae flops dramatically across the couch. "Two whole hours. I'm starving now."

"Is food literally all you think about?" Kazuha rolls her eyes, but there's fondness in her tone.

"I could think about other things." Eunchae wiggles her eyebrows. "But food's never disappointed me like men do."

You snort at that. She's not wrong. In your four months here, you've learned (mostly from Yunjin's gossip) that Kkangpae men are like a box of chocolates—mostly bitter, occasionally nutty, and always complicated.

The girls dissolve into giggles again, and you find yourself joining in. Maybe it's the promise of alcohol, or maybe it's just the way these dorks make even a deadly criminal organization feel weirdly homey, but you're actually looking forward to tonight.

God help you.

It's 8:10 PM when you finally head out. You went with comfy over fancy—oversized grey hoodie over a white turtleneck, because fuck freezing to death. The thermal lining is probably the best purchase you've made since joining Kkangpae. That, and these loose jeans that actually have functional pockets.

A flash of pink appears in your peripheral vision before Yunjin loops her arm through yours, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

"Aren't you excited?" She bounces on her toes like a kid with a sugar rush. "I heard these parties are insane!"

You can't help but laugh. Her enthusiasm is s̶w̶e̶e̶t̶ infectious. But the elevator dings before you can respond, doors sliding open to reveal—oh.

V lounges inside, arm draped over JM's shoulders like the Finance Chief is his personal armrest. JM seems unbothered, wearing that patient smile he gets when dealing with V's... everything. His salmon-colored hair looks soft under the elevator lights.

"Ladiessssss!" V draws out the word like he's auditioning for Parseltongue lessons. He shifts to make room, though his arm stays firmly around JM. "Coming to party with us common folk?"

"Free food's free food." You shrug, stepping in beside Yunjin who's still clinging to your arm.

She giggles at your response, squeezing your arm tighter. You catch JM's eye and nod—proper respect for a Council member and all that. He returns it with a warm smile that makes his eyes crinkle behind his round glasses.

The elevator feels smaller with four people, especially when one of them is V taking up space like it's his job. But hey, at least it's not AD. Or worse, J̶e̶o̶n̶ certain other Council members.

"Evening, JM." You smile at him, because it's hard not to. His aura always feels like a warm blanket—the complete opposite of V's chaotic energy.

"Good evening." JM's voice is soft, gentle. "I hope the night finds you well."

"What is this, fucking Shakespeare?" V waves his hand dismissively. "Save the fancy talk for business hours. Tonight's for getting wasted and making bad decisions. Luckily we will be free of certain judgemental stares."

"V." JM's warning comes with a poorly hidden smile.

"What? Just saying what everyone thinks." V grins, all teeth. "Not my fault someone walks around like they've got a steel rod up their ass."

"Pretty sure that's just the natural reaction to dealing with you for years." The words slip out before you can stop them.

"Wow. Wow." V pretends you've stabbed him in the chest. "Already picking sides? And here I thought we were gonna be besties."

You roll your eyes. "Not picking sides. Just speaking from personal experience."

"Brief experience," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "You haven't seen all my charms yet. I grow on people, like mold."

"That's... not the selling point you think it is."

Finally the metallic doors open to the ground floor. Through the glass gates, you can see the open field where everyone's gathering. The sky's already dark, stars peeking through like tiny paint droplets.

Here goes nothing.

The field buzzes with activity, gang members scattered around like the stars peppered across the night sky. A bonfire crackles in the middle, throwing warm light over everyone's faces. The smell of BBQ makes your stomach growl—you haven't eaten since lunch.

RM's white hair catches the firelight, making him look almost ethereal. It's weird seeing him like this, gesturing animatedly as he talks. The fearsome leader of Kkangpae, actually laughing. Who knew?

Moon hovers by the drinks, playing bartender—although still maintaining his usual polite efficiency. Though tonight his smile seems more genuine, less 'I'm being nice because I'm your superior' and more 'want another beer?'

Jessi and Chaewon huddle together near the fire, probably plotting world domination or sharing gossip. The flames dance in Jessi's red hair while Chaewon leans in close, looking more relaxed than you've ever seen her during training.

V drags JM toward the grill, still attached to him like a very loud, very clingy octopus. "Make way for the master chefs!" he hollers, making JM shake his head with fond exasperation.

Your eyes scan the crowd before you can stop yourself. Looking for broad shoulders in black leather, for silver piercings catching firelight. For that scent of pine and wood that's become way too f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶i̶a̶r̶ noticeable lately.

But Jeon isn't here.

You feel something waver in your chest—disappointment maybe, or just hunger. 

Yeah, definitely hunger. 

You push the thought away and focus on the party. There's food and alcohol and your friends are here. That's what matters.

Yunjin tugs you toward the bonfire, and god, the warmth feels good after the castle's perpetual AC chill. It's weird seeing everyone so relaxed—like someone hit pause on all the gang politics and murder plots for one night.

You sink onto a log bench, letting the fire chase away the evening cold. The flames bathe everyone in soft gold, making even the most hardened killers look almost n̶i̶c̶e̶ normal for once.

J-Hope appears through the crowd like a ghost in his white medical coat, looking like he's about to collapse. The bags under his eyes have bags of their own, but he's still got that manic energy that keeps him running on fumes and spite.

He drops onto the bench nearby with a groan that sounds like his soul trying to escape. The scent of sandalwood follows him, mixing with woodsmoke.

"Rough day?" you ask, eyeing his very out-of-place doctor getup.

His laugh comes out more like a wheeze. "You could say that." He waves vaguely at his coat. "Didn't exactly get a wardrobe change break."

Yunjin giggles beside you, still clutching your arm like a pink-haired koala.

Your eyes scan the crowd again, definitely not looking for anyone s̶p̶e̶c̶i̶f̶i̶c̶ particular. "Where's the rest of the Council?"

"Well," J-Hope snorts, "AD's busy losing at League of Legends. Says he'll grace us with his presence when he's done raging at his screen."

"And Jeon?" The question slips out. Smooth. 

J-Hope answers your question with a nod toward the field entrance. Your eyes follow and—oh.

Jeon strides in with Takama, both of them loaded down with enough meat to feed a small country. The firelight catches on his silver piercings, and fuck, he shouldn't look this good just carrying groceries. Your heart does that stupid little skip thing it's been doing lately whenever he's around.

But it's like... something's different about him tonight. The usual ice-prince vibe is dialed down a notch, replaced by something almost... approachable.

Unapproachably approachable.

Takama actually has him engaged in conversation—a miracle in itself. His shaved head immediately grabs your attention as he says something that makes Jeon relax slightly.

They drop the meat by the grill, and you notice how Jeon's eyes sweep across the crowd. It's quick, casual, but you catch it anyway. There's something searching in his gaze, like he's looking for... well. Probably just checking the perimeter or whatever security shit he does.

You turn back to J-Hope, trying to ignore the warmth in your cheeks. "Even party night comes with duties, huh?"

"That's Kkangpae for you." J-Hope's voice carries a touch of dry humor. "We don't do proper days off here."

He's right. Even now, surrounded by laughter and firelight and the promise of good food, you're all still playing your parts. Though watching Jeon handle those heavy bags like they're nothing makes you think some roles aren't so bad to watch.

Get it together. 

You sink deeper into the bench, letting the bonfire's warmth seep into your bones. The sound of laughter and sizzling meat hovers around you; everyone's guard lowered just a fraction under the stars.

Takama then leads Jeon toward the fire, some members sprawled out on the grass around them like lazy cats. The deputy's eyes find yours, his smile genuine—a rare sight in your line of work.

"Ankle doing better?" he asks, and you're touched he remembers.

"All healed up, thanks." You return his smile, because Takama's one of the few higher-ups who actually seems to give a shit about the recruits.

Jeon just nods at you, dark eyes meeting yours for a split second before sliding away. You're starting to notice is his thing—minimal effort, maximum impact. Your skin prickles despite the fire's heat.

The conversation naturally flows around you, mission stories and inside jokes mixing seamlessly even between different divisions. You half-listen, too aware of Jeon's presence at the edge of the group. He pulls out his cigarettes with those r̶i̶d̶i̶c̶u̶l̶o̶u̶s̶l̶y̶ ̶n̶i̶c̶e̶ steady hands, placing one between his pierced lips in a way that makes your mouth go dry.

But before he can light up, J-Hope shoots him a look that could freeze hell. Some silent doctor-patient communication passes between them, and Jeon clicks his tongue, shoving the cigarette back in its pack. Frustration flashes across his face before he quickly shoves it down. 

But you catch yourself studying him—the way his fingers fidget with the lighter he can't use, how his jaw clenches when he's annoyed. Little details that paint a picture of the man behind the cold exterior. 

Not that you're paying special attention or anything.

Moon's got a nice little bar setup going by the drinks station. You could use something to take the edge off this weird night. So you stand up, already missing the bonfire's warmth whilst stretching your arms above your head.

"Getting drinks," you tell Yunjin, who's deep in conversation with some other recruits. "Want anything?"

Her eyes light up. "Beer, please!"

You glance at Takama, still chatting with his boss. "Beer run. You in?"

"That'd be great, thanks." His smile is genuinely warm.

You look at the doctor—J-Hope's been quiet, watching everything with those too-observant eyes—and ask him too. 

"Can I grab you something?"

"I don't drink." His tone is light but final. Like a door closing.

You nod, not pushing it. Your eyes drift to Jeon last, catching him staring into the flames like they hold all life's answers. He meets your gaze for a second, and you'd swear something unreadable flickering across his face before he looks away.

"Whisky on the rocks," he mutters, barely audible over the crackling fire.

You bite back a smile. Of course he drinks whisky. Probably the expensive kind too, the pretentious a̶s̶s̶h̶o̶l̶e̶ guy.

Moon's showing off his bartending skills to an impressed crowd when you approach. Time to see if the Deputy Commander makes drinks as precisely as he runs operations.

His back is turned to you as you approach, mixing something that probably has enough alcohol to knock out a horse. But he moves confidently, like he's done this a thousand times before.

When he finally finishes serving another member, you step up. His serious bartender face melts into something more welcoming.

"What can I get you?" He wipes his hands on a towel, all proper and polite as usual.

"Vodka lemonade for me," you say. "Plus whisky on the rocks and two beers for the others."

He nods, already reaching for bottles. "Coming right up."

You watch him work, impressed despite yourself. "Where'd you learn all this fancy mixing stuff?"

"Been around a while," he chuckles, measuring vodka into a shaker. "It's useful—nothing settles gang politics like a good drink."

"You're really good at this," you say, leaning against the counter. "Like, seriously good."

His hands pause for a split second. A small smile tugs at his lips. 

"Thanks. It's an old passion. Actually wanted to open my own bar once—somewhere quiet, away from all..." He gestures vaguely at the chaos around you.

"That's... not what I expected." You watch him pour whisky over ice with perfect precision. 

"Life's funny that way." He slices a lemon expertly. "We all had different plans before this. Different dreams. But here we are."

Something in his voice makes you pause—because yeah, it's so easy to forget sometimes that everyone here has a story, a before. Even Moon, with his perfect posture and formal suits, had different dreams once.

The thought sits heavy in your chest as he lines up your drinks. You wonder what dreams everyone else gave up to end up here, in a criminal organization's makeshift bar under the stars.

"What about you?" Moon asks, stirring your drink now. "Got any derailed dreams?"

You consider the question, because it feels surreal to be having this kind of talk with the Deputy Commander—usually conversations here stick to missions and murder plots.

"Pretty sure we all left something behind when we joined." The words come out slower than intended. "Different paths all leading to the same fucked up destination, right?"

Moon hands you the drinks, and his expression is softer. "That's gang life for you. Trade in your old self, get a new family and some trauma in return."

"Any regrets?"

He gets this far-away look, like he's seeing something beyond the makeshift bar. Then he shakes his head. 

"Made my choice. Even the darkest paths have their bright spots."

You take the drinks, mentally filing away this unexpectedly deep conversation with Kkangpae's second-in-command. Who knew he had a philosophical side under all that formality?

"Thanks for the drinks. And the..." You gesture vaguely with your chin, since your hands are full. "This whole thing."

His smile actually reaches his eyes this time. "Anytime. Now go before those drinks get warm."

"You joining us later?"

"Once dinner's ready." He's already turning to help another member.

You nod, somehow managing to stuff the beer cans in your hoodie pocket while balancing two glasses. The bonfire calls you back, its warmth promising more interesting conversations ahead.

Though probably none as surprising as this one.

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[shyamanuensis]

17 - t.r

it's been one of those days. enjoy some teenage tom riddle angst because i can't function right now. unedited. pairing: tom x muggle!reader

There was something acutely nostalgic about the cold frost the winds would tease in to dance across your skin now that summer had begun to end. The warmth that daylight had once brought shaded by an umbra of sombreness giving way in a poetic sense to the crisp chill of autumns wonder. The scattering of magenta through the skies, specifically tonight, was like nothing you’d ever witnessed before. It was as if angels and spectres had fought for lost souls as an incubus bled near bardic like, wounds ready for the world to witness, to see.

August 31st always crept into your life with a disturbance, with an imbalance you couldn’t quite explain. The days leading up to it on the calendar teased as your gut churned, breath knotted, eyes wept within the privacy of your own thoughts and deliberations. Turning seventeen at Wools hadn’t been how you had expected life to turn out after a series of misfortunate returns by foster families looking for someone younger, someone smaller, someone with less trauma, someone who would better fit the family. You weren’t a toddler anymore – they seemed to have all the fortunes you’d grown out of. With cupid style cheeks and a smirk that would let them get away with anything; you were officially at the age of being out on your luck.

A certain boy had made your days and nights not feel so long, not feel so terrible though. At least over summers when he returned from the fantasy land he’d tried to describe to your once. Hogwarts, was it? Something like that. You had become smitten with the sound of his voice the first time you heard it; coerced by the specks of trouble sprinkled through his eyes you knew meant adventure. Tom was somewhat different to anyone else you’d ever met. He was cordial to you when others described him as cold. You saw an integrity within him, that others viewed only as immoral. He’d hold your hand if it ever stormed knowing how you weren’t the biggest fan of the rain, and you’d let him fall asleep; head resting on your lap whenever his mind wouldn’t switch off – deactivate.

“What would you like to be when you’re older?” “…happy.”

It was a conversation the two of you had almost weekly. Tom always knew the answer, and yet still he asked as if he’d never done so before. The courtyard of the orphanage at this time of day was empty. It had always ben this way across the countless years that you could remember. Seated on a bench where you’d spend far too much time daydreaming about being somewhere else, anywhere else; a place that perhaps felt like a home; your fingers curled softly around the seats edge, skimming across Tom’s own which were doing the same. You were both silent. Something not quite unique for the friendship you two possessed but nonetheless, you wished that right now, he would speak.

“We’ll be adults this time next year.” You point out the obvious as if it’ll be enough to warrant any kind of conversation out of Tom. Just something, anything to hear his voice just one last time, knowing that when you woke up tomorrow morning – life would be different. “No coming back here. It’s funny… I think I might actually miss the place.”

Tom remains hushed. Stoic. His expression, that you can see from the corner of your eye, reads as mildly anxious yet earnest as he glances out into the distance at nothing. It cancels out any entertaining ideas you might have as the silence teetering around you both begins to consume you. Mrs Cole makes her final rounds for the evening with a lap of the courtyard, advising everyone that it’s almost curfew with her sharp featured smile and you nod an acknowledgement, standing up on your feet near instantly. Brushing your skirt out to lay flat, you can’t help but wonder why Tom hasn’t moved yet.

“Will you write to me?” You always enjoyed receiving Tom’s letters, dropped off by the most adorable of grey owls you’d never seen. He didn’t respond; instead his gaze just fixed out to nothing. You licked your lips and dug your heel into the soft ground waiting for a reply, a smirk, a chuckle, a groan… anything. You decided that perhaps, it was time to speak up again.

“I… hope you get appointed head boy like you’ve been talking about all summer and--.” “I think I’ve fallen for you.”

Tom’s words cut through any reticence or doubt you may have had with his lack of communication – however you feel as if you’ve suddenly stumbled into a novel new territory of naïveté. It’s a place you don’t particularly want to be; and yet suddenly find yourself having to decided between sinking or swimming.

“…you – you think... you think you’ve what?”

Your head starts to spin, eyes begin to feel heavy, heart race quicker than that of a thoroughbred. Tom eventually moves. Standing up to take his usual place beside you but instead of taking your hand as he always would and leading you back off towards the common room for a the night, he reaches out to brush some rouge hair from your eyes; tucking it in nearly behind your ear and dips his head to bring his lips up to graze against your own in a barely there, sort of kiss. If you weren’t already speechless, you were now.

“- and you deserve a guy who’s better than me.”

Both your exhales mix into a cocktail of predisposition of unspoken, tacit lust; of yearning; yet this is broken immediately as he steps back. Steps away. Flinches from the sudden execution of feeling. His fingers, gentle and mellow; draw along your jaw before tracing over your lips as if to try and commit the details of your face he’s admired so many times before, to memory – just in case. You try to speak, try to reason, to articulate the nothingness which has debilitated you into reservation and yet can’t. Your eyes eagerly gazing up into Tom’s dark own manage little more than to search them for deceitful terms yet are met with something akin to momentary authenticity of what he’s admitted. Of what you’ll probably never hear from him again.

“I’ll write if I have time. Promise.”

But that’s all that you get from him as he twists to wander away; to escape from the sudden chaos you’re still trying to remain afloat in and all you can wonder as you begin to blink at the tears which swell up in the corners of your eyes as his figure moves further and further from sight is if you’ll ever actually see him again. Or if there’s someone out there, who like Tom; might, in the future, make you feel seventeen again.

[umikawa]

a/n: I actually love him a lot, his name rolls off the tongue satisfyingly. he’s cute, smart, cunning, and a total loser. used my first kiss as light inspo don’t tell my gf 😿🙏

asagiri gen x gn!reader | 906 wc. no major warnings. first kiss jitters, small makeout? nothing too crazy. perhaps a bit ooc, I hope not too much tho. I love dialogue (￣▽￣) I broke up w grammarly.

“Is this…okay?”

Gen could hardly hear your question, not with the sound of his heartbeat swallowing his hearing. He makes a noise of hesitation— a bright red shade of embarrassment clouding his face.

He lifts his neck absentmindedly when your fingers nestle on his jaw, brushing lightly against his neck– Gen feels his breath catch in his throat.

“It’s okay.” He wills himself to find a cool tone, the faux suaveness revealing itself when his words shake. “Of course, it’s okay.”

“Dropping the pig latin, just for me?” You ask with a tilt of your head, Gen thinks his heart is about to explode.

A chuckle spills from his mouth– good, he’s relaxing. “Well, this doesn’t seem the time and place to be doing it, does it, darling?” He catches the way your lips part for a second, smiling to himself at the flustered smile that crosses your face. “Hm? Not fun being teased is it?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, I actually quite like this side of you.” You inch closer, eyes flicking from his lips to his eyes, watching them dilate with a grin. “But I prefer the flustered one much more.”

“Well…” he trails off with a shaky breath, averting his gaze when you were only mere centimeters away from him. “How else would a human react when someone is so close?”

“Push them away.” He jolts when your nose brushes against his, hands flying up to your shoulders to brace himself. “Do you want to push me away?”

Your question comes out breathless, he’s sure there was wind it’d be swept up before it could reach his ears. You were eerily still, hands still nestled under his jaw, brushing lightly in an attempt to soothe him he assumed.

“Truthfully, I’d much rather pull you closer.”

He stays true to his words, his inner self left panicking as he now grips your shoulders tightly and leans himself forward, capturing your lips in a kiss he wasn’t even prepared for.

Because Gen has never kissed anyone before.

He stays still, frigid like he’s been petrified again, he begins to wonder if he really has. He doesn’t collect himself in time to prevent you from pulling away, only letting out a muffled sound of discontent when you inevitably do.

“Was that okay?” He blurts, lifting a hand to cover his mouth after.

“That was okay.” You smile at the action, lowering his hand from his face, brushing your thumb over his knuckles.’“You’ve never kissed anyone before, have you?” Damn it! How could you tell? “Neither have I.”

Gen looks at you, a genuine perplexed expression written clearly on his face – whatever happened to being calm and collected? “You haven’t? You talked a great deal about it earlier.”

“That’s just because I wanted to kiss you.” His hand reaches to your cheek, he hums at the warmth of your skin. “I thought you wanted to as well.”

“I do.” He replies quickly, leaning back while he sinks his teeth into his lip. “I just don’t know how to… approach the idea.” A hum echoes through your chest, Gen can feel the vibration of it on your cheek somehow. “Can I…?”

When you nod, Gen inches himself forward, a cautious hand hovering over your waist, the other still splayed against your cheek. He takes a deep breath just before he places his lips onto yours, shuddering lightly at the chapped skin brushing against his own.

He moves slowly, cracking his eyes open slightly to see you. His heart stutters when he catches your eye– why were they open? He presses further, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, your eyes flutter shut at the feeling, a slow exhale coming from your nose.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. But, with the way your fingers are twitching around his arms and your body itching to curl into his– he figures he’s doing something right.

Again, Gen doesn’t know what he’s doing. He moves to settle you down on the bed you sat on, awkward and hesitant yet you don’t pull away from him, not even an inch. Your fingers move to tangle themselves into his hair, tugging lightly on the short strands near the base of his neck and he couldn’t help the groan that slips from his mouth.

You pull away from him, laughing softly at the mutters of protest that came from his mouth. “Is this too much?”

“Not enough.” He grumbles, looking down at you. His heart skips a beat at the dazed look on your face, pupils blown, and small puffs of air coming out, some shaky. “Are you alright, dear?”

He gets a nod in response, your hands sliding down to the nape of his neck, fingers tapping against his skin. “Never been better, you should be on top of me more often.”

Gen lifts a hand to his face, nervous laughter spewing from his lips at your words. “My, what a bold thing to say.”

“Gen.” He looks at you, settling his hand beside your head to keep him stable. “Will you kiss me again, please?”

His eyes widened slightly at your request, were you wanting to… no, that couldn’t be it. Not when you were looking at him like that. So desperately, so lovingly, so soft. “When you ask so nicely, my dear,” he starts, lowering his head until it presses against your own. “How could I say no?”

[thethronezone]

Liquid Smooth

Tw: Self harm, depression, body dysmorphia, suicide

It felt so good at first. The flattery, the compliments, the attention. Surrounded by adoration, starstruck fans and fellow performers all falling over themselves in effort to gain my favor. And I would smile politely, laugh demurely at their jokes and feign interest in their proposals as I entertained my court. Always a bouquet of flowers in my arms, always an invitation to some grand event waiting for me back home. Always more and more.

It was exhausting.

At some point, the fame and glamour lost its charm. The adoring crowds felt suffocating, their attention almost malicious the way their hungry eyes would track me wherever I went. Do they love me? Or the idea of me? This image of me they had in their heads that I could never live up to. Uncertainty tainted by heart black like tar. The stage became a purgetory where I performed like a soulless puppet for a crowd that would tear me apart if I ever faltered for even a second.

Licking their chops like ravenous mutts, looking for weakness.

I felt silly, feeling the way I did when, at the end of the day, I had it so good. How many wouldn't carve their own hearts out just for a taste of what I had? Beautiful clothes, delicious food and drink, the most exclusive of gatherings with the very elite of society. I was living the high life and all it cost me was my soul.

My life truly changed when I met him, the Primarch of the third legion; lord Fulgrim.

I had just finished up yet another performance. The roar of the cheering audience grew muffled as the curtains closed and I was left staring at a wall of satin. For a brief moment, it was just me and the distant sound of applause.

And then I am surrounded by people. A dozen voices speaking at once, hands and push and pull me where they need me to be. I couldn't quite make out what's being said to me but I picked up on the fact that I was meeting someone very important. I could do nothing but nod and do as they said, though internally I cursed. After my performance I felt tired, sweaty after after all that movement, and I wanted nothing more than to return to my dressing room and take a well deserved bath.

But just because I was off the stage did not mean I stopped performing.

I expected a noble. A mere man. Instead I met a god.

Breathtaking. That was the first word that came to mind when I saw him. Hair like spun silver, eyes a shade of purple more brilliant than any amethyst and a face that looked like it had been sculpted by artists, all high cheekbones and an elegant, arched nose.

Yes, elegant. That was the word. He towered over everyone, from the common man to his own warriors, yet he moved with such elegance that he could have been a dancer. Lord Fulgrim practically floated across the room to greet me, steps surprisingly quiet for a man of his stature, a simple click of metal on marble.

But it was single kiss, pressed upon the back of my hand, that truly doomed me. A chaste kiss and the hint of a smile as he gazed up at me with the mischievous eyes of someone that knew something you don't.

Actually being spoken to was like getting struck by lightning. Apparently he had been an admirer of mine for some time though this was his first time seeing me in person. I didn't know recordings of my performances had spread beyond my home planet. The fact that he had apparently watched them and found them spectacular enough to travel across the galaxy to see me was almost overwhelming.

How does one resist a man like lord Fulgrim? Where does one even begin? And what was the point in even trying? Being near him, I felt like a meteor caught in the orbit of a planet. In a room full of people, my feet would always carry me right to him. Even blindfolded, I don't doubt that I would have been able to find him.

If it had just been about looks then my infatuation would surely have passed, given time. But it was never just about appearance. Because as brilliant as he was on the outside, lord Fulgrim was all of that and more on the inside. Charming, intelligent, kind, cultured, funny. How could one man be so perfect?

One meeting became two. Two became a dozen. Eventually, I lost count of how many times I'd seen him, of how often we'd met.

The way we would talk long into the night, it was... fun. I had fun. Every smile, every laugh of mine, was genuine. Lord Fulgrim had a spectacular sense of humor that fit perfectly together with mine and he knew how to keep a conversation going. We never ran short of things to talk about. Art, politics, society, philosophy. And he cared about what I had to say! He must have because why else did he return time and time again?

I rarely had to seek him out on my own, and wasn't that something? A Primach, going out of his way to see me. Whenever lord Fulgrim was planetside, he would find me within the day of his arrival. My eyes would roam the audience during a performance and there he'd be, in a private balcony seat and with a pleased smile on his face. It was only my training and professionalism that kept me from tripping over my own feet whenever our eyes met. I would dance like I did when I was a child, all full of vigor and passion in an effort to prove myself to him. To prove myself worthy.

And once the curtains fell, once I had taken a bow and waved for the cheering audience, that's when he'd approach me with heartfelt praise, just like he did the first time we met. Sometimes he'd bring flowers, rare specimens from the other side of the galaxy. Other times, he'd give me a piece of jewelry. Lord Fulgrim loved to gift me something I could wear, would always stand a little taller, hold his head a little higher, when I adorned by body with the colors of his legion.

His colors.

Of course my own pride and satisfaction with the arrangement could not be understated. To have the attention of a Primarch was not something to scoff at. Oh, how I preened whenever his gaze would land on me, when he'd praise me for my skill and beauty.

Beauty. If there were one thing that lord Fulgrim never failed to compliment, it was how beautiful I was. An artwork in motion. That's what he called me. Charming, is it not? Did you know he made me pose for his paintings? He said there was no greater muse in the galaxy. Flatterer.

I usually have such a hard time standing still, always wanting to move and flitter around, but for him? I stood still as a statue. Hours of my limbs locked in place, lounging in some opulent sofa or posing on a small podium. I both hated and loved it. Loathed it for how dreadfully boring it was but adored it because it meant I got to spend time with him. He'd look up from the canvas and sometimes his gaze would soften in a way that made my breath hitch and my heart race.

Being with him... it was addictive. And like all addictions, the withdrawals were tortuous.

Lord Fulgrim is a busy man. He fights for the sake of mankind, to protect us from those who wish us harm and I- I could never fault him for leaving me, time and time again. It would be beyond selfish of me, especially when I'm already taking up so much of his time. That's why I bid him farewell with a smile, wishing him nothing but good fortune.

It doesn't make it hurt any less when he leaves but I can at least pretend.

The worst part is not his departure but the void he leaves after him. Now that I've had him in my life I am not quite sure how I managed to ever live without him. The attention of the crowd, the constant demands of more, more and more weighs heavy on me, more than they've ever done. And the truth was that my relationship with Lord Fulgrim made me such an attractive target for public scrutiny.

People are cruel and they love to talk. When they are not talking about themselves they especially love to talk about my life and tell me how I'm supposed to live it. Some see it as genuine advice, no intended malice in their words. Those I can almost forgive. Almost. Others hurt on purpose. They take delight in the way my smile grows tense and the way I wince when they say something that, behind that veil of politeness, are meant to cause me pain.

They love to whisper in my ear, sowing seeds of doubt and as hard as I try to uproot their work, it grows in the corner of my mind.

Beautiful, beautiful. I am beautiful. That's what everyone says, the first thing they bring up when they talk about me. It's what made me famous in the first place. Not my skill, not my wit or charisma, things that I were proud of. Instead it was my appearance. It earned me a second glance, a chance and that's how I got started, by taking that chance and making it mine.

I am the most beautiful flower in the garden, that's why lord Fulgrim chose me, just like how he chooses what bouquet to give me. Only the best will do for a man like him. But every flower withers and one day, so will I. What will happen then? Will he still want me? Or will he cast me aside for someone new?

I lean close to the mirror and my fingers trail across my face, looking for imperfections. There. There. There. I find new ones every day, flaws that had previously gone unnoticed. They grow more blatant and horrifying the more I look at them until my face twists and morphs before my eyes into a hideous facsimile of what I used to be. It's only when I punch the mirror, cracking it, that I return to the face I know.

I cradle my bleeding hand close to my chest as I weep because I now know the truth.

People still call me beautiful but I know the truth. It is only the surface and soon what lies beneath will come to light. How many years do I got? A decade? Less? There are rejuvenation surgeries, procedures that preserve youth but I don't want that. It feels like torture, living on borrowed time and waiting for the inevitable. I feel it now already, how my body decays. How did I ignore it before? How could I live in such blissful unawareness?

Desperate for a distraction, I dive into my work. My passion. I perform, dance on stage until my feet bleed and my muscles cry for relief. But I don't stop, can't stop, because if I do, then I start rotting. I don't want to rot. I want to remain in bloom. I want to be worthy of love. I want him to stay by my side for a moment more.

Days. Weeks. Months. I long for him and and I wait and while I wait I dance, smile, laugh for the masses. Bow, twirl and leap for their amusement. They shout "encore" and I abide because if they are watching me then that means I am still beautiful. An apple, ripe for the picking and perfect.

... I am tired.

Today the audience is sold out, every seat filled. They murmur with excitement, eager for the final act of the performance to start. Eager to see me. That's what they've come for after all. They've travelled far to witness the star of the stage and their excitement is palpatable.

In my dressing room I cry because my body hurts and I feel like I am at my limit. The sobs rack my body and it's hard to breathe, tears clogging my throat. The only reason I don't scream is because I don't want anyone to hear me. What would they say? What would they do? It's too frightening to even consider.

I lean against the vanity, my hands braced against the polished wood even as my nails try to dig into the surface, scrambling for purchase. The glass is cool when I lean my forehead against the mirror and when I open my eyes, my eyes are red and my face looks swollen. Ugly.

I can't help it. I laugh. A short, bitter thing but a laugh nonetheless and slowly, my tears subside. I use a cold, wet towel to cool down my face and then I start the delicate process of applying my stage-makeup. Usually, I have someone do this for me. But tonight, I demanded to be left alone, said I wanted to do it myself. Oh, they argued and tried to convince me to change my mind but I refused and in the end, they had no other choice but to bow their heads and bite their tongues.

Carefully I paint my face, my hand as light as a feather. It's calming. When I am done I smile as I gaze upon my reflection with pride. I look beautiful. Perfect. And that's when I know that this is it. This is my peak. I am at my prime.

I grab the scissors I know is in one of the upper drawers of the vanity and I clutch it tightly in my hand. It glistens in the dim lighting of the dressing room and I find it almost beautiful. Once more, I look back at the mirror and take in my reflection. The person everyone wants me to be and what I am terrified of losing because of what it will cost me.

An artwork in motion. The most beautiful flower in the garden. A ripe apple, waiting to be plucked. Beautiful.

I drag the smooth steel across my wrists, two long, deep cuts, and then I'm on stage.

It all happens in a daze. I am not even sure how I managed to leave the dressing room. All I know is that the music echoes inside my head in time to my heartbeat and that despite flickering in and out of consciousness, my body is moving all on its own. It knows the routine, the movements engraved into my muscles that I could do them in my sleep.

Step, step, twirl. Duck, twirl, duck, twirl. Step, step, leap. The other dancers swarm around me in perfect synchronization, cloth flows and billows and it feels like I am caught in the middle of a storm. It feels like I'm on a cloud.

And that's when I see him.

In a balcony seat is lord Fulgrim. Breathtaking as always. He must have hurried in order to arrive in time to witness the final act. In his last message, he had lamented about the fact that he would miss my performance. But here he is. For me.

Could my heart beat any harder then it would surely pop out of my chest. I want to scream, shout and cry with joy. Leap from the stage and to his side. But it would be in poor taste to leave mid-performance and I don't want to disappoint him. So instead, I dance harder. Throw all that I have to perfect every movement, turn every step into a masterpiece. I can't feel my limbs but I don't need to. They will carry me. All I have to do is focus on my performance.

I dance. No, I fly. Moving across the stage like a bird soars on the winds. The music picks up in intensity and the grand finale is here. I take a deep breath and push on despite the darkness slowly creeping into my vision.

From his seat, lord Fulgrim gives me a small smile as our eyes meet. He raises his hand to give me a light wave but it freezes mid movement. Then his brows furrow. A look of confusion tinged with concern. And then his eyes go wide and he stands up from his seat. He briefly turns to say something to one of his men before looking back at me with something akin to horror on his face.

I can't find it in me to care. I can't find it in me to feel much at all. As the music reaches crescendo and I take the last step, I tilt up my face towards the harsh spotlight and close my eyes.

The audience roars with approval, cheers so loud that I can feel them in my bones, but I don't pay them any mind. I barely even notice them. I barely even notice my body collapsing at the same time as the curtains close.

As large hands grasp at me, a beautiful voice urging me to open my eyes, I sigh with relief, knowing I had been perfect.

Am I still beautiful, my lord?

[snek-panini]

Today I'm sharing my final book of Binderary, the fantastically good, unfinished The Art of Letting Go by Nekhen. I've loved this fic for years, my friends. It's a Good Omens human AU with a lot of very kinky dom/sub things that are actually baked into the worldbuilding (but not as omegaverse. No shade, but this is different). I never thought I'd read a bdsm fic for the worldbuilding but here we are. Mind the tags and author's notes if you do decide to go for it; it gets intense in places. If you're concerned about in being incomplete, know that it does leave some obvious threads hanging but we end in a very soft place.

Not to be totally self-indulgent but oh my god I am so in love with this bind. I keep looking at it and being surprised that it's mine, that I made it. I think it might be the prettiest thing I've done to date. That's black faux leather (ubonga black, from Hollander's) on the cover, and the inset is platinum silk moire with pewter foil htv for the lettering. It's a crisscross binding, also known as a Secret Belgian, and it's my first time doing this style but it definitely won't be my last. This project was a bit of a challenge to myself; I took it from unformatted text document to finished book entirely within the month of February, to see if I could. And I did!

Have a look under the cut for more images and process talk. I went all out on the details with this one.

Close up of the front cover, where it has mitered corners that don't photograph too well because the leather's so shiny. The silk moire I used was a pair of scraps from when I bound Persuasion last Binderary. The border is deeper than I normally go for because the silk pieces were too small and already cut, so I had to have a bigger overlap. I'm a big fan of the finished product though. Absolutely no regrets.

The image on the back was a free image I found at the Noun Project, called "bound eclipse" (sic). I thought it looked a lot like wedding rings, and while there's no wedding in this fic there is an exchange of vows and an intense level of commitment, so it felt appropriate.

The recommended length for a crisscross binding is about 120-150 pages. As you see in these photos, this one does not fall within that range. It's 340, plus front matter, so maybe about 355-ish all told. It's chonky. Crisscrosses are glueless binds and I know gluing and backing would have helped with the swell in this one, but it's bdsm and unfinished. It had to be a crissscross. The spine piece in this style is held in place only be thread tension and that's the most bdsm thing ever. It's book shibari. I didn't trim the pages since there's not much point to it in a glueless bind (they shift too much) and I thought it would bother me but it doesn't. It's too pretty.

Let's open him up, shall we?The doublure is a cream colored lokta printed with metallic gold and silver ferns. Part of the trust-building process between our two leads involves refurbishing a dilapidated conservatory and bringing in new plants, so I thought some flourishing greenery would be appropriate, and it matches the color scheme very well. I also lined my spine with it, though this isn't very visible in the final product. I had a strip of bare board on the inside of the spine and was worried it would show. All you can see is that little peek at the very bottom, but better safe than sorry. Naked board would have made me very sad. The text block is sewn with regular linen thread, but the visible stitching on the cover is platinum embroidery floss. Fiddly to work with, slippery, but worth it for how well it matches the color scheme. It's also a little bit shiny, like the silk. Perfection.

All the interior ornaments are from the Noun Project. On the title page we have a collar (plot relevant. There's quite a bit of discussion and implication in the fic about collars). The scene breaks are all delineated with a little chain, which I thought was appropriate both due to some literal chains in the first chapter and because of the more metaphorical breaking of chains that goes on as our leads grow closer. The widget behind the chapter number is my favorite though. It's from the same set as the back image, but I made it a paler gray and layered it under the chapter numbers so they look like they're tied up. I was worried it would be too busy but it's perfect.

I chose the crisscross style for this fic for a couple of reasons. One is the thematic one about shibari that I mentioned above, and the other has to do with real-world considerations. I always bind unfinished fics as coptics, because they're glueless and have no spine piece, so in theory it would be relatively easy to come back someday and add more pages if the author ever updates again. However, I found out a couple of months ago that Nekhen had passed away unexpectedly in 2022. We didn't know each other, I just read their fics and was sad when there weren't any updates for a long time. I wanted to give some kind of acknowledgement of the fact that this one isn't finished and never will be, and having it be glueless but still have a covered spine felt like the right balance. We would always like more but we have to acknowledge that there's a period at the end of the sentence, you know? I wrote a binder's note about it at the end of the book (clearly marked, so you know it's from me and not the author) where I quoted the note from the Canterbury Tales that I talked about a few weeks ago: "Of this tale Chaucer made no more."

I just. I really love this book. I've loved the fic for years and now I can love it on paper. It's so good. It looks so professional. If I found this in a book store it would be out of my budget. I may never top it.

[shallowseeker]

i love that steve yockey wrote michael's dialogue like that, "i'm gonna write the opposite of what dean thinks for every character in order to hurt them" which means you can reverse everything he says and learn his true feelings about each character. genius.

I think this is definitely a clever part of the writing. (Yay Yockey!)

Michael is good at twisting things to create a diversion/undermine his enemies. (Maybe even better at it than Lucifer, heh.)

I think another part is that AU Michael understands absolutes better than duality. He’s picks out and amplifies the negatives. I’m reminded of Cas’s line in season 9 about human emotion: 

CAS: The ebb and flow of human emotion - Dean, I've been on earth for a few years, and I've only begun to grasp it. 9x09 Heaven Can’t Wait

AU Michael doesn’t grasp it. Not really.

He runs around asking everyone, “What do you want?” and if there’s any complexity at all to that answer, he brands that person/angel “lost,” “weak,” or “unreliable.” This is why he allies himself with vampires at the end of 14x01. Because he can’t comprehend shades of gray or nuance.

Humans feel a billion things every day. Moment to moment. But every fleeting discomfort, every microsecond of frustration, every scrap of resentment or bitterness? To Michael, these get magnified into absolutes. (This is often how demons present their truths: through the most uncharitable interpretations possible.)

///

Loved ones are burdens

A more honest answer might be that our loved ones are, in fact, both beloved and burdensome. We trade strengths and share burdens, but that doesn’t mean they come without weight.

It’s only in relationships that are more figmentary, kept at arm’s length, or those that have ended and become idealized—like memories of people who never truly had a chance to be seen for who they really were—that we see relationships without real baggage.

This is especially true in a world like Supernatural.

///

Dean wasn’t happier without Sam in his life

AU MICHAEL: And, Sam—oh, Sam... You know, Dean was his happiest when you quit hunting, leaving him with your dad, just the two of them. See, deep down, he knows that you will always abandon him, again and again.

I think it’s probably true that Dean was occasionally relieved when it was just him and Dad, but mostly because it was a break from the turbulence and in-fighting.

At the same time, he felt abandoned by Sam, maybe jealous that Sam reaped all the rewards (education! freedom!) of Dean bearing the family burdens.

Yet, Dean also wanted what was best for Sam and was genuinely happy to see Jessica Moore in his djinn dream. More often than not in the series, Dean encourages Sam toward happiness, though not at the expense of what he perceives is a balanced work-life obligation the people in their lives that depend on them.

But it’s certainly not true that he was happier without Sam, nor that he wished it had been only him and John all the time.

///

Dean’s not with Cas because he “owes” him but because he loves him

AU MICHAEL: You only tolerate the angel because you think you owe him, because he "gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition." Or whatever. But since then, what has he done? Only made mistakes, one after the other.

Michael mocks the line about being "gripped tight and pulled from perdition," showing us that this is a line Dean recalls often, perhaps replaying it in his mind over and over.

(AU Michael also coos: “Oh, Cas… I believe in you!” in an earlier scene, and it seems to me that he finds Dean’s emotions a bit… amusing.)

But to my point—maybe the bad parts are a little bit true. Feeling indebted to Cas might be intertwined with Dean’s gratitude, and it’s definitely true that Dean harbors real resentment over Cas’s mistakes. However, Michael can’t completely parse the complexities of Dean’s feelings for Cas. He can’t reconcile the bad with the good. It’s an alien’s perspective.

But Dean… The way Dean talks about love in Optimism shows us that he can handle all the complexities and put them into words. He feels a deep gratitude toward Cas for saving him, and he recognizes that Cas’s mistakes are part of the endurance of real love—not the idealized, immature kind.

Interestingly, while Sam and Jack are visibly shaken by AU Michael’s words, Cas doesn’t seem affected in the same way. Not only does he remain unruffled when he steps in to assure Jack that Michael is “loose with the truth,” but he also quickly picks up on Michael’s barbs as a deliberate strategy—he calls it out: “You’re stalling.”

By saying “Poughkeepsie,” Sam helped Dean break out of his loop of simplistic vampire hunts. But by mouthing off to Michael, it’s Cas who helps Dean rally his self-confidence. Cas's steadfast trust in Dean serves as a source of strength.

I personally think this implies that Cas and Dean have talked through their mistakes more in-depth than we think, even if they haven’t fully discussed their “feelings" per se.

They trust each other, even when they’re feeling completely downtrodden or vulnerable. Even when "their instincts might be screaming otherwise," you know?

///

Finally: Of course Dean loves Jack

We have to remember that AU Michael’s attack is two-fold, here. Unlike with the others, Michael is absolutely seething about Jack turning him down on family bonding time in 14x09 The Spear.

AU MICHAEL: “A moment of familial weakness. It won't happen again."

What Michael probably really wants is to undo the murder of his brother, Lucifer. But Jack is unwilling to become Lucifer’s replacement. So Michael wants to cut Jack as deeply as possible. As punishment.

AU MICHAEL: Like, I know how sad he was when you died… on the outside. On the inside, well, it's not that he was happy— he just didn't care. 'Cause you're not Sam. You're not Cas. You're a new burden that he was handed. You're a weak, helpless thing. You think that they care about you, love you? You're a job, a job none of them wanted.[…]

Ergo, following that mindset, maybe Michael’s a little bit right. Maybe part of Dean does see Jack as "another burden handed to him” and he might even he worried about Jack’s newfound weakness—but it’s also more complicated than that.

And it’s true: Jack isn’t like Sam or Cas, but it’s not because he’s not family. It’s because he’s a different kind of family. While Sam has grown into being a brother, an equal, Jack is and will forever remain wholly “son.” That’s a scarier bond. It doesn’t just come with love but with responsibility, hope, and an undeniable weight.

And as for Jack’s death—while Dean may have initially reacted with emotional numbing and shock, he was devastated. Time has shaped Dean's reaction to grief, and he is trying to do it right:

14x08 Byzantium via @spnscripthunt-inactive

//

Appealing to the “you’re just a burden” is something Zachariah also made good use of in his nightmare-land from Dark Side of the Moon:

ZACH!MARY: I never loved you. You were my burden. I was shackled to you.

5x16 Dark Side of the Moon

///

Oops, I rambled.

Anyhoo, that a wounded Dean echoes any of AU Michael’s words is, to me, a testament to how deep his psychological wounds are (late 14 through season 15).

The series told us over and over again about the psychological ruination that results from being the vessel for an archangel… with many humans implied catatonic afterwards. (The series also spent the majority of season 14 showing us how much being glued to Lucifer wounded Nick...)

But yes, I do love the double-speak in the writing and how it often implies the opposite of what’s being said. That’s so much for bringing this into my ask box!

///

One more bit about indirect dialogue:

I also loved when Dean was hurling word-daggers in at Bobby, Cas, and Sam in 5x18. Dean was mocking his unique relationship with each of his loved ones:

Mocking his belief in Sam’s strength:

DEAN (to SAM): I just…I—I don’t believe […] In you. I mean, I don’t. I don’t know whether it’s gonna be demon blood or some other demon chick or what, but…I do know they're gonna find a way to turn you.

& Pretending he doesn’t see Bobby as a father:

DEAN (to BOBBY): You’re not my father. And you ain’t in my shoes.

& Making light of his deepening feelings with Cas:

DEAN (to CAS): Well, Cas, not for nothing, but the last person who looked at me like that… I got laid.

/////////////////

Finally, I can’t help that point out that fleeting moments of resentment and even longer moments of being angry/upset/disillusioned with our loved ones isn’t a big, abnormal thing. It’s just very human. And healthy.

(In SPN-world, it’s coded as more concerning when we see the opposite, when characters insist someone is perfect or never lets them down. This is a SPN “poughkeepsie” pattern that I mentally shuttle into the “pure” bucket. See: Harper, Amara, Chuck etc)

///

But fleeting moments of negativity are real. Which is to me what makes Jack’s murder of Mary so very sad:

"Only for a second." :(

[estrangedandwayward]

Modern!Heleana

Figuring out that if I want to paint the faces on with gouache I need to do it a little bigger than I do with watercolor

[somegrumpynerd]

It's cold around the castle this time of year so Horror set a fire in one of the fireplaces, and some people got especially cosy

Cross by Jakei95 Killer by Rahafwabas

Bonus doodle:

[unriding]

EVIE !!!!!

I SAW U USE MY ART AS UR THEME SO I WANNA DO A REMAKE !!! mostly cause the other one was full of mistaks hurrrrr orz

keeping the color palette the same so itd still fit + use softer shading so convey how soft u are + moze is now IN UR HAND !!!! >:3

oh nick :’)

[screampied]

#THE PARTY & THE AFTER PARTY. g. suguru

☆ sum. the last thing you’d expect for a surprise birthday present by your friends was a visit to a men’s strip club. geto suguru—your dancer’s got it all. tall, handsome, and he wants waaay more than just thirty minutes with you.

wc. 6.9k (h.. haha)

warnings. fem! reader, stripper au, stripper! geto, unprotected, lap dancīng, dry humping, switch geto, lots of riding, 69, finishing too quick, choking, geto has nīpple piercings, hair pulling, spīt, dirty talk, he licks champagne off you, nīpple play, breedīng, praise, **** cameo :), petnames.

an. ty to the ppl who voted on my poll <3 kinda scared to post this LOL. this came on a whim ʅ（◞‿◟）ʃ

➤ kinktober mlist.

“i understand your body wants it. i know your thoughts, oh you ‘bout it ‘bout it . . ”

the erotic lyrics that blared through the club’s abject speakers nearly deafened your ears the moment you stepped inside. you were flashed with a plethora of luminescent jade lights as you read a glowing sign near the bar that read ‘welcome to the vixxxen lounge.’ your friends, who decided to surprise you for your birthday with nothing more than a girls’ trip to a men’s strip club told you they’d be getting drinks if you need them. of course . . that was probably code for: going to spend time near the private rooms.

apparently, it’s ‘happy hour’ which meant countless discounts—and you’d already had your two individual sessions paid for by one of your friends. crisp aerating air waves from the air conditioner chills against your skin as you lean against the bronzy brick pillar. you gather your surroundings, eyeing the oily attractive glossed men that entertained the screaming crowds of thirsty women. the wide stage was spacey, and it almost looked like a concert—you started to wonder just who you were paired up with. but right as you’re pondering deep in thought, there’s a light tap on your shoulder.

“miss.”

you turn around to face probably the most attractive man you’ve laid your eyes upon. he’s tall with lengthy long hair — tangled black tresses of strands that reach just about past his shoulders. you couldn’t help but openly gawk a bit . . finding your eyes to leisurely trail down toward his skimpy attire. near his neck, he had a stained smooch of a lip stick mark that was a dark shaded red. you then noticed a few hundred dollar bills stuck in between his red thin straps.

this guy, it appeared he was dressed as some kind of firefighter. he had on the helmet along with the matching baggy yellow pants, but was completely topless. the only thing that went against his chiseled pecs was the skinny straps that attached onto the belts of his pants.

“heyy,” he waves a hand in your face, arching a brow.

“o- oh, sorry,” you bashfully murmur, mentally cursing yourself out for wandering off into space again. embarrassing, embarrassing. fishing for your vip pass that gave you direct access to one of the secluded private rooms—you dig it out your pocket, staring down at the assigned dancer and room number. “are you uh . . geto?”

“i am. but ah, suguru’s fine,” he murmurs, and he takes your pass, putting the temperature lanyard over your neck. geto’s fingers brush against your skin and you nearly shudder.

his touch.. it felt like sparks of electricity, and near the far distance by the crowded stage, your friends waved at you. with a throaty, “follow me, birthday girl,” he swiftly turns his heels and starts making a beeline toward the back of the club. you follow him, continuing to eye his costume.

but phew, he had quite the ass.

but anyway—that’s not the point.

it never really occurred to you how all the male strippers had specific costumes—you were far too entranced by geto. it was probably because of how halloween was only a mere few weeks away, so it’d make sense how they’d be ordered to get into the spirit of things.

“and imma let you do it how you wanna girl i’ll riiiide with it, riiiide with it . . ”

the lyrics of that catchy same song that resounded through the speakers of the club grew louder—and as he guided you inside the dimly red lit room, he makes you lie back against a cushioned sofa. there’s a few piles of money scattered near the front, and you didn’t count but that amount could make anyone filthy rich.

geto rubs the back of his neck, rolling it around to stretch before he glances down at you. you struggle to look him in the eye and a faint smile creases across his lips.

you’re new, and he could tell you weren’t used to such carnal provocative environments.

“relaaax, pretty girl,” his voice was low purr. the way he talked was soothing, a good amount of teasing and playfulness. right at his words, your shoulders slumped and you lean back.

the air around you seems to close in, getting thicker ‘n thicker before he makes you haul your arms over the edges of the couch. “comfy?” and he doesn’t do anything else until you give him a subtle complying nod. geto takes off his amber-colored helmet before putting it on your head. “lean back. just focus on me.”

“o . . okay,” you exhale, and your eyes finally meet his.

the fake firefighter helmet crooks, tilting a bit to the side over the crown of your head as you watch him starting to sway to the bass dropping beats. you gulp as he gets closer . . and closer, following the exact steps to his usual routine before he gets on your lap.

he’s so pretty, and now that his helmet was off of him, you got an even more view of his face. geto starts to slowly grind against you, one hand resting near back of the couch that’s next to your shoulder. he’s fully in sync with the song that booming blares in the background.

the friction. he was moving up against you, and you couldn’t help but glance down his glossy chest. his legs were huge, and you didn’t even notice the clamped silver piercings that stuck against his reddened nipples. “is this okay?” he whispers, and you already feel yourself starting to heat up. the a/c was blasting—and yet, you felt like it was over a hundred degrees.

“ ‘s okay,” you breathlessly say, feeling your facial expressions serene. geto swiftly gets off you, and he starts to rock and grind his hips against the floor.

he’s slow and precise—each movement matches the following before he sits up, flicking against the straps of his costume. fuck, you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him. you knew he was probably used to this . . seeing so many women at a time, giving them a thirty minute private dance and going on with his day.

geto had charisma and lots lots of it.

it was ironic because he didn’t even have to say anything. throughout the duration of his entire routine, he let his hips do the rest of the talking. speaking of hips, you’ve never seen a more a slutty waist.

it’s unapologetically snatched, and you start to envision seeing his face plastered on every cover of a a men’s vogue magazine. he’s gorgeous—and the second he’s back in your lap again, he leans into the crook of your neck. “hey,” he repeats, and his voice was a lot more pitched and lower. it’s a dirty kind of husky that makes you clench your thighs together. as he’s up close—you get a whiff of his cologne. it’s quite loud, and you’d guess the scent was something between bergamot and rich aromatic oak moss. “do you wanna touch me?”

a breath gets trapped in the back of your clogged throat at the question.

geto continues to gradually grind his hips into you as pretty black strands of his hair tickles near your shoulders. “y- yes,” and the words smoothly flow from your lips like smooth molasses of chocolate.

geto was patient, and he wanted to make you comfortable—that was his number one priority.

he speaks in a more rough yet sly tone. “ ‘m gonna grab your wrists okay? just feel me,” and you feel mentally prepare yourself. biting down on your bottom lip—you mouth a soft, ‘okay,’ and geto gently grabs your wrists.

he’s still slowly jerking his hips against you, matching each sultry beat of the song. the base of the chorus rang through your ears and the lyrics flowed through once ear ‘n out the other.

as you stare up at him, he makes you press your hands firmly against his shaven flexing chest. sheets of slicking sweat that covers the top part of his body coats on your hands and you cutely furrow your brows. “heh, oh sorry love. ‘m a bit sweaty, hope that doesn’t turn you off.”

“it’s f . . fine,” you utter, and he resumes to guide your hands. his chest was as hard as a brick, and you felt how his muscles would freely tense.

god, geto was a literal sculpture. you probably looked stupid with how you kept openly staring at his perfectly carved abs. an entire six pack - each section even more strenuously ripped than the first.

as you continue to gawk, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets—you feel him shifting his weight a bit so he wouldn’t crush you. your thumb snags against his pierced nipple and he grunts, breaking character for a second. he lets off a cute snarl. “sorry! i didn’t-”

“sweetheart, it’s okay,” he hums, releasing a low puff of air. so he was sensitive there, noted.

as he continues, he makes your hands reach lower. the thin straps of his costume glide against your plump fingertips before he stops at his fading raven-colored happy trail.

black ‘n bushy . . you could make out every single tiny speck of hair that stuck against the lower part of his abdomen if you squinted, and you did.

the rest was hiding underneath the upper hem part of his prop turnout pants. “now ‘m gonna let go of my hands,” he whispers, eyeing you intently.

it was so much lustful ardor in the air. the more you stared at the dancer, the more you started questioning why the hell you never visited a strip club sooner. a question that was probably gonna remain unanswered..

“ . . ‘n ‘m gonna let you do whatever you want while i finish.” he concludes his sentence, and as if his hands were attached to your own with adhesive velcro, geto slowly pulls away.

now, it’s just your two balmy palms pressing against his chest. you take it upon yourself to drag an invisible line down his flat sleek cheek with your fingers.

your hands then find themselves reaching for a few papery fifty dollar bills, tossing it at his glossed grinding body. geto sighs with a cunning simper, continuing to rock his slim hips into your lap. “that’s it, feel me princess. ‘m all yours.”

and in a way – he was.

it was only you two in the room, and yet it felt like you ‘n suguru were the only people on earth. the entire mood was sensual and you could almost smell the libido that radiated off his skin. it was a scent you couldn’t describe—but you didn’t want him to stop.

as your hands kept roaming down his puffed out chest, you stop right at the hem of his pants. poking out, his sharp carved-like ‘v’ shaped pelvis arches within each muscle he moves forward.

the crimson red lights that flicker every three seconds narrowly spotlights toward geto’s fit body. for a quick moment—you get a good glimpse of his face and he’s inches away from your shimmery twitching lips.

geto leans up to your ear and he hoarsely whispers. “birthday girllll,” and he huffs out a drawn breath, feeling you eagerly tug at his pants. a snicker leaves from him before he gets a nice smell of your citrusy perfume. “ah. is the pants gettin’ on your nerves?”

“a bit,” you murmur honestly, and you were already undressing him with your eyes. you were sure geto was most likely wearing a thong underneath but you imagined otherwise.

filthy - you couldn’t believe the thoughts you were having.

to think, if you hadn’t accepted this little ‘girls’ trip’ with your friends, you’d probably be sleeping the entire day away. after all, they did want you to get out more. especially for your special day. with a pout twisting across each part of your lips, you sigh. “can i—”

“what, undress me?” he tries to play coy, seeing your pouty expression increase. geto hums, amused as you lightly hook a finger underneath his hooked strap before he shrugs. “go ‘head, princess. knock y’rself out.”

geto found your hesitance cute. you didn’t wanna seed ‘needy’ but you were showing all signs of it. at the moment, you completely forgot you were at a strip club and he was just a dancer.

but fuck it.

you went slow as he still straddles your lap, slowly pulling down his loosely fitted pants. they were baggy.. a flashy color of yellow, and the more you tugged them down, the more you got a glance at his scanty thong.

it’s dark purple with his name embedded on the thin white strips.

from all sides, it spelled ‘s u g u r u,’ in bold lilac plum colors. he even had custom made thongs? as if you couldn’t get even more aroused—

yeah, you were aroused. leave it to your legs that remained glued together starting to swelter up with … stickiness.

not everyday did you have a man grind against your lap, and to be fucking frank you didn’t think you’d last.

“you’re so pretty,” you pant, watching him shimmy his pants down to where it flops down to his ankles. and oh, he had quite the bulge.

it looked almost painful—so swole and round, you just wanted to kiss it. it looked like at any second it was about to just burst through the cottony stretched fabric. the scenery grows more hedonic as the red lights dimmer. you could barely see his face anymore, just a silhouette that grinds against your lap at each beat of the song playing loudly.

as you nearly slip out a moan, you lean back before your heaving breaths start to accelerate. “suguru.”

“aw,” he coos, feeling your arms wrap around his slender waist. geto’s still swiftly grinding into you, feeling your cute nails claw into his back. the back of your brain kept chanting ‘more, more, more!’

you still have the helmet on, and with the way it’s crooked and could barely fit your head—he found that small detail adorable. as he remained seated on your squished thighs, it was embarrassing to think you were starting to feel yourself erratically throb.

leaning into your neck, he could loudly smell your sheer arousal and it makes him lowly chuckle against the soft shell of your ear. “not satisfied, yeah?” and he lets off a quiet bellowing grunt, feeling your hands trail down his sweaty body once more.

he’s so built, parallel to a literal tank.

geto’s rocking against you in rhythm with the same song that still trumpets through the speakers before whispering. “just say it ‘n i’ll give it to you.”

“you always come to the parties. to pluck the feathers off allll the biiiirds. . ”

the lengthy song continued to drag on—and the busted speakers in the private room sounded like it was about to break from the distortion. it was loud, but your panting breaths was even louder the more geto dances on you.

letting off a longing three second moan once a leg of yours voluntarily hooks around his slim waist, you mewl out a sweet, “i want you. suguru, fuck me.”

“oh. sounds like a demand, sweetheart,” he purrs, and he stills his hips against your lap.

geto’s got a plethora of rings on each of his fingers. pretty silver ‘n gold bands that would wrap around his digits. he had long fingers, thin and perfectly slender.

the more you stared, the more you thought how good they’d fit insi—

“eyes up here,” he cuts you off, and you shudder feeling his palms cup your face. your leg still wraps around his waist before another shortly follows.

he’s barely rocking into you now, and with a bumpy shimmy, you feel his bulge rub against you. “mhm,” geto grunts before meeting your needy gaze once more. as a thumb strokes your bottom lip, pulling it down gingerly, he whispers. “ask nicely. say pretty please.”

“you won’t … charge me extra?” you sheepishly say, beads of perspiring sweat trickling down all sides of your forehead.

geto smugly smiles, grumbling a subtle, ‘nah,’ before making you lean all the way back against the padded sofa. “okay,” you breathe, and you just didnt care anymore.

you wanted him – maybe even needed him..

geto’s hardened bulge that presses against his thong throbs harder before you sweetly murmur,“please, fuck me, suguru.”

“anythin’ for the birthday girl.”

and those words were the same exact words that ran through your mind as you now found yourself in . . quite the risqué position.

you’d be the one straddling geto now. he’s got you in a classic 69, and your pretty perked ass hovers over his face. right in front of you was his weighty fat cock, and it’s a pretty flushed pink with rosy-lime veins prodding from the sides.

you’re whimpering out sweet harmonic keynotes as his long pointed tongue slithers its through your inviting entrance, two broad arms clinging onto your hips. “fuuckk,” he’d groan, feeling you smear a thumb over his leaky mushroomy tip.

you’ve already got him sopping wet from the chin down thanks to your wet cunt – glossy pearly drool seeping from the sides of his dick.

geto’s shaft remains idle, and you wrap a hand around his base before pumping it, rotating your wrist – once, twice, thrice..

he was aching, and the entire time he was giving you a show he had a boner. it was rare, usually whenever he gave lap dances—he was one to never really crack, he was a trained professional and yet here you were.

“mmch,” his swollen puckered lips smack against your cunt as he eats you out entirely from the back.

your mouth drops, jaw dangling— goofily hanging open like a cartoon as he resumes to extends the length of his tongue inside the outskirts of your warm room-temperate-tastin’-pussy.

lolling it out all the way, he licks from top to bottom—stopping at your clenching hole. geto gives it a five second kiss, a sloppy one that glues a mixture of his spit and your slimy juices on his mouth. “sweetheaaart,” he rasps, biting back a greedy groan once he feels you starting to take him in your mouth.

your throat’s seraphic warmth draws a hot sharp breath out of him as he swats a hard palm against your ass for you to start. “when i say move your ass against my face, i fuckin’ mean it. move,” and you let off a candied whimper the second the temporary sting sends singles toward your weeping whiny clit.

feebly, you start to flop your ass up and down against his face and you hear a satisfy ‘hmm’ purr from his lips. you’re moaning, sinking his cock down your throat in the process before your sticky tongue swirls around his angered crownhead. “mmph,” and you take a few inches before you feel his tip swipe against the scaled roof of your mouth.

going back up, it loudly ‘pops!’ out as a bit of sheeny saliva trickles down your chin. you’re taking him deep within no time, and you let off a cute hiccup once his swollen sack paps near your jaw.

so full ‘n round…

you’re breathing through your nose, still shaking your ass against his face, swipin’ his nose occasionally like a credit card with your honeyed-slathered cunt.

his wide flat tongue felt so good that you felt your toes curling each time he playfully nibbles on your sensitive throbbing clit. his tastebuds felt each pulse and it was so hot. “sugu, fuck.”

“i know, i know,” he gruffly whispers against your runny folds. bringing a pair of long twinned fingers towards your pussy, geto strums it down the pulsating slit in a straight pillaring line.

with a bit of pressure—he spreads your lower lips apart, getting a front row seat view of your clit pumpin’ pumpin’ away.

you had such a pretty throb, the prettiest he’s ever seen.

“god, you’re pretty but you’re even prettier down here too,” and not only do you hear him swallow but you feel it too.

a long full gulp, and he’s making sure to savor as much of your sweet slick on his tongue as possible.

geto’s just nasty, and a proud eater. he zigzags his tongue everywhere until your vision’s murky and clouded. you’re left crossed eyed with puffed up cheeks, barely able to focus on his dick that’s laying flat on your tongue.

a hand of his squeezes against your ass before with a mean ‘whack!’ he spanks it again just to see the bouncy recoil. the way a ‘lil fat portion of your ass would jiggle all due to the hasty-rash contact of his palm makes him throb.

and you feel it right in your mouth.

as your head bobbles at a more quick yet languid pace, your tongue skims down one of the many veins that paint down his cock. your repeated moans become muffled, and geto groans at how sloppy you sound—from the front and from behind.

the more he slurps every syrupy drop that dribbles out from your gurgling pussy, his precisely-thorough licks turn into exaggerated four second sucks.

geto softly caresses a hand against the bare skin of your exposed flesh, tugging on your pulled up skirt. pulled to the side were your panties that had a pretty pink star imprinted on the back decorated with glimmery rhinestones. you moan as your back slowly arches inward ‘n out and your knees become to buck.

his tongue, he definitely knew how to eat.

“ ‘s good, juuuus’ like that princess,” he huffs, feeling minuscule dewdrops of your saliva pour down the sides of his cock, slicking all over his base.

your thumb traces a heart over his hefty sack, massaging his tender full testes before you hear geto whine out a sweet, “o- oooh shit,” he was tender there too, huh..

and the sound catches him completely off guard because he grunts, the swaying of his tongue gradually slowing down. geto’s pretty lashes flutter before he grunts, taking a second to breathe. “don’t . . stop, play with ‘em some more,”

“pf—” you pop your mouth off his dick again, wet slimy sounds following as you stroke him off with an closed palm. “are you sure?”

“yeah yeah, ‘m sure,” and there’s a bit of sass in his gruff tone.

geto’s getting flustered, and never in a million years would he admit that you playing with his balls made him feel so good but fuck, it did.

geto paws a hand against your ass before letting off a hurried breathless, “fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

you went back to bobbling your head up ‘n down, pumping his fleshy pillar of length in your free hand before you start writhing your ass against his face even more quicker. geto moans, a surge of a trill nearly escaping out his gruff vocal chords before he grunts loudly. “mmp,” and your throat was so wet ‘n warm.

it enveloped him entirely, and as your cunt’s sitting over his slick lips—every so often rubbing against his nose and slick-streamed chin, he peppers it with a few kisses.

your hips were arched ‘n askew, and as your tongue occasionally darts down his sensitive slit you hear him grunt again. the burgundy colored sofa pathetically dips inward due to the stacked weight of both rutting bodies. geto’s eyes start to roll their way back as you continue, nearly sucking the soul out of him.

“fuck, baby. spit on it,” he groans, clasping his teeth at your needy clit.

he slides his tongue against your cute bulbous-shaped nub before sucking on it for the umpteenth time. you moan, still tossing your ass around for him in a slow meandering manner, feeling his tongue drag down the slope of your ass again.

geto’s pussy drunk entirely, and he didn’t care if this was against policy, having a customer touch him. when you tasted this divine, he couldn’t help devour your cunt like the starved, starved man he was..

at his words, you spat out translucent globs of saliva from your lips, pasting the slightly curved sides of his dick with your slick mess. “pff,” and you drench him from the base down, twisting his shaft with your wrist before hearing him groan.

geto’s about to finish and you could feel the vigorous pumps of his dick in your mouth growing weaker … and weaker – until, he cums.

geto’s jaw goes slack the moment his peak abnormally reaches, and growls out a husky ‘fuuuuuck,’ with the muscles in his neck tensing.

within a blink of an eye and a snap of a finger, the flat tip of your tongue’s now being sprayed with spritz of waxen cum. it’s a bittersweet taste that coats on your judgy tastebuds, and as you close your eyes with a humming moan departing from your lips, you hear him hiss. his body’s violently shaking, and his hips start to hungrily thrust into your mouth.

you wriggle your ass in face as he’s barely eating you out anymore, frantically heaving as he dumps his all down your pretty tight throat. “fuck, fuck, take it,” and his body still sporadically tremors.

as your mouth’s still full, geto gives your teary wet cunt it’s last few lapping licks before his head collapses back in lecherous defeat.

with cheeks still plumply puffed — his cock remains shoved inside. his aggravated red tip’s just swiping ‘n erupting near the roof of your mouth as you slurp him clean.

you swallow instantaneously, luxuriating in the mildly honey taste before feeling him shudder underneath you. “goddamn, so fuckin’ good. fuckin’ filthy, princess.”

with clammy palms, he turns you over and you lean in to kiss him. geto’s taken by surprise, and as you make him flop back against the velveteen cushion, you made your way on his lap. rough edges of teeth clash and roughly clatter against each other as each tongue plays a more salacious version twister.

geto reclines back, his hands moving toward your rocking waist as he grunts—tasting himself on your tongue. its bitter, but with the help of your lip gloss—it turns far more sweet within seconds. feverish breaths ghosts inside each mouth before you watch him reach near the side of him.

grabbing a half filled up bottle of mousseux, he flicks off the cork with a flick of his middle finger. geto’s eyes still closed as he’s delving his tongue right into your mouth.

the merciless smacking of lips grew louder before he pulls away, huffing breathlessly. “wan’ more of a taste real quick, princess,” and it sounds more like a needy plead. you see how flushed his face was, and geto’s eyes dart straight toward your bare chest. the top you wore was pulled down, clinging near the very bottom of your waist. “c’mere..”

and as you lean in, you watch as geto starts to pour down a small stream of champagne all down your chest. right between your tits, cupping underneath your tummy so none wouldn’t spill further down.

he makes sure a few glosses over your pretty round breasts before he grunts, closing the distance between your chest.

geto buries his face in between the valley of your tits, licking it right up. the bubbly fruity taste lingers on his tongue as he laps you up from top to bottom moaning at the spicy sweetness.

a mixture of your skin and champagne—better than any cocktail this club’s ever served.

“f- fuck,” he moans, lying his tongue flat. geto stares at you the entire time too, and his mouth gradually trails it way toward your damp neglected nipples. he cups his lips around the first nipple—slowly transitioning to the next before slurping the drink right off your body.

a tight breath gets caught in your throat as he continues to lick the rainy drops of sugary champagne off your body. geto groans, savoring the taste before with a loud ‘plop’, he pops your tender wet nipple out of his mouth.

there’s nothing but utter lust and infatuation in his eyes—and he then gets up to kiss you. the room’s nearly pitch dark without the help of the dim effulgent red lights that shined against you both. it added to the mood perfectly.

as tongues continue to try to assert dominance, you moan right in the dancer’s mouth, returning the gesture of swapping gauzy strings of gossamer spit.

abruptly though, you pull away, gently pushing geto back against the sofa.

with a raspy ‘ugh,’ geto lands on his back as you give him a light shove. he’s at your mercy, and you stand up from his lap, a wind of confidence coming out of nowhere and nearly pulling you forward.

he stares at you with hooded cunt-drunk eyes, watching you do a figure eight with your body.

“what’s . . this?” he huffs, burly arms stretching over each edge of the sofa. you looked so pretty, eyeing him up and down as he does the exact same to you.

the luminescent lights started to beam on you now, highlighting your curves and entire physique.

“lie back,” you murmur, slowly sashaying toward him. geto runs a hand through his hair, his dick twitching from the cool air wafting against it. you teasingly drag a finger down the scarred middle line of his bare-puffed chest, stopping at a hardened row of his brick-made abs. “i wanna try your little routine.”

“yeahh?” geto snickers, sucking in a sharp breath once you spin around, bending all the way over. the helmet that was still on your head—you put it back on him, watching him scoff at your audacity.

so you stole his profession now, great.

as you’re turned the other way, you slowly wriggle your ass in front of him, putting a hand over your sopping pussy and he kisses his teeth. “tch. don’t tease, sweetheart,” and geto’s allured stare fixates on you the entire time. his dilated irises frantically roamed around every and any part of your body like a laser. “fuck,” he grunts, watching you finally make your way on his lap.

geto’s all submissively underneath you—bare ‘n exposed with his poor tip flushed. its color was a sheeny carmine red that’s akin to a ripe cerise rose.

a few dried up splotches of cum stick near his weighty sides before he shudders. your ass sits on his flaccid dick before you start to move.

slowly,

you’re rutting into him—just like he was to you, grinding back and forth. geto looks so pretty though, underneath you. he’s still panting a bit, sweating bullets as you tease him with your crazed hips.

you weren’t at his level quite yet, but fuck could you move. geto groans, feeling your sloppy pussy rub off against his dick. you were so close to his tip that his foreskin would peel back a bit. “do you wanna touch me?”

touché..

geto narrows his eyes at you as you tease him, repeating his exact words from what he said to you earlier.

he doesn’t just touch you, he fucks you—

but in this case . . you fuck him.

geto holds back a moan as he’s watching his claret-colored cockhead disappear between your sappy folds. it’s like a magic trick, and with a ‘poof!’ half of length vanished within you.

you let off a soft shrilling whine, trying to writhe yourself around his length.

his dick was fat. ‘eyes-rolling-tongue-lolling-drag-your-nails-down-his back-’ type of fat.

and his girth only made things ten times more intense. you felt him rearranging your guts within each prolonged inch you took – literally.

you’re as slow as a snail with the way you try to take him wholly. even as you’re gingerly sinking your bare ass down with his cock snug ‘n deep inside you, he easily kisses against your g-spot.

it’s happening already, and you don’t even realize he’s fully in before a cooing whimper rawly snatches from the back of your dry esophagus. “oh fuck,” you huff, tossing your arms around the dark haired man.

geto’s got the same wide-eye-jaw-dropped reaction to you, and with one arm snaking around your waist—another’s tightly gripping onto your right ass cheek.

he spanks it, giving it a short squeeze afterward. your chest starts to heave in quickened intervals, and once he feels you starting to move it’s game fuckin’ over..

“god, pussy’s ‘ta die for,” he groans, eyes sexily rolling back until his sockets show nothing but white.

you had him whipped, and he can hear your cunt trying to have a word of its own, squelching out cute gargled squelches. you start to ride him at a mere hypnotic rhythm—and geto’s a lot more vocal now.

with his adam’s apple bobbing, both hands of his were now gripping onto your waist now. piles of money surround you too, a few sticking against his sweaty beefy thighs. “fuck me,” he grunts, and it’s more like he’s begging.

geto locks eyes with you, shaggy long bangs running past his eyes before he securely grabs your hips—trying to keep up pace with you. “mhm, thaaa’s it. ride it, ride . . the shit out of me, uuughhh.”

“ ‘m trying,” you moan, biting your lip each time his swollen cockhead plummets its way deep.

he’s just so big—you couldn’t wrap your head around how a guy could be so damn big.

the good kind of big, and each time he’d seep a single girthy inch into you, your stomach would churn like butter. he’s in sooo deep, your legs could barely support yourself anymore and he had to hold you steady.

as he pulls you all the way down, geto reaches waaay inside of your sloppy gripping cunt that’s oh-so desperate to wring him like a vice.

his thick cock greets your pretty fleshy cervix, mimicking a soft ‘knock’ before introducing itself with a welcoming pound.

he holds your hips, pumping himself into you again, and again, until your pussy remembered each stroke, each thrust, each fuckin’ letter of his name—front to last..

slow but fucking deep.

you gasp, clinging onto his neck before soft hurried pants of ‘yeah, yeah’ ‘s scurry past your glossed lips.

geto’s dewy eyes were half lidded and he’s never felt more pussy drunk in his life. trust—he’s had his fair share of women but oh, you were far different. it was something about you, and he just wanted more after each carnal second passed.

you’re so into his dick givin’ your pussy a fuck of a lifetime that you don’t even realize your hand was now wrapped around his thick neck. not too tight, but geto’s reaction time was slow also. once he realizes seconds after you did, he sheepishly scoffs before slyly humming.

“goddd, y’r so fuckin’ hot when you choke me,” he purrs, tugging at the panties that pull to the side of your thighs. of course he’d enjoy it, and as his dick’s still massaging your gummy walls, he moans. “harderrr.”

“don’t be greedy,” you mumble, burying your knees into his bulky thighs.

the way you rocked against him was hypnotic—and geto’s hands remain on your waist.

you nearly shudder, feeling the various cold bands of his rings run and tickle down your skin. he’s in love with your body, and even more in love with the way you feel from the inside.

leaning in close until you’re just inches away from his spit-slicked lips, your thumb runs its way down the bulging ball that lies inside his throat. “say ‘pretty pleaseee.’ ”

“tsk,” geto scowls, and even with a pout he’s effortlessly attractive. your hips continued to champion its way up ‘n down at a deranged pace as you moved, and his cock’s pumping you full over and over and over. with a vexed grunt, he utters. “pretty please, choke me harder.”

leaning in to kiss the side of his mouth, you whisper a crooning, “good boy,” and geto whines the moment you add a bit more pressure around his neck.

his hair’s all in his face, and your ass was just ruthless.

ferociously slamming down onto his stout cock, you’re drenching him from the base down with your syrup-coated slick. a bit of your own sloppy arousal glues against the pried apart crevices of your thighs—pasting against his as well.

it’s a mess, and with how close he was getting, he was about to create an even bigger one..

geto felt like he was ascending—and with how you were riding him, it didn’t take him long before he’s close again.

yet this time—so were you, and you could recognize the feeling all too well. geto’s cock stretched you to capacity, and he grabs the few dollar bills that scatter on the sofa, throwing it at your body whilst you rode him. he makes it rain on you, spanking your ass with a crumbled up hundred rubbing against your stung skin.

“fuck, ‘m gonna fuckin’ cum again,” he grunts in your ear, feeling your pace accelerate by a mile. you were draining him, preparing to milk him and the thought of him stuffing your cunt full made you pulse.

your tongue salivated at just imagining it..

the warmth, the stickiness, the way it’d spill between your thighs. you’re moaning out sweet noises yourself as you both rut into each other at a demented overzealous pace. geto’s thick thighs clench—and while you’re letting out cute blubs of his name on repeat until it’s the only syllables your dumb brain could register—he pulls you close. “ngh, same time, pretty girl. cum with me, let’s make a . . hah, mess together.”

“okay,” you mewl out, both hips pivoting in lascivious unison.

both sweaty mounds of flesh blissfully bounce into at other and each squelch makes you whimper out in ecstasy.

you cup geto’s pecs, smearing a thumb over his pierced nipples and he whines instantly. you lean in to suck against the bars that slash through his tender areola. geto leans back manspread, growling out husky, ‘fuuuuck!’ ‘s as you hum, giving both his nipples its few seconds of attention.

it lasts for seconds that felt like years, and one you pull away he lets out a cute blasé huff.

as your cunt’s in the midst of overflowing—your hips tremor once more time before within milliseconds, you both cum.

it’s quick..

and with your jaw dropping and geto’s shoulders fatally sagging after his big, heavy sigh—he starts to fill you up ounce after ounce.

it’s patching hot, and the second he’s beginning to spill ‘n dump out his perfect ivory ribbons of cum inside of you, you grunt out a melodic finishing, “fuuuck.”

swinish, weak hands grab at your ass as you come undone also—whimpering soft defeating babbles from the sensitive feeling of your cunt spasming right between your jittery numb legs.

you feel static … shock, electricity pulsing through your veins all at once. your entire body was turning haywire. as you start to grow limb right with geto underneath you—nirvana runs through each individual axon on your body before you hear a loud ‘pop.’

it’s more of a sopping squishing sound, and you were so dumbed down from his dick that you didn’t even realized how full you were..

peeking down, he filled you to the brim. wads and wads and wads of cum went inside of you and you moan, spreading your ass apart while craning your neck around just to see for yourself.

“ ‘m so full, suguru,” you pant, sliding a thumb down your sputtering cunt that’s plugged with both his cock and his thin oozing seed. you lick your lips before turning back towards geto and he’s absolutely fucked stupid.

you rode him so good to the point where he’s just stammering out inaudible whines. it’s cute, and you lean in to kiss him once more.

oh.. he was hooked.

he deepens with a few clingy hands feeling at your chest. the kiss gets more passionate rather than sloppy, and as he’s still buried inside of your cunt—he slowly starts to trail butterfly kisses down your neck. you moan, turning your head before you pull away. “shit, i almost f- forgot.”

“forgot what?” he hoarsely rasps, watching you unalign yourself, plopping down on the sofa with a big content sigh.

geto leans in, allowing his thumb to draw circles around your hips before you reach in for your purse, pulling out another decorated vip pass.

sheepishly, you utter. “my friends bought me two sessions with two dancers. so i have another one after you,” and you glance at the clock, squinting before you let off a bashful titter. “. . . oh, that was way past thirty minutes.”

“who? what dancer, sweetheart?” geto utters with a pout. he was still aching, already missing his you felt from the inside. he watches as you squint at your pass that reads the dancer’s stage name and / or full name on the back.

“uhh, it says t—”

“she means me,” and the both of you spin heads, ogling at the glittery red carpet and decorated pathway that was once covered up.

you could hear geto that laid beside you muttering out a jealous, ‘fuck,’ as you meet the other dancer’s gaze.

he’s wearing a leopard thong with an added on accessory of the most smuggest grin you’ve ever seen.

a slashed scar runs down the right side of his crooked curved lips and you spot bills sticking at both sides of his halfway on thong that nearly shows his sharp hips before he hums.

“name’s toji,” and you’re suddenly being lifted up by strong, tatted brawny arms before he turns around, winking at a very pissed of geto before trodding out the private room with you in his arms.

“i’ll take it from here,” and feral green eyes with an even more feral grin. “ain’t that right, birthday girlll?”

[hwallazia]

OBSESSED – 최산

⋆ synopsis. just virgin! san eating u out for the first time <3

pairing. boyfriend! san & fem! reader.

wc. 0,5k

warnings. smut (mdni!), virgin & soft dom! san, masturbation (f! receiving), overstimulation, tongue fucking, cum eating, praise, dirty talk, cussing, nicknames (sannie, baby, good girl & more), san’s just utterly in love with reader <3

nic’s notes ⋆ it’s 4am & i’m ovulating y’all, forgive me ('''– ⌓ –)＝３

okay but virgin! san who’s more than ready to please you, eagerly lapping at your wet folds messily. he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, he’s just using the sweet melody of your moans as his guide, a hint that you’re enjoying yourself. his tongue explores places he never knew existed, places that have now become his favorites. his fingers are everywhere, stroking every inch of skin he can, loving phalanges providing sweet touches on your hips as they drew unintelligible scribbles.

the muscles of his tongue feel the way your walls clench around it greedily, which only incites him to keep pushing it down, excited to stretch you fully.

on the other hand, you’re holding on to the messy sheets underneath you for dear life, fingers clamping around the soft fabric as your knuckles turn a pretty shade of white.

because you understand your boyfriend’s eagerness. but fucking hell, this is the fourth time you’ve come.

“g-god, sannie— stop, ’s too much—“

the moment you mutter the word “stop”, he buries the entire length of his skillful tongue inside your tight, gushing walls. and the way you clench around him immediately makes his eyes roll back. he successfully rips a cry out of you, your trembling hands dart towards his messy locks, driven by a single purpose: to grip them tightly whilst you come undone, completely helpless under him. he swirls his tongue around your sensitive, overstimulated clit as he helps you to ride your orgasm.

if he was in love with you before, he’s utterly consumed by you now.

“fuck baby i know ‘s too much—” he pulls away to speak, his raspy and growly voice sending the most delicious chills down your spine.

and shit. the way he’s staring at you is immaculate. brown intoxicated eyes, dilated from lust pierce into your soul like daggers as messy locks of hair fall gracefully over his lashes; all while a soft red blush strikes his cheekbones, belying the sinful scene. a clear, viscous string of your creamy fluids clings to the corner of his swollen lips.

the divine sight of him like this is going to be stuck in your head for a long time: between your legs, just done eating your pussy to the bone.

“but you’re taking it like such a good girl.” he deposits the gentlest kiss on your inner thigh, the feathery stroke of his lips over your sensitive skin tickling you a bit. “please just let me give ya another one. pretty please, baby.”

he begs. he fucking begs, with a tilted head and those undeniably beautiful doe eyes staring into your soul, only releasing the most primitive side of you.

and how can you ever deny him a treat?

“o-okay.” you whisper, almost embarrassed of your words; as if this whole situation wasn’t shameless enough. you aren’t sure how much more of what he was dishing out you could take, but san’s already set in his mind; he’s going to push you to your goddamn limits. because eating your pussy is now his addiction and obsession. and if that means doing it until the only sound escaping your lips are silent cries and his name, then he’s more than happy to comply.

“that’s my princess.”

| masterlist

[s0lidar1ty]

SLUTTED OUT

SYNOPSIS. Aftermath of the SAG Awards

NOTE. We’re gonna pretenddd this is Rafe instead of Drew cause writing for actors as said actor (if that makes sense) just isn’t up my alley

CW: pure SMUT, praise, sweet talking, pet names, overstimulation, choking, raw sex, breeding kink

The SAG Awards are over, but the real celebration is happening behind the locked door of RAFE CAMERON'S penthouse suite.

His tux jacket is long forgotten, discarded somewhere between the entrance and the bedroom, his bowtie hanging loose around his neck. The crisp baby blue button-down he wore hours ago is unbuttoned halfway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing tanned forearms flexing as he holds himself over you. The scent of his cologne—deep, expensive, unmistakably him—lingers in the air, mixing with the champagne fizzing in two half-empty glasses on the nightstand. But neither of you care about the drinks anymore.

Rafe is a man intoxicated by something else entirely.

His body is a furnace against yours, his hands everywhere—possessive, teasing, gripping your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he can’t get enough. Because he can’t. There’s something different about him tonight, something deeper, more desperate. The high of the night still lingers in his bones, but underneath it is something raw.

"You looked so good with me tonight," he murmurs against your skin, lips dragging over the curve of your shoulder. "Had every guy in that room watching you like they had a chance."

His voice is rough, heavy with pride and something dangerously close to worship. He punctuates his words with slow, burning kisses, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress, making sure you feel every inch of him.

His movements are deliberate—pushing you to the edge only to pull you back, a smug smirk playing at his lips when you whimper his name. Rafe loves control, loves watching you come undone under his touch, loves knowing he’s the only one who gets to see you like this. And tonight? He has no plans of stopping. No plans on slowing down. Not until you see stars behind those pretty eyes of yours.

The city lights glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting his skin in shades of gold and shadow. His jaw is tight, brows furrowed in concentration as he watches your reactions, committing them to memory as he grinds his hips into yours, hitting that one spot that makes your breath hitch and your fingers dig into his back.

You let out a strangled moan, your manicured nails—paid for by yours truly—leaving red lines along his shoulder blades. You go to muffle your whines into the crook of his neck, but Rafe knows you; moves quicker than you. He leans back, his hand wrapping gently around your throat, forcing you to look at him. Keeping eye contact until your eyes roll back and your thighs start shaking as your orgasm crashes over you.

"Not done with you yet," he rasps, lips brushing against yours, but never quite giving you what you want. His fingers tighten just slightly around your throat, his other hand gripping your hip like he’s keeping you in place. He chuckles lowly when you arch into him. "Just like that, pretty. Oh, you're doing so good, baby."

"I—oh my… God, Ray," you gasp, your hand gripping his around your neck, nails pressing into his skin.

"Yeah?" His grin is wicked, eyes dark with amusement. "Tell me how you feel. Use your words."

"Fuuuuck," you whimper.

That’s all he needs to hear. He knows exactly what to say to push you further, to keep you teetering on the edge. He’s smug about it too, his smirk only growing when he sees how wrecked you are beneath him.

Your head starts to spin—from the lack of oxygen, from the sheer, overwhelming pleasure flooding your veins. Each deep, measured stroke sends a sharp, delicious pressure up your spine, making your fingers clench at the sheets, your breath hitch in your throat.

Rafe notices. Rafe always notices.

"Too much?" he taunts, but there’s no real concern in his voice. Just that cocky tilt of his head, that barely-there smirk as he watches you unravel. "Or just enough?"

Your legs tighten around his waist in response, pulling him in deeper, and that’s answer enough. His jaw clenches, a quiet groan slipping past his lips as his head dips to your shoulder.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing hot against your skin. "Taking me so good. Always so perfect for me, huh?"

You can’t even form words anymore, not when every nerve in your body is alight, not when he’s moving like that—like he knows exactly how to break you, exactly how to put you back together again.

Then, his voice drops, low and wrecked, a whisper meant just for you. "You’d look so good carrying my baby, you know that?" His thrusts slow, deeper now, like he’s savoring every reaction, like the thought alone is enough to make him lose it. "Bet you’d love that too, huh, princess? Letting me fill you up, watching that pretty belly of yours get all 'round just for me."

Your head is spinning, and he knows it—knows you’re too far gone to fight the way his words sink into your overheated brain, making you nod before you even realize it.

"Yeah?" His grin is wicked, pleased. His hand slides down, pressing against the soft plane of your stomach. "Can feel me right here, baby. That’s where I’d be. Right inside you, right where I belong."

[d1stalker]

Suspension Bridge Effect [Logan Howlett]

Summary: You saved one of the younger mutants during a mission, and now he's obsessed with you, much to Logan's dismay

Warnings: mainly Logan POV, jealousy, cuteness, fem!reader WC: 2.6k - MASTERLIST

----

Logan’s losing it; his thoughts are spiralling to the point where he wonders if he should be locked up.

At least, that’s what he thinks is happening as he watches the scene unfold in front of him. You’re standing near the edge of the mansion's garden, laughing softly as the kid—Johnny, a younger teenage mutant—tries to hand you a bouquet of hastily picked flowers. His face is flushed, eyes wide with admiration, and he’s practically vibrating with nervous energy as he looks up at you.

This punk, this moron, this lovesick blockhead, has been glued to your side ever since you saved him during the last mission.

It was supposed to be a standard run-of-the-mill rescue operation, but when things went south, and he was cornered, you swooped in like the hero you are and got him out unscathed. Now, the kid’s been following you around like a lost puppy, trying to win your attention, your approval—your everything. And it’s infuriating.

Logan can feel his hands clench into fists as he watches Johnny offer you the worst attempt at a bouquet he's ever seen, and sees the youngster's face turning a deeper shade of red as he mumbles something the older man can’t quite hear. Probably some dumb compliment, he thinks bitterly. The kid’s got no game.

You smile at Johnny. It's that soft, kind smile that always makes Logan’s heart skip a beat. But this time, all it does is fuel the fire raging within. He knows that smile isn’t just for him, but damn it, he wishes it were.

He wishes you’d tell the kid to scram, that you’re already spoken for, that you have a lovely boyfriend who could put together a way better bunch of flowers, but instead, you take the flowers with a gentle laugh, thanking the goblin like he’s just handed you a priceless treasure.

And somehow, the torment is never ending, it seems. Because later in the day he find’s himself lurking at the doorway of the mansion library, watching as you and Johnny sit together, heads bent over some book he know knows the little gremlin is just pretending to be interested in. That brat is soaking up every second of your attention, hanging on your every word, and it’s driving Logan up the wall.

“He’s just a kid,” you keep saying whenever he grumbles about it, but you don’t see it. You don’t see the way the bastard’s eyes light up whenever you smile at him, or how he leans in just a little too close when you’re explaining something to him. You don’t notice the small touches—the way his hand lingers on your arm when he’s pulling you somewhere, the way he looks at you like you’re the centre of his universe.

Logan sees it all, because he’s been there before. He knows exactly what Johnny’s feeling because he felt the same way when he first met you. Still does. It's that intense, all-consuming crush that makes you do stupid things just to be near the person you can’t stop thinking about.

“Logan, you’re staring,” Jean’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and he turns to see her smirking at him from across the hallway.

“I’m not starin’. Just keepin’ an eye on things,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You’re jealous.”

He scowls at her. “I ain’t jealous of some kid.”

“Sure you’re not,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Why don’t you just talk to her about it?”

Clenching his jaw, he knows she’s right but not wanting to admit it. “She doesn’t get it. She thinks it’s cute.”

“Maybe if you told her how you’re feeling, she’d understand,” Jean suggests gently, though there’s a knowing look in her eyes.

Huffing and turning away from the library, Logan has decided that he’s had enough of standing on the sidelines. He needs to do something before he loses his mind entirely. But it seems he can’t escape this torture, because he can’t even get five minutes alone with you.

He tried to get your attention after you finished up teaching your class, but before he could, the little devil ran in front of him and got it first. His eye twitches as he watches Johnny offer you another “gift,” this time a poorly folded paper crane. You take it with a smile, thanking him kindly, and Logan grits his teeth so hard he swears his molars might shatter.

“Hey, kid,” He grumbles, stepping forward with a growl in his throat that would send most people running. “Don’t you got somewhere else to be?”

Johnny looks up, momentarily startled by the sharp tone, but then just gives a nervous chuckle and scratches the back of his head. “Uh, no, sir. I was just, um, hanging out with her.”

“Yeah, well, she’s got things to do. Don’t you, darlin’?” Logan’s eyes flicker to you, hoping you’ll catch the hint and send the kid on his way.

But you don’t. You just laugh. A musical sound that makes him want to clamp his hand over your mouth because why should that devil's spawn get to hear your beautiful voice? He’s truly about to lose it. 

“It’s fine, babe. Johnny’s just being sweet.”

Sweet. Logan wants to snort. Sweet is one word for it. Obnoxious, irritating, and clingy are a few others that come to mind.

“You got a crush or somethin’, boy?” His tone is laced with a dangerous edge as he crosses his arms over his chest, towering over the knucklehead. He’s trying not to outright scare him, but damn, he’s close to it.

Johnny turns beet red, stammering, “N-no, I just… she saved me, and I just wanted to say thank you, that’s all!”

Narrowing his eyes, a low snarl rumbles from his chest, and Logan takes a deliberate step forward, but before he can do more, you place a hand on his arm, pulling him back.

“Logan, that’s enough,” you say firmly, giving him a pointed look. 

Well, there goes another piece of his sanity.

You’re too kind, too understanding. You just don't get it. To you, it’s just an innocent crush, something harmless, something that makes you smile. You think it’s nothing, and that only makes his blood boil more.

“Fine,” he finally mutters, stepping back, though his eyes never leave the teenager’s. Johnny seems to take that as some kind of begrudging acceptance and gives you another shy smile before scurrying off, likely to find the next token of his gratitude to bring to you.

Once he’s gone, Logan lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is drivin’ me nuts, you know that?”

You just chuckle again, stepping closer to him and slipping your arms around his waist. “It’s just a phase, I’m sure. He’ll get over it.”

Wrapping his arms around you tightly and pulling you in close, he feels a little bit better in your embrace, but his eyes still track where Johnny disappeared into the mansion. “He better. ’Cause if he doesn’t, I might lose my damn mind.”

You tilt your head up, kissing his jaw softly. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

He huffs, not wanting to admit it, but the truth is written all over his face. “Maybe a little.”

Smiling, you lean up to kiss him properly. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Logan kisses you back, a little more possessively than usual, as if to remind himself that you’re his. And even as you melt into him, he can’t help but keep one eye open, scanning the garden for any sign of that kid returning. He might be crazy, but he’ll be damned if he lets some lovestruck teenager get between him and the woman he loves.

—

The next morning, the mansion is buzzing with its usual activity. You and Logan head to the dining hall for breakfast, with him looking a little more relaxed after a night of holding you close. But the moment you step into the room, he spots a certain demon sitting at a table, eyes locked on you as if he’s been waiting for this very moment.

Groaning under his breath, Logan mutters, “Not again,” before guiding you to a table near the windows, hoping Johnny won’t follow.

You take your seat, smiling up at your boyfriend as he pulls out his chair, and for a brief second, he dares to believe that he might actually get to enjoy a quiet breakfast with you. But just as he’s about to sit down beside you, Johnny swoops in out of nowhere, plopping down in Logan’s seat with a grin like he’s just won the lottery.

“Morning!” He chirps, completely oblivious to the thunderous look on the other man’s face.

Freezing in his place, Logan glares at the kid who’s now sitting where he was supposed to be. He mentally cycles through a list of unflattering nicknames—Useless Idiot, Captain Obnoxious, Motherfu—but none of them seem quite strong enough to capture his current feelings. “You’re in my seat, kid.”

Johnny blinks up at him, feigning innocence. “Oh, uh, sorry. I didn’t see your name on it.”

You can practically see the self-control it takes for Logan not to pick the kid up and toss him across the room. His fingers twitch at his sides, his claws itching to come out, but he holds back. For your sake, and only your sake.

“Johnny,” you start, trying to keep your voice gentle but firm, “you do know he is my boyfriend, right? And even if he wasn’t, I’m a bit too, uh, old for you?”

The young mutant's eyes widen, and for a split second, you think you might have gotten through to him. But then he glances over at Logan, his face scrunching up like he’s just eaten something sour.

“Yeah, but he’s, like, hella old,” The idiot blurts out, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as if the mutant standing right there can’t hear every word.

Logan’s expression darkens, a storm brewing in his eyes as his jaw tightens to the point where you can almost hear his teeth grinding. Hella old? Is this guy serious?

He's dealt with all kinds of enemies—mutants, monsters, government assassins—but nothing, nothing has tested his patience like this hellspawn has been. “What did you just say?” he growls menacingly.

Johnny, either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, doesn’t back down. “I mean, no offense, but you’ve got a lot of… uh, experience, you know? And you’re like centuries old. Maybe she needs someone closer to her age.”

That’s the last straw. Logan’s eyes flash with anger and something else—something more vulnerable that you rarely see. A part of him knows the gremlin’s just talking out of his ass, but the words hit a little too close to home, stirring up old insecurities he usually keeps buried deep.

Without another word, he slams his hand down onto the table, the sound echoing through the dining hall like a gunshot. The room falls into stunned silence as he then storms out, his footsteps heavy and his anger radiating off of him in waves. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t acknowledge the whispers that follow in his wake. He just needs to get away before he does something he’ll regret.

“Logan, wait—” you call after him, but he’s already halfway out the door.

You turn back to Johnny, who’s now looking a little less confident and a lot more like he might have made a mistake. Sighing, you lean forward with a serious expression. “You can’t just say things like that. He’s not just my boyfriend. He’s the person I love.”

Looking down at the table, his face falls, and he begins fiddling with the napkin in his lap. “I didn’t mean to make him mad. I just thought—You saved me and I felt something…I thought maybe you’d feel something for me too.”

You soften, reaching out to pat his hand. “Johnny, you’re a sweet kid, but you’ve got to understand that Logan’s the one I’m with, and no one can replace him.”

He nods slowly, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. “I get it,” he mumbles. “I just…”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “You’ll find someone your own age who’s perfect for you. But for now, you need to give us some space, okay?”

Johnny nods again, this time more resolutely. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. Just… try not to instigate anything else. I’ll go talk to him.” You give him one last reassuring smile before heading toward the exit.

When you step out into the hallway, you barely have a second to process your thoughts and decide where to look before you’re suddenly pressed up against the wall. A gasp escapes your lips, but it’s quickly swallowed by Logan’s mouth on yours. The surprise melts away as the intensity of his kiss overtakes your senses, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

His kiss is possessive and fierce. You can feel the frustration, the jealousy, the need to claim what’s his, pouring out of him with every movement of his lips against yours. For a moment, you lose yourself in the heat of it, letting the world around you fade as you focus solely on him.

Then, through the haze of the kiss, the practical part of your brain kicks in. You pull back just enough to murmur against his lips, “Logan… we’re gonna get caught.”

He growls softly, his lips trailing down to your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Let them see,” he mutters between kisses. “Maybe then that damn dunce will get the hint.”

You laugh, though the sound is cut off as he captures your lips again, his hands gripping your waist as if he’s afraid to let go. “Babe, really,” you whisper, trying to sound serious but failing as your body responds eagerly to his touch. “People are gonna see…”

“I don’t care,” he grumbles, his lips brushing against the sensitive spot just below your ear, making you involuntarily shiver against him. “Shoulda thrown that little shit out on his ass… let him know who you belong to.”

“You’re jealous of a teenager,” you tease, though the words come out breathless and almost lost in the intensity of the moment.

Logan pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark. “Don’t like him sniffin’ around you, thinkin’ he’s got a shot.”

You smile up at him, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him back down for another kiss. “You don't need to feel threatened by him. You’re the only one I want.”

He huffs softly, his lips brushing against yours as he mutters, “Damn right I am.”

“C’mon,” you murmur, gently pushing against his chest. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private, huh?”

He hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering back toward the dining hall, as if half-expecting Johnny to come barreling out any second. But then he nods, taking your hand and leading you down the hallway, away from prying eyes. His grip on your hand is tight, territorial, and you can’t help but smile as you follow him.

As you walk together, you give his hand a squeeze. “Logan?”

“Yeah?” He glances over at you, his expression softening slightly.

“I love you, you know that?” You say it with that pretty grin of yours, and the way his eyes warm in response makes your heart flutter.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice quieter now, more sincere. “I love you too.”

The remaining tension melts away, leaving just the two of you walking hand in hand, ready to steal a few more precious moments together.

----

A/N: this was really fun to write!

[fictionstudent]

How to pull off descriptions

New authors always describe the scene and place every object on the stage before they press the play button of their novels. And I feel that it happens because we live in a world filled with visual media like comics and films, which heavily influence our prose.

In visual media, it’s really easy to set the scene—you just show where every object is, doesn’t matter if they’re a part of the action about to come or not. But prose is quite different from comics and films. You can’t just set the scene and expect the reader to wait for you to start action of the novel. You just begin the scene with action, making sure your reader is glued to the page.

And now that begs the question—if not at the beginning, where do you describe the scene? Am I saying you should not use descriptions and details at all? Hell naw! I’m just saying the way you’re doing it is wrong—there’s a smarter way to pull off descriptions. And I’m here to teach that to you.

***

#01 - What are descriptions?

Let’s start with the basics—what are descriptions? How do you define descriptions? Or details, for that matter? And what do the words include?

Descriptions refer to… descriptions. It’s that part of your prose where you’re not describing something—the appearance of an object, perhaps. Mostly, we mean scene-descriptions when we use the term, but descriptions are more than just scene-descriptions.

Descriptions include appearances of characters too. Let’s call that character-descriptions.

Both scene-descriptions and character-descriptions are forms of descriptions that we regularly use in our prose. We mostly use them at the beginning of the scene—just out of habit.

Authors, especially the newer ones, feel that they need to describe each and every nook and cranny of the place or character so they can be visualized clearly by their readers, right as the authors themselves visualized them. And they do that at the start of the scene because how can you visualize a scene when you don’t know how the scene looks first.

And that’s why your prose is filled with how the clouds look or what lights are on the room before you even start with the dialogues and action. But the first paragraph doesn’t need to be a simple scene-description—it makes your prose formulaic and predictable. And boring. Let me help you with this.

***

#02 - Get in your narrator’s head

The prose may have many MCs, but a piece of prose only has a single narrator. And these days, that’s mostly one of the characters of your story. Who uses third-person omniscient narrator these days anyway? If that’s you, change your habits.

Anyway, know your narrator. Flesh out their character. And then internalize them—their speech and stuff like that. Internalize your narrator to such an extent that you can write prose from their point-of-view.

Now, I don’t mean to say that only your narrator should be at the center of the scene—far from it. What I mean is you should get into your narrator’s head.

You do not describe a scene from the eyes of the author—you—but from the eyes of the narrator. You see from their eyes, and understand what they’re noticing. And then you write that.

Start your scene with what the narrator is looking at.

For example,

The dark clouds had covered the sky that day. The whole classroom was in shades of gray—quite unusual for someone like Sara who was used to the sun. She felt the gloom the day had brought with it—the gloom that no one else in her class knew of.

She never had happy times under the clouds like that. Rain made her sad. Rain made her yearn for something she couldn’t put into words. What was it that she was living for? Money? Happiness?

As she stared at the sky through the window, she was lost in her own quiet little corner. Both money and happiness—and even everything else—were temporary. All of it would leave her one day, then come back, then leave, then come back, like the waves of an ocean far away from any human civilization in sight.

All of it would come and go—like rain, it’d fall on her, like rain, it’d evaporate without proof.

And suddenly, drops of water began hitting the window.

You know it was a cloudy day, where it could rain anytime soon. You know that for other students, it didn’t really matter, but Sara felt really depressed because of the weather that day. You know Sara was at the corner, dealing with her emotions alone.

It’s far better than this,

The dark clouds covered the sky that day. It could rain anytime soon.

From her seat at the corner of the room, Sara stared at the sky that made everything gray that day. She…

The main reason it doesn’t work is that you describe the scene in the first paragraph, but it’s devoid of any emotions. Of any flavor. It’s like a factual weather report of the day. That’s what you don’t want to do—write descriptions in a factual tone.

If you want to pull off the prior one, get to your narrator’s head. See from their eyes, think from their brain. Understand what they’re experiencing, and then write that experience from their POV.

Sara didn’t care what everyone was wearing—they were all probably in their school uniforms, obviously, so I didn’t describe that. Sara didn’t focus on how big the classroom was, or how filled, or what everybody was doing. Sara was just looking at the clouds and the clouds alone, hearing everybody just living their normal days, so I mentioned just those things.

As the author, you need to understand that only you, the author are the know-it-all about the scene, not your narrator. And that you’re different from your narrator.

Write as a narrator, not as an author.

***

#03 - Filler Words

This brings me to filler words. Now, hearing my advice, you might start writing something like this,

Sarah noticed the dark clouds through the window. She saw that they’d saturated the place gray.

Fillers words like “see”, “notice”, “stare”, “hear” should be ignored. But many authors who begin writing from the POV of the characters start using these verbs to describe what the character is experiencing.

But remember, the character is not cognizant of the fact that they’re seeing a dark cloud, just that it’s a dark cloud. You don’t need these filler words—straight up describe what the character is seeing, instead of describing that the character is seeing.

Just write,

There were dark clouds on the other end of the window, which saturated the place gray.

Sarah is still seeing the clouds, yeah. But we’re looking from her eyes, and her eyes ain’t noticing that she’s noticing the clouds.

It’s kinda confusing, but it’s an important mistake to avoid. Filler words can really make your writing sound more amateurish than before and take away the experience of the reader, because the reader wants to see through the narrator’s eyes, not that the narrator is seeing.

***

#04 - Characters

Character-descriptions are a lot harder to pull off than scene-descriptions. Because it’s really confusing to know when to describe them, their clothing, their appearances, and what to tell and what not to.

For characters, you can give a full description of their looks. Keep it concise and clear, so that your readers can get a pretty good idea of the character with so few words that they don’t notice you’ve stopped action for a while.

Or can show your narrator scanning the character, and what they noticed about them.

Both these two tricks only work when a character is shown first time to the readers. After that, you don’t really talk about their clothing or face anymore.

Until there’s something out of the ordinary about your character.

What do I mean by that? See, you’ve described the face and clothes of the character, and the next time they appear, the reader is gonna imagine the character in a similar set of clothes, with the same face and appearance that they had the first time. Therefore, any time other than the first, you don’t go into detail about the character again. But, if something about your character is out of ordinary—there are bruises on their face, scars, or a change in the way they dress—describe it to the reader. That’s because your narrator may notice these little changes.

***

#05 - Clothing

Clothing is a special case. Some new authors describe the clothes of the characters when they’re describing the character every time the reader sees them. So, I wanna help you with this.

Clothing can be a way to show something about your character—a character with a well-ironed business suit is gonna be different from a character with tight jeans and baggy t-shirt. Therefore, only use clothing to tell something unique about the character.

Refrain from describing the clothing of characters that dress like most others. Like, in a school, it’s obvious that all characters are wearing school uniforms. Also, a normal teenage boy may wear t-shirts and denim jeans. If your character is this, no need to describe their clothing—anything the reader would be imagining is fine.

Refrain from describing the clothing of one-dimensional side-characters—there’s a high chance you’ve not really created them well enough that they have clothing that differs from the expectations of the readers. We all know what waiters wear, or what a college guy who was just passing by in the scene would be wearing.

You may describe the clothing of the important character in the story, but only in the first appearance. After that, describe their clothes only if the clothes seem really, really different from the first time. And stop describing their clothes if you’ve set your character well enough in the story that your readers know what to expect from them in normal circumstances—then, describe clothes only when they’re really, really different from their usual forms of clothing.

***

#06 - Conclusion

I think there was so much I had to say in this article, but I didn’t do a good job. However, I said all that I wanted to say. I hope you guys liked the article and it helps you in one way or the other.

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