#i'm sorry it's long... but i'm actually not sorry

[dearmini]

𐔌 아이엔 .ᐟ ꒱ ─ how to braid a heart.

YANG JEONGIN! ⓘ when you walk in on him learning to braid hair.. for you?

⌣ ﹒ ✿ ﹕ 𝑏f!jeongin ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff ! 4300wc. ⎯⎯ ᒪIᗷᖇ��ᖇY ⟢ cw. pure love, intimacy, cursing, unfunny jokes, bickering, rain (again). ┆ ☆ ⋮ drabble .ᐟ

𝑦𝑎𝑛𝑖'𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 𓈒 𓈒 ⭑ and back again with another mini drabble! I'M SORRY IT KEEPS GETTING LONG. I CAN'T HELP IT. I SWEAR I TRIED MY BEST OKAY. happy reading!

it starts on a rainy afternoon.

the sky’s an overcast blur, cottony grey and soft like the hush of a lullaby. outside the window, the rain’s been drizzling for hours—persistent, gentle. the kind that makes people want to curl into themselves and disappear under a hoodie. the kind that fills a boy’s bedroom with the scent of petrichor and lazy light and something warm, something waiting.

inside, the air is thick with the hum of effort and youtube hair tutorials.

yang jeongin is frowning.

deeply. intensely. so much that the tiny crease between his brows could write a thesis on how absolutely ridiculous this is.

his long legs are folded awkwardly on his bed, laptop perched dangerously on a too-fluffy pillow, volume turned down low like he’s committing a crime. on-screen, a chipper woman with shiny nails is explaining, once again, how to start a simple three-strand braid. he doesn’t know what “detangle thoroughly” is supposed to mean when the practice mannequin he bought off some shady online store came tangled, like the thing had beef with him in a past life.

jeongin sighs. sharp and dramatic. like a man defeated by plastic hair.

"why am i doing this," he mutters, though it's the twentieth time he’s said it and the answer never changes.

his fingers, ringed and slender, hover in the air like he’s diffusing a bomb. he’s watched four videos already—two american vloggers, one british lady, and a girl named chloe who made it look suspiciously easy. they all say the same thing: divide the hair, cross one over the other, repeat.

but his fingers? his fingers are traitors. they fumble. they hesitate. they grip too hard, twist the strands weirdly, somehow create a knot so intense it feels personal.

"great," he deadpans, staring down at the mess he’s made. “it looks like i braided a broomstick with anxiety.”

still, he doesn’t stop.

not even when his phone buzzes with a message from seungmin in their group chat.

[minimin]: iyennie what are you doing you’re too quiet [maknaeontop]: cry-typing bc love makes me stupid [minimin]: ew [minimin]: oh wait are you actually

he locks his phone without replying, because yes, he is actually. and he’s not ready to be bullied about it.

he exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. model face, they always say. sharp jawline, perfect skin, annoyingly symmetrical.

and yet here he is—sitting cross-legged in neon pyjama pants with strawberries on them, practicing braiding on a fake head like he’s training for the olympics of soft boyfriend behaviour.

he looks back at the wig head. it sits on his desk, propped up like a little goblin staring into his soul. its blank eyes challenge him.

“don’t look at me like that,” jeongin says flatly. “you’re the one who’s not cooperating.”

but the thing is—he’s serious about this.

it started two weeks ago, the first time you’d complained that your hair was being "super annoying" and you just wanted to 'chop it all off and live like a boy in the 2000s.'

you’d said it in passing, curling up against him on the couch, head tilted, the glow of the tv painting shadows across your cheek.

and he’d looked at you then. really looked.

the pout on your lips. the strands falling over your eyes. the quiet frustration under your breath as your fingers tugged a bit too roughly at a knot.

something about it stuck.

that night, after you’d fallen asleep, soft breathing tangled in his hoodie, the loverboy here had stared at the ceiling and thought.. 'i wish i could help. i wish i could do that for her.'

and that was that.

now he’s five videos deep, wrist aching, knees numb from sitting weird. his fingers are shaking, not from exhaustion, but from how hard he’s trying. his tongue sticks out in concentration—just a little, just the tiniest sliver of pink against the sharp lines of his mouth. adorable and determined.

outside, thunder rolls lazily. the window fogs up from the warmth of the room. he smells the faint citrus of his candle—the one you picked out, teasing him for liking “bougie scents” before sneakily smelling it three more times. the one he keeps lit when he misses you. which is often.

the mannequin head tilts slightly as he tugs on a finished braid. it’s not perfect. it’s kinda uneven. a few strands are sticking out. but—it's a braid.

his first real one.

he stares at it for a moment, expression unreadable, then lets out a quiet laugh under his breath. the kind that almost doesn't make a sound. just breath, and pride, and affection leaking out through the cracks in his self-deprecating walls.

“y/n,” he mumbles to himself, “you better bawl when i do this on you.”

a beat. he stares down at the wig, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“…or at least pretend to be impressed. i’m emotionally fragile.”

and with that, he hits play on the next video. french braids this time. no one said love was easy. but jeongin's always been the type to take his time with the things that matter.

and you?

you matter most of all.

. . .

the braid unravels the second he blinks.

one second, he’s staring at it—fingers suspended mid-air like he’s diffusing a bomb, heart beating with the gentle anticipation of accomplishment—and the next, the strands slip like water through his hands.

and the softest little “nooo…” escapes him.

it’s quiet. gentle. like a child watching their sandcastle wash away.

jeongin sighs, slow and guttural, tilting his head back until it thumps softly against his headboard. the rain outside has softened to a drizzle, the kind that clings to windows like a lullaby. the sky is still grey, but there’s a warmth in his room now—a lemony-citrus kind of haze, mixing with the cotton scent of fabric softener from the blanket twisted around his legs. a comfort cocoon. a secret mission cave. the jeongin love lab™ (unofficial name. do not repeat this to anyone).

he’s surrounded by crime scene evidence: a bobby pin clamped between his teeth, a broken hair tie hanging from his wrist, a video paused on the screen of some lady who braided her own hair in twenty seconds. with french flair. while smiling.

jeongin narrows his eyes at her like she owes him money.

"she's mocking me,” he says under his breath, chewing dramatically on the bobby pin.

his phone buzzes again.

[minimin]: are u ok [sooniedoongiedori]: is the kid crying over love again [hyuniret]: what happened to my baby [maknaeontop]: get out [hyuniret]: not until you tell mama what’s wrong [hyuniret]: i’ll bake you cookies [hyuniret]: i’ll kiss your cheeks

jeongin’s nose scrunches, but his heart does that annoying soft thing. the warm thing. the “ugh i guess i like you idiots” thing.

he hesitates only a second before tapping hyunjin’s name. video call.

it rings once.

twice.

and then—

hyunjin answers dramatically. black buzzcut adorned with a pink headband, face glistening from what looks like a very intense skincare routine, lips pursed like a mum who’s just been told her son failed math.

“iyennie!” he gasps, clutching his chest. “you look pale. did someone break your heart? was it seungmin? i’ll kill him.”

“i’m literally fine,” jeongin deadpans, leaning back against the pillow mountain behind him. “this is not a therapy session.”

hyunjin gasps again, but more offended this time. “how dare. first of all, every call with me is a healing experience. second of all—what’s that behind you?”

jeongin freezes.

too slow.

too suspicious.

hyunjin leans in on the screen like a hawk. “is that a… wig head? is that… blonde hair? are you—are you braiding something?!”

silence.

jeongin stares blankly at the screen. “this call is over.”

“nope—nope—not a chance—explain yourself,” hyunjin screeches, kicking something off-screen and nearly knocking over his phone in the process. “wait—is it for y/n? you’re learning to braid for her aren’t you—”

“keep your voice down!” jeongin hisses, darting to shut his bedroom door like a teenager caught sneaking out. “what if she hears you? she’s not even home yet but still—what if the walls are thin or something.”

“my precious soft romantic noodle.”

“don’t.”

“my little handsy craftsman—”

“i will hang up, hyung.”

“so you are braiding! oh my god. you’re literally adorable. i knew you loved her but this is like—baking-level devotion. you're spending too much time with the main loverboy. aka me.”

jeongin mutters something unintelligible and grabs the mannequin again. its plastic eyes haunt him. “i’m just trying to get it right. my fingers keep slipping and she has this one little piece that always falls loose—she tucks it behind her ear, like—like this.”

he mimics it, almost absentmindedly. his eyes soften.

hyunjin notices, and for once, doesn’t interrupt.

there’s something about watching jeongin like this. all his sharp little edges dulled into domestic softness. not performing, not teasing, not being the chaotic maknae or the class clown or the guy who always says something sarcastic when things get too sincere.

he’s just… quiet. and trying.

and that’s the most vulnerable thing of all.

hyunjin clears his throat, gentler now. “okay, listen. i used to braid my hair all the time before i chopped it off, remember?”

jeongin perks up. “yeah, you were like… weirdly good at it.”

“still am, thank you very much. i even practiced on lixie a few times. he giggled the whole time like i was tickling him with angel wings.”

“of course he did.”

“anyway,” hyunjin continues, flipping his camera to demonstrate on a random knit scarf from his bed. “it’s not about making it perfect. it’s about rhythm. breathe with it. like—left, right, center. it’s a heartbeat, not math.”

jeongin raises an eyebrow. “that’s… kinda poetic.”

“i’m kinda a genius.”

“you’re kinda a nerd.”

“you’re kinda in love.”

he doesn’t deny it.

instead, jeongin copies him—slowly, carefully, the way you reach for something delicate in the dark. one strand over. then another. he’s holding his breath again. his knuckles are tense. but his fingers don’t slip this time.

the braid takes shape like a secret blooming.

“hey,” hyunjin says after a minute, voice quieter, eyes warm through the screen. “she’s gonna love it, you know.”

jeongin looks down at the messy braid in his hands. it’s still a little uneven. a little frayed at the end. but it holds. it stays.

he exhales.

“yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “i think so too.”

hyunjin smiles like he knows something ancient. “text me when she cries.”

“i’m not trying to make her cry.”

“no, no, like in a good way. like happy tears. you’re gonna ruin her standards forever.”

“…that’d be kinda iconic, actually.”

“that’s my boy.”

and for once, jeongin lets himself grin.

just a little. just enough.

the screen dims as the call ends. the room is quiet again—only rain against glass, the soft fizz of his candle, the faint smell of vanilla-laced cotton, the memory of your voice somewhere in the fabric of his hoodie.

the braid rests on the mannequin’s shoulder, gentle and crooked and completely real.

and somewhere in his chest, jeongin feels it.

the heartbeat of it. left, right, center.

you, you, always you.

the front door sighs open with the softest creak.

it’s after 6pm—the kind of dusky grey that makes everything feel like it’s been filtered through nostalgia. your arms are full—bag slipping off your shoulder, scarf unraveling from your neck, a paper coffee cup still lukewarm from earlier. you’re tired, windblown, and ever so slightly damp from the rain, which now smells like petrichor and wet pavement and the faint trace of ozone.

“iyennie?” you call out softly, toeing off your shoes, already craving the warmth of him.

no reply.

you frown a little, peeking into the hallway. there’s no music playing. no clatter of a game controller. no fake scoffing at your outfit or teasing demand for a bite of your snack.

nothing. just quiet. thicker than usual.

the lights are on in his room, though. warm, gold-toned. inviting. like honey melting across the walls.

you pause.

knock lightly. “jeongin?”

still no answer.

and so—curious, maybe a little concerned, you push the door open.

what you find… isn’t something you could’ve imagined in a hundred years.

jeongin—model-faced, sharp-jawed, fashion-manicured chaos incarnate jeongin—is on the floor. legs crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, face scrunched in deep concentration. his tongue pokes out at the corner of his mouth. a wig head with synthetic blonde hair rests in front of him like a bizarre shrine, and his long fingers are tangled awkwardly in the strands.

he doesn’t notice you. not at all. he’s whisper-counting under his breath.

“left, right, center… center, left, wait—fuck—no, that’s not center, wait—why is this so hard?”

he groans. not dramatically. genuinely. like this braid has personally insulted him, his ancestors, and the entire yang bloodline.

you blink.

and then you do the only logical thing in that moment.

you burst out laughing.

jeongin jumps so violently he flings the poor wig head across the carpet. his eyes fly up, wide and accusatory, like you’re the villain in his villain origin story.

“what the fuck— oh my god.”

you’re already wheezing, hand to your chest, leaning against the doorframe. “oh my god. oh my god. you were talking to it. you were braiding a mannequin—iyen-ah, what the hell?”

“i was not—shut up—get out!”

you stumble in further, nearly dropping your coffee. “no way. you can’t erase this from my brain. this is permanent. this is my core memory now.”

jeongin scoffs, snatching the wig like it’s a bomb he’s shielding you from. “why are you even home already? you said six-thirty!”

you blink through your laughter. “it is six-thirty.”

he freezes.

then mutters, “…traitorous clock.”

you drop your bag with a dramatic thud and crawl onto the bed like a predator, face lit up with delight. “oh my god, this is amazing. who were you gonna show? or were you just planning to become a secret braid master and drop it casually in conversation like, ‘oh yeah, i do complicated french braids now, no big deal’?”

“shut up,” he mutters again, cheeks visibly pink.

you hum, sitting cross-legged like royalty, chin in your palm. “so who’s the lucky client, hm?”

jeongin glares. “it’s not for you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

you lift an eyebrow, unbothered. “oh no?”

“no,” he says, entirely too fast. “your dumb hair’s always falling everywhere. like a goddamn waterfall. it’s annoying.”

you press your lips together to hide the grin threatening to split your face. “right. so naturally, your first instinct is to learn an entire skill set to deal with my dumb hair.”

he throws a pillow at you. you catch it easily.

“you’re so—ugh—you’re so full of yourself,” he grumbles, yanking the hoodie sleeves back down and refusing to look at you. “not everything i do is about you.”

you lean back against the headboard, stretching with a content little sigh. “except when it is.”

he groans again, flopping backwards like a teenager in agony. “i hate you.”

you smile, impossibly fond. “no, you don’t.”

he peeks at you from one eye. “no. i really do.”

you stretch your leg out and nudge his thigh with your socked toe. “you were doing so well, too. you almost had it.”

“whatever. i didn’t even care.”

you nod solemnly. “of course. you were just… having a casual braid session with your… headless friend.”

“she has a name,” he says without thinking.

you gasp. “oh my god, you named her—”

he lobs another pillow, this one stronger. “get out.”

but you’re both laughing now—open and loud and soft around the edges, like this room has folded in to make space for something warmer.

your laughter fades into a smile. your eyes meet his, and there’s a lull, a hush, like the rain’s listening too.

“yennie,” you say, softer now, “you’re actually kind of a genius.”

he scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t hide the way his lips twitch upward. “took you long enough to realize.”

you crawl closer, curling up beside him, the scent of your shampoo mingling with the faint cinnamon-sugar of his hoodie. your knee brushes his. your fingers reach out, tangle lightly in the edge of the messy braid still clinging to life.

he watches your hand.

you watch him.

and he says, low, quiet: “i just wanted to get it right.”

your heart does something dumb and fluttery. “why?”

he shrugs. doesn’t meet your eyes. “just figured… you let me touch your hair so much. i should at least learn to do something useful with it.”

silence.

heavy. sweet.

you lean in, press your forehead to his shoulder. he stiffens, then melts.

you murmur, “you’re a dumbass.”

“i know.”

“…but like, my favourite one.”

he grins—smug and shy all at once. “i better be.”

and the rain keeps falling.

and the mannequin keeps watching.

and you—two kids tangled up in love, in sarcasm, in shitty synthetic braids and soft secret affections—just stay there, skin against skin, laughter still echoing like thunder trailing behind lightning.

and you think—this must be what it feels like.

true love, in a room full of pillows and mistakes and too many words.

braided gently between your hearts.

. . .

the next morning is gentle in a way only weekend scan be—slow and sticky, syrup-dripped around the corners.

the room smells like jeongin: bergamot and laundry detergent, worn cotton and leftover vanilla candle from last night. he’s sprawled across your shared bed like a prince who owns the morning, blanket kicked halfway off, hoodie riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of tan skin above his waistband.

you’re already awake, curled into your corner of the mattress, pillow hugging your chest.

watching him.

thinking.

the image of him practicing braids on a wig still lives in your brain rent-free. it flickers behind your eyes every time you look at him now. and you can’t stop smiling. can’t stop remembering the way his fingers fumbled through strands like they were secrets. how he muttered to himself like the mannequin had personally offended him. how he told you, with his whole heart and no eye contact, “i just wanted to get it right.”

you’d kissed his cheek before bed.

he hadn’t brought it up again.

but now—

now, as golden light curls through the curtains and your boyfriend begins to stir—grumbling softly, smacking his lips like a grumpy cat—you decide it’s time.

“hey,” you whisper, reaching to nudge his side.

he flinches, groans. “don’t touch me.”

“it’s ten thirty.”

“i’m asleep.”

“you’re talking.”

“sleep talking. stop flirting with me.”

you roll your eyes fondly. “get up, braid-boy.”

he cracks one eye open, all sleepy lashes and morning puff. “say that again and i’m breaking up with you.”

you crawl closer, lips brushing his temple. “get up. braid. my. hair.”

he stares at you for a long, suspicious second.

then sighs, dramatically. “you’re serious?”

you nod.

and now he’s sitting upright—barely—but upright, hoodie sleeve wiping at his puffy face like a child. his voice is rough and low and wholly unimpressed. “fine. but don’t blame me if you end up looking like a scarecrow.”

“i will cry.”

“you always do,” he mutters, standing up and stretching like a sleepy cat. his hoodie lifts again. you stare. you’re only human.

you grab your brush and sit cross-legged on the floor, facing away from him. “you’re going to regret saying yes when i post this on instagram with the caption; ‘my boyfriend is a hairstylist now.’”

from behind you.. “post that and i’m deleting your animal crossing island in your sleep.”

you gasp. “that’s evil.”

he plops down behind you, cross-legged, his knees brushing yours. his fingers skim your shoulder blades as he gathers your hair in his palms.

“you’re evil,” he murmurs, and somehow it sounds loving.

your breath catches.

there’s something about the way his fingers move through your hair—careful, cautious, reverent. jeongin is often clumsy with affection, never sure what to do with the way he feels things. but now? with your head bowed, his hands sifting through strands like wind through grass?

it’s almost reverent.

almost sacred.

“you’re being weirdly gentle,” you mumble.

“shut up. your hair’s delicate. like a baby angel’s.”

you snort. “i’m going to vomit.”

“you asked for this.”

his fingers begin to work—slowly, hesitantly. a tug here. a curse there.

you feel his knuckles brush your scalp, his thumbs press against your crown.

it’s quiet, but not heavy.

your eyes close.

you breathe in: the crisp cotton of his hoodie. the faint smell of coffee from the kitchen. the feel of his breath ghosting the back of your neck.

then:

“ow—jeongin!”

“you moved!”

“i breathed.”

“well, breathe quieter.”

you twist around just enough to glare at him. “you are insufferable.”

he meets your eyes, lips twitching. “and yet, you’re letting me braid your precious princess hair.”

you frown. cross your arms. sulk.

jeongin pauses.

“oh no,” he says flatly. “the pout’s out. god save us.”

you jut your bottom lip farther out.

he groans, head dropping against your shoulder. “you’re going to milk this forever, aren’t you?”

you nod, slowly.

he laughs softly into your shoulder. “god, i’m in love with an actual cartoon character.”

you whisper, teasing, “you love me.”

he breathes, “so much it makes me stupid.”

and he doesn’t say it like a confession. he says it like it’s already been written somewhere in the sky, like it’s just fact. like “the sun rises,” or “your hair always gets stuck to his hoodie,” or “you make him soft without trying.”

you swallow.

your pout melts.

you whisper, “then make it pretty.”

he smiles. “always.”

and he keeps braiding.

the rest is gentle chaos.

he loses a strand. swears. starts over. pulls too tight. apologizes. yells at the hair. tells it to behave. tells your hair to behave.

you nearly cry laughing.

he finishes eventually.

“it’s awful,” he says, smug.

you glance at the mirror. it’s crooked. a little lumpy. possibly about to fall apart.

you beam. “it’s perfect.”

he rolls his eyes. “you’re such a liar.”

you grab his hoodie and yank him toward you. “no. i’m in love.”

he blinks. all that sass melts from his face like butter in sun.

“i—”

you press your forehead to his, breath tangled. “you don’t have to say it back.”

he does, of course.

“but i do. and i'm in love with you, too.”

you’re still turned toward him, knees touching, the scent of his hoodie weaving its way through your senses like thread through needle. the room hums with the afterglow of laughter, the kind that’s still stitched into the corners of your cheeks, still warming the undersides of your ribs.

you giggle—forehead brushing his, your breath ghosting between the spaces where his lashes flutter.

soft.

sacred.

“it is really good,” you whisper, like it’s a secret meant for no one but him. “you should become a hairstylist—”

and suddenly, he moves.

not away.

toward you.

he grabs your wrists with gentle fingers, tugging you forward so fast your balance tips. a startled squeak leaves your lips as you tumble into his chest, all cotton warmth and steady heartbeat, your hands pressed flat against the soft fabric of his hoodie, your nose bumping against his collarbone.

he laughs.

of course he laughs—rich and golden and boyish, like the sound of sunlight finding a windchime. you’re still gathering breath, blinking up at him, when his arms wrap around you—tight but not suffocating, possessive in the softest way. like a secret folded into a sweater. like a kiss that already happened, even before lips met.

“don’t—” you breathe, muffled into his hoodie, “ambush me.”

“you were being cute,” he murmurs, somewhere near your hairline. his voice is velvet and sin. “i couldn’t help it.”

“warn me next time—”

“nope,” he says, smiling into your scalp, “i like this method.”

and then—he pulls back just enough to see your face.

his fingers curl beneath your jaw. his thumb brushes a stray hair behind your ear. your breath hitches—because his eyes, usually full of mockery and sass, are now soft. unsharpened. like dusk settling into the horizon.

“say it again,” he smirks.

you blink. “say what?”

“that it’s good. the braid.”

you roll your eyes, pretending your heart isn’t melting like butter on a stovetop. “you’re really fishing for validation, huh?”

“i braided human hair for the first time. i deserve a grammy.”

“that’s not how that works—”

he silences your teasing with a kiss.

gentle.

melting.

a touch of lips that feels like a promise made without language.

you don’t realize your hands have slid up to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the warm dip where his neck meets hoodie. his skin is soft there. familiar. yours.

the kiss deepens—not in pressure, but in emotion. it stretches long, like honey poured slow. like time forgot to tick forward.

and when he pulls back, it’s only enough to whisper, “thank you.”

you tilt your head. “for what?”

“for letting me touch your hair.”

you blink, thrown off by the sincerity.

his grin is lopsided, his thumb still drawing lazy circles into your skin. “it’s… i don’t know. it feels like… trust.”

you go silent.

because it is.

because he gets it.

and that’s how you know—really know—you’re in love. with him.

you lean forward and rest your forehead against his again, both of you folded in like an origami heart—quiet, intricate, impossible to untangle.

“i love you, you know,” you whisper.

he hums. smirks. presses another kiss to your nose like punctuation. “i know.”

then adds, smug, “you love my braid skills and my face. admit it.”

you groan. “you ruined it.”

he snickers, pulling you closer again, your braid getting smooshed between your shoulders and his hoodie.

“baby.”

“what?”

“you’re stuck with me.”

you grin against his shoulder. “yeah. i know.”

and the world, for one small moment, feels like a soft pillow, a warm hoodie, and the safest arms to ever exist.

𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑛𝘵 𝘵𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘵 ୨ৎ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @shotngun @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @its-stayville-forever @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos @bobaluvzz @inlovewithstraykids @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @mhluvie @channieschocco @m-325 @my-neurodivergent-world @unbel1ve4ble @cowboylikemalika @jeonginsbaee @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes — fill out this form to be added !!

comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! req. are officially closed till the month of june. thank you for reading, hope you liked it <3 © heartsbyani, dearmini '25 ★

[iris-qt]

charmed, i'm sure

(feat. accidental truth serum, public chaos, and one very flustered reader)

It starts during double Potions.

Snape’s droning on about the stability of truth serums, and Mattheo Riddle (gorgeous, brooding, completely full of himself) is stirring his cauldron with that signature air of boredom and menace.

You’re seated next to him. Unfortunately.

Well, technically it was alphabetical. But you’re starting to think fate just has a sense of humor.

Snape snaps his fingers. “Taste test. Two drops each.”

It's obvious he thinks no one made the potion right.

You arch a brow. “Taste the potion? Isn’t that, like, illegal?”

Mattheo shrugs. “Probably. But I’m dying to know what secrets you’re hiding.”

You roll your eyes and raise your vial. “Bottoms up, Riddle.”

And then.

He drinks. You pretend to drink.

You blink. He blinks.

And then... chaos.

���Your eyes,” he says dreamily, “should be illegal in academic settings. I can’t focus. I think I failed last week’s quiz because of them.”

You look over at him in horror. “What?”

“Oh no,” he says cheerfully. “I think it’s working.”

Snape narrows his eyes. “Mr. Riddle, is there a problem?”

Mattheo turns to him, absolutely beaming. “No, Professor. Unless you count the fact that I’m catastrophically in love with the girl next to me and have been writing her name over and over in the margins of my Arithmancy textbook for three months.”

There is a beat of silence.

You drop your quill.

Snape sighs. “Hospital wing. Now.”

“But I feel fine,” Mattheo says. “Better than fine. Actually, I feel free. Do you know how long I’ve wanted to tell her that her laugh makes me feel like I’m choking on happiness?”

You slap a hand over his mouth.

“Sorry, Professor,” you mutter, dragging him out of the classroom as fast as your legs can carry you. “He’s clearly unwell. Tragic. Don’t wait up.”

In the hallway, Mattheo’s grinning like a madman.

“Wait,” he says, eyes wide. “Did I tell them about the dreams yet?”

You freeze. “WHAT dreams?”

He looks slightly panicked. “Oh no.”

You push open the hospital wing door and hiss, “Mattheo Riddle, if you say one more thing that makes me want to throw myself out a window—”

“I think you’re smarter than me,” he blurts. “It’s not fair. You’re so clever. I watch you solve things and it’s like... like watching lightning happen in real time. And you don’t even brag about it. It’s disgusting. I’m obsessed with you.”

You gape at him.

Madam Pomfrey appears with a raised brow.

“Veritaserum, I assume?”

You nod numbly. “Yes. And please. Make it stop before he proposes.”

Mattheo places a hand on his chest, gasping. “Do you want me to?! Because I will. I have the ring picked out.”

A/N: missed this trainwreck | mattheo masterlist |

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ can I call her what she is? ⋆⭒˚.⋆

summary: Doyoung has a new girlfriend and she makes it very clear to you and you alone that she doesn't like you. Too bad no one believes you

(cw: f!reader, cursing, side character is a bitch, the guys are idiots, angsty with a happy ending!)

You liked to think you were a likable person. You were kind, you had good manners, you were polite, you were never rude, but now you were starting to rethink it all. Ever since Doyoung's girlfriend, Jane, started hanging around, actually. They hadn't been together long, but she was a strong character so it was no wonder she wormed her way into hanging around with you guys.

It wasn't that she was outright mean, but she was snide and passive aggressive. Only to you it seemed. You really should have been in a better state of mind too, you and fratboy!Jaehyun had been official now for a few weeks now. There was a lot of texting over winter break and a lot of time spent together since school started back up. However, you were still a little iffy about you two being together. Old insecurities hadn't yet been quelled and Jane being a bitch just made you feel worse.

Somehow Jane had finagled her way into a Sunday dinner, an event usually reserved the brothers and their partners. It made sense, but usually partners didn't show up within the first month of dating. Jane and Doyoung had only been together for three weeks from what you understood, and you knew better than anyone that being around this group of guys could be a lot. You'd attended a few times before you and Jaehyun were official and you remember being beyond overwhelmed.

You and Taeyong were in the kitchen, plating up the take out you guys had ordered. The kitchen was loud since everyone was hanging out waiting for the last few people to show up. It was like every other Sunday dinner, loud laughing, lots of talking, and complaining about Johnny being gone, some kind of family emergency.

Doyoung led Jane into the kitchen and you watched as she went around the room and greeted everyone. You exhaled a long breath, watching as she greeted Taeyong with a wave and a smile on her face. You waved at her, smiling, "Hey Jane, it's so good to see you again."

The smile on her face freezes, the smile no longer reaching her eyes, "right, so good to see you too."

The weird feeling you always get around her settles into your stomach as dinner progresses. The guys hang on Jane's every word as she explains some kind of biological chemistry phenomenon. Even you have to admit it's interesting, but then she turns to you. The smile on her face is sweet, but you know that look. She's about to say something rude to you.

She clears her throat as she turns to you, "and I'm sorry, what was your major again? Something with children, right?"

"Yeah, I'm an elementary education major," you nod. Jaehyun smiles as he rubs your back, encouraging this connection between the ladies of Nu Chi Theta.

"Of course you are," Jane nods, "you know, times have changed. Women are more than able to pick something in fields that aren't already overrun by females."

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out and Jane's attention is drawn elsewhere with a smug smirk in your direction. What the fuck was her problem?

The dinner ends not too much later, though you had hoped it would have ended sooner. Jane has gone home, something about chemistry homework or whatever. You stay at the table gnawing on your bottom lip as the guys continue to talk around you. You turn to Jaehyun on your right, your voice low, "do you think Jane is mean to me?"

His brows furrow, "what are you talking about? She's nice to everyone."

You helplessly turn to Haechan who sits on your left. He's always had your back, surely he'll believe you, right? "Do you think Jane is weird with me?"

"Did she say something mean to you?" Haechan asks, you nod sincerely, "I didn't catch that. What did she say?"

"About my major being overrun with females," you explain slowly.

Haechan cocks his head to the side, "well, teaching is a field dominated by women so she wasn't really wrong though was she?"

After that night you start to second guess yourself. Were you overthinking it? Was she not being mean to you? Were you making it all up? Still, you find that you don't attend the Sunday dinners because you know she'll be there. When you can't avoid her, you just get quiet and don't interact as much as you normally would.

Tonight though, you cant avoid it. All your excuses have run out and unfortunately telling Jaehyun your pet chinchilla was sick didn't work. You sit in your usual seat, poking at the food on your plate with a blank look on your face.

You can feel Jane's bitchy energy focused right on you. Great, here comes another blow. She sets her cup down, "so did you help Taeyong make dinner tonight?"

You shake your head, not looking up from your plate, "no."

"No wonder it tastes better," she laughs and to your dismay, the rest of the table bursts out in chuckles too.

"But we usually order take out, so she doesn't cook anyway," you hear Johnny pipe up. You look up, feeling a sense of hope and an immense sense of appreciation for your friend.

It's barely enough to deter Jane. She waves off Johnny's comment with another laugh, "so how long have Sunday dinners been for official partners? I know you and Jaehyun haven't been official for very long, right?"

Jaehyun pipes up, "Since the middle of December, happiest days of my life since then."

The other guys roll their eyes playfully, having heard enough about the two of you to know that they won't miss out on anything as they return to their own conversations. Her brows furrow as she leans in from her seat across from you, "Doyoung mentioned that you two had a think going on for months before, so were you just a booty call? Did you trick him into making it official?"

"Ha, trick me," Jaehyun chuckles. Your brows furrow as you look at him with a look of complete hurt. Did he not hear everything she said?

"And I mean really, besides his good looks, what was so appealing about Jaehyun? He had a reputation for sticking his dick anywhere didn't he? I don't think I'd ever let a man disrespect me the way he disrespected you," she shrugs her shoulders, looking around the table at all the guys who have now gone silent.

Johnny coughs out in shock, "yo, what the fuck, Jane?"

"I'm just being honest," Jane shrugs, "it's not that serious."

"No! It is that serious. No one asked you to be honest about shit that doesn't have the slightest thing to do with you," Johnny counters.

"It's just girl talk John, typical female conversation," Jane rolls her eyes.

"But it's not a conversation when Sweets hasn't even said more than one word. You're being really fucking rude. There's no reason to dredge up old wounds for my friends and make a mess where you're not involved at all," Jonnny argues.

"She also implied that I'm a slut," Jaehyun pipes up.

Johnny holds his open palm out in Jaehyun's direction, "I just watched you let Jane stomp all over your girlfriend and decimate her self esteem, you don't get to be defended right now. You fucking laughed about Jane saying Sweets was just a booty call, bro!"

"Johnny, it's alright..." you offer quietly.

"It's really not though. Is this the first time she's talked to you like this?" Johnny asks.

Beside you Haechan shakes his head softly, "it's not. She made some comments a few weeks ago and Sweets asked us about it."

"And that's why you haven't been coming to the dinners, isn't it?" Johnny asks.

You're barely able to nod before Jaehyun is tugging you into his arms in a tight hug and apologizing profusely right in your ear, "I was such an idiot. I'm so sorry, Sweetheart. I'm always going to listen to whatever you say and agree no matter what."

Johnny clears his throat, "I'm sorry to do this to your girlfriend, Doyoung, but I'm going to have to invoke my power as vice president of this frat and ask that you leave, Jane."

Doyoung chokes on his drink, "have you been telling people you're my girlfriend?"

"Yes, because I said I am," Jane rolls her eyes as she stands.

"You're my lab partner in chemistry that can't tell when she's overstayed her welcome. You heard Johnny, bye," Doyoung waves.

She strides away with a scoff, telling Doyoung she was breaking up with him. Everyone looks around the table awkwardly before Haechan clears his throat, "we owe you an apology Sweets."

The table of frat boys nods, all expressing their words of apology as Jaehyun holds you tightly and presses a kiss to the top of your head. Haechan groans, "well, can I call her what she is without anyone getting offended? She was a mega bitch!"

"Cheers to that," Jaehyun chuckles, raising his cup.

[itoshhi]

𝜗𝜚 sae itoshi | privacy

❕smut mdni, fingering, oral.

going out of town for your boyfriend and his only brother's match wasn't such a bad idea. the arguments between your boyfriend sae and his brother rin had ended a long time ago thanks to you. even to the point of them sharing a room together. actually, it was a mistake...

"sir, i'm so sorry but due to your sudden arrival, there's only one room left in our hotel." you had to do it with the woman at the reception looking at you with a shy look. your boyfriend thought about going to another hotel, after all, you were there and even though he knew that he wouldn't be bothered by your brother, his privacy with you was too important. but this other hotel you were going to stay in for a night was much further away from the match field and now, here you were.

"what's the worst that could happen?" girl...

"sae..." you were now muttering quietly in the double bed of your room with the lights off, while your boyfriend pressed wet and slow kisses to your neck. not too far away, about a few meters away, was rin sleeping in a single bed, and damn, it was hard to be quiet because sae was literally trying to take off your shorts right now.

“what are u doi-“ “shh.” you felt long, bony fingers on your lips, taking your breath away. “relax, okay?”

impossible, when did he take off your shorts? not to mention the fact that you were only in your underwear right now, whispering in your ear quietly, and damn it, with that deep voice of his was not good at all. “you don’t want to wake my brother, do you?”

“look at him,” you felt his lips on your neck again. “isn’t he sleeping so peacefully?” he said, gently holding your chin and tilting your head to the right.

rin’s bed was right there, you could see him even though there was no other source of light other than the air conditioner buttons in the room and the faint light coming from the window. his back was to you, and from what you could tell, his breathing was regular.

“what’s the worst that could happen?” oh, yeah…

feeling the fingers you felt on your lips a few minutes ago inside you now would have made you almost scream and moan, but now you had to be quiet.

“you can have another one,” sae was still speaking in almost his deepest tone. “can’t you?” you couldn’t help but squeeze your eyes shut when you felt the third finger inside you. as if nothing was enough, he kept saying things that would embarrass you.

“is it okay, honey?” you tried to keep your teary eyes open even a little, looking to the right. to check if rin was sleeping.

you had already lost your focus, and your control. sae always used his fingers in the best way. he could make you cum with just his finger, in seconds. but right now, what was really destroying you wasn’t only his fingers.

his fucking tongue.

“mmgh-” your eyes parted as if they were about to pop out of their sockets, the wave of pleasure that engulfed your body almost took you away. “don’t fuckin’ move.” he was slow. he was so fucking slow, you barely cared if you made any noise, but when you did, the noise was much less and it drove you even crazier. “you’ll wake him up.” as if he were giving a fuck.

you covered your mouth with one hand and tried to swallow your voice while the other one tugged at sae’s soft hair. he deserved it when he was turning you on so much, right?

considering your current situation, he wasn’t just giving you pleasure with his fingers and tongue, he was giving you a different kind of pleasure with the adrenaline and tension you were experiencing.

you were back there in a few seconds. heaven.

you heard another raspy whisper as your back arched and goosebumps started to form on your skin. “there it is,” he moved his tongue, which he had already inserted inside you, faster, twisting his finger completely inside you and hitting your sensitive spot exactly. “wasn’t it too fast?”

damn sae itoshi, the kind of person who will make fun of how fast you cum even when he’s delivering you to heaven as fast as possible in a hotel room with his brother sleeping next to you.

what an egoist.

© itoshhi 2025 {do not copy, translate, steal, modify without permission.}

[buck-star]

Hello! if your taking requests maybe angry love confessions #9 with bucky barnes x depressed reader? ☕️🍪

Healing love

Pairing: BestFriend!Bucky Barnes x BestFriend!Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 1.059 Words

Warnings/Tags: best friends to lovers, depression, lots of feelings, Bucky being a sweetheart, love confession, fluff

Authors Note: @iris-xoxo-juhu I put both of these requests together, becuase it kinda fit during writing. So hope you enjoy it. Divider made by me.

Events: Sweet & Spicy Bingo: Winter Edition [Row Three-Three | Love Actually (2003)], Fandom-Free Bingo: Frosty Edition [N3 | Soulmate is best Friend]

Another incoming call from your best friend, his grinning face filling your whole screen, but you turn your phone around. You don't want to feel guilty for ignoring him, but with his face appearing every ten minutes on your screen, you feel the exact way. It's not that you want to ignore him, but you just don't feel like answering anyone right now.

The grey clouds and the pouring rain mirror your feelings and the tears rolling down your wet cheeks.

You sigh quietly, pulling the blanket tighter around you to hide yourself underneath it when you get interrupted by a knock on the door. You roll your eyes, groaning. You remain in your position, not moving an inch; if it's a package, they can also hand it to one of your neighbors, and if it's for you to go over, once you feel mentally like moving wouldn't be the same as climbing a mountain.

The silence gets once more interrupted by a louder knock on the door. You don't get up, though; it feels like the heaviest thing ever lies on you. It’s pressing down until you can't hold on any longer and fall deeper into the darkness you're already in. It might help if you talk to Bucky; he always knows how to help; he knows how it feels when the voices in your mind are too loud — and he knows how to help you to shut them up.

The familiar sound of keys makes you narrow your eyes; the only two people who have a key to your apartment are you and Buck—

“Baby doll, are you home, baby doll? I'm fucking worried,” Bucky's voice echoes through the rooms. You shut your eyes, curling further under your blanket. He just called you; how is he already in your apartment? His voice is thick with emotions; you can even hear the tears he's swallowing down.

You were sitting enough nights together, where you comforted him after his nightmares. You can hear almost every emotion in the tone of his voice without having to look at him. It’s actually pretty useful, except right now, where it makes you feel even more guilty.

“Fuck, baby doll. I called you; I’m fuckin’ worried,” Bucky says, sounding slightly mad but even more worried when he walks into the living room. You haven't moved from the spot since last night — something you often do when your depression gets worse — you even managed to lie there for a long time without even having to move to the toilet. “Why didn't you pick up my calls?”

You don't answer, feeling bad for ignoring him. Bucky seems to sense it, his anger pushed to the side and replaced by the softness that feels like honey. He moves closer to you, sitting down on the couch next to you while placing one of his calloused hands on your side and stroking up and down slowly. The brunette pulls the blanket off your face, his fingers brushing over your soft, wet skin.

“I'm sorry,” you whisper, leaning more into his touch. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to make you angry or cause you to worry, Buck.”

“I know. I know, baby doll, I'm not mad. But I need to know you're safe. Because I care about you, I love you,” he breathes out, his fingers combing through your hair before he leans down and presses his forehead against yours. Bucky’s breath is warm, and you can feel him shaking slightly. “I love you. I can't… I can't risk that you're getting hurt, baby doll.”

“You can't love me.”

“Why can't I?” He chuckles, closing his eyes when he takes a deep breath. “Because I already do, and no one and nothing will stop me from doing it.”

“I'm broken; you shouldn't love me. You shouldn't love me and hurt yourself; you're just about to get better with your own mental health,” you whimper, letting a few more tears free before you curl further around your best friend. “I don't want to hurt you. You mean too much for me to hurt you with my mental health, Buck.”

Bucky chuckles once more, pressing his lips softly against your forehead. “I might be cheesy now, but that's just because of you. But I would prefer breaking over and over again, to pick every piece up and fix it, instead of leaving you. You took my hand and collected all the missing pieces; you helped me put them back together. Baby doll, without you, I wouldn't be who I am now, so you can fuckin’ bet on it that I won't move even an inch away from you.”

“But—” Bucky shakes his head, interrupting you.

“No buts, I love you, and you can't change it. Push me away as much as you want, but you will always be my number one. I won't lose you ever again, so please don't make me lose you, oke?” Bucky whispers, watching you intensely with tears in his eyes. You slowly sit up, wrapping your arms around Bucky, who pulls you immediately into his lap. “I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to be the reason the darkness is replaced by light. Please, let me be the reason to keep going if you feel like you wanna give up.” You smile softly, capturing Bucky's cheeks and nod. He smirks at you, leaning closer until your lips are only a few inches away from yours. “We are in this together. I don't care how broken and how much time we need to fix one another. I only know that you're the only person I want.”

“You can be so cheesy and romantic,” you whisper, leaning closer. Your lips touch his soft, plump ones, and Bucky closes the tiny distance to kiss you. “But I love it, and I love you. And you're not broken, just hurt, but our love will heal those wounds.”

“Same goes for you, baby doll,” he growls against your lips, kissing you once more. “You're fucking sweet, precious, mhm, could kiss you the whole time.” And he does; he doesn't stop peppering kisses all over your skin until you giggle and feel better in his warm, loving embrace — he just knows how to fill your mind with lovely thoughts — with thoughts — of the cheesiness — of Bucky.

Taglist: @rogersbarber @loki-laufeyson68 @etherealdisneyvillainness @winterschildren8 @rnurse-kole @kimmie113080 @sergeantbarnessdoll @sebastianstanisahotmf @mercurial-chuckles @holylulusworld @randomawesomeperson102 @looking1016 @multiversefanfics @kpopgirlbtssvt @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @alexxavicry @gremlin-girly @grilledcheesewithjalapeno @unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men @irisk12 @lilyalone @thenameswinter99 @iris-xoxo-juhu @fckedupandbeautiful @hisredheadedgoddess28 @princesscore-angel @casa-boiardi @blackhawkfanatic @mrsalexstan @thesarcasmqueen-22 @bamitzzsam @feynightlight @ethanhoewke @kandis-mom @peachy-satan00 @armystay89 @queen-honeybee-stories @p1nkgirly333

[deansotherwife]

mutually assured destruction | dean winchester

[ summary ] you always knew the tension between you and dean would reach the breaking point...you just didn't think it would be because of a busted a/c unit

[ content warnings ] 18+ mdni, nsfw, explicit sexual content, one bed trope (kinda), age gap (reader early 20's + dean mid 30's), mutual pining, mutual masturbation, dean has a dirty mouth (i'm not sorry), a pinch of possessiveness + if i missed any pls lmk!

[ word count ] 2.2k

[ author's note ] hi hi! this is the first fic that i've actually sat down and written (also the first time i've written creatively for about 5 years) so kindness and constructive criticism are much appreciated!! enjoy!

📍twin lakes, wisconsin — ⏰ 12:07 am 

You'd thought tonight was gonna be easy.

Hot water. A working TV. Two beds. Clean ones. With no mysterious stains. It feels like a luxury resort after the week you've just had.

Until the A/C unit kicks on. And refuses to stop.

You try to tough it out, pulling on a hoodie and tucking the thin motel blankets around you. But the damn thing is relentless—humming and wheezing like it's on its last leg, but refusing to die—blasting cold air directly at your bed.

Across the room, Dean sprawls out with a low sigh, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting lazily over his stomach. His eyes closed, looking so relaxed, like sleep is already pulling him under.

"You gonna make it over there, Frosty?" he teases, not even opening his eyes.

You glare, pulling your knees up to your chest. "I hate you."

"Mhm," he smirks, low and amused.

Ten minutes later, he's apparently let you suffer long enough. "M'kay, c'mon," he mumbles, patting the space next to him like he's not giving you a choice. "'M tired'a hearin' your teeth chatter."

You don't hesitate, no teasing, no smartass remark, not even a sigh.

Sliding under the covers beside him, you instantly feel your shoulders relax as his heat seeps into you. His body heat is unreal—like lying next to a furnace. You squeeze in close, arms tucked between your chest and his, your cheek resting against the soft cotton of his shirt.

He exhales, his body settling against yours like it always does, his arm coming around your waist automatically, fingers tracing softly up and down your spine. Casual. Familiar.

"You warm enough now, or you wanna get closer?" he teases softly.

"Shut it," you mumble drowsily.

⏰ 4:05 am

The sound of a car door slamming somewhere outside rouses you. Faint, muffled, but loud enough to pull you from your blissful slumber.

What isn't faint is the heavy weight of Dean's arm—still around your waist—anchoring you to him, or the fact that your arms have shifted to rest around his neck, or the way his thigh presses firmly between yours, his hips flush against you.

This isn't new. Sharing a bed with him, ending up like this. It's familiar—comfortable, even. A habit created over time, born out of necessity.

But what is new? The hard, unmistakable pressure of him against your belly, insistent and impossible to ignore, making your pulse quicken.

Your breath catches, the last remnants of sleep dissolving as your senses heighten from the realization you've just made. Your eyes dart up to his face and find his eyes still closed. His features look younger, almost boyish, if it weren't for the stubble, with sleep. His breathing changes, just barely.

Clearly having sensed your movements, his voice is low, rough with exhaustion when he speaks. Barely more than a murmur against your hairline. "Relax." 

His hand squeezes your waist, urging you to follow his quiet command. To release the tension in your muscles.

"It's not about you. It'll go away. Go back to sleep."

You want to scoff. Like that's gonna happen.

Because now? Now, you're wide awake. Hyper-aware of every inch of your body that touches his. The way his hand holds your waist like he has every right to. Like he's done it his whole life. Like he'll continue to do it for the rest of it. The way his thigh stays perfectly slotted between yours. Like it's begging you to move against it, the subtle pressure sparking a heat that shouldn't be settling between your legs. And his hard-on, still firm against your stomach. Like it's daring you to do something you've only ever let yourself fantasize about.

Because that ache that's building? It's telling you that you want it to be about you.

Your heart rate increases again. Not from nerves—not really. From want. From need.

You shift slightly.

He grunts. Fingers flexing into your hip, urging you to stay still.

"Don't," he mutters, voice still low and gravelly. Authoritative.

But the way he holds your hip betrays him—tight, possessive, like he needs you to do it again.

You swallow hard, daring to look back up at his face. Your eyes meet his in the dim light of the room.

"Not unless you're ready to cross a line," he adds, voice hushed, as though he's confessing something he can never take back.

That makes you pause—but not because you're unsure. It's because you know exactly what you're about to do.

"You mean, like... this line?" you tease, voice laced with a playful challenge, trying to hide the nervous flutter in your chest. You tilt your head, watching him with a daring look.

You let your hips grind down, ever so slightly, on his thigh—testing the waters. Finding the friction your body has been craving since you heard that damn car door.

Dean's eyes never leave yours, and the air between you thickens—charged with heat, like the space around you finally feels too small. His body tenses, his jaw tightening as he looks down at you, but his lips quirk up in that familiar, cocky grin.

"Yeah… that one," he says, voice thick with approval. And what sounds a lot like restraint. 

You let your hips grind down again, a little more forcefully this time, your body craving more of that friction. Your heart hammers in your chest as the heat between your legs intensifies.

"Baby," he growls. "If you do that again," he mutters slowly, barely audible, his voice tight with barely contained desire. His hand flexes on your hip again, a warning in the action, like he's holding back. "You'd better be serious."

You don't respond verbally, but your hips move again—slower. More deliberate. His thigh shifts, pressing up between your legs, giving you more to grind against. Your eyes find his again, and you give him the tiniest of nods.

Dean's breath hitches, and he adjusts his grip on your waist, holding you steady as you grind against him. His eyes narrow, but the smirk on his face never fades. "Yeah? That what you want?" he asks, somewhere between a tease and a dare.

A quiet "mhm" slips from your lips, soft but eager.

"Then do it again," he encourages, his hand hooking under your knee, pulling your leg to hitch further over his hip. "Make yourself feel good."

"Dean," you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

"I've got you," he assures you. "Show me how you wanna be touched, sweetheart," he coaxes, his voice dropping lower. 

Your eyes meet his, unsure if you heard him correctly, but your body follows his command without question. You slide your hand down his chest, your palm skimming over the warmth seeping from beneath his shirt before it lowers to your own body. Slowly, purposefully, you trace the curve of your waist, your fingers lingering before slipping under the waistband of your panties.

You don't look at him as you do it. Your focus on the rush of heat pooling between your legs. The second your fingers graze your clit, you gasp—a sharp, needy little whimper escaping your lips. You meet his eyes for a split second, and it's like looking into a storm. Dark, ravenous, and electric. Drinking in every detail of every movement you make.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're doin' so fuckin' perfect, baby. Sound so pretty," he praises. "Lemme see how you like it."

Your fingers move in slow, practiced circles—just like you've done before, to the thought of him. Dean doesn't move or even blink—he just watches you like he's memorizing every flick of your wrist, every shaky breath that spills from your lips.

"You're so fuckin' pretty like this," he murmurs, voice thick with restraint. "Touchin' yourself for me like a good girl."

Your cheeks flush, but the way he says it—for me—knocks the breath right out of you. It hits you somewhere deep, making that heat between your thighs burn even hotter. You bite your lip, your hips rocking slightly to meet your touch, already aching for more.

"Do it with me," you whisper, breathy, needy, pleading. "Please. Wanna see you."

His jaw clenches. For a second, he doesn't move—like he's deciding if he can handle it. But then his hand slides from your waist down his stomach, slipping into his boxers. His breath catches when he wraps his hand around himself, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he starts to stroke—slow, purposeful, matching the rhythm of your fingers.

"Fuck, honey…" he breathes, his voice unraveling. "You have any fuckin' idea what you do to me?"

You whine in response, your eyes flicking down to the way his hand moves steadily between his legs like he's savoring every sensation.

His dick is thick in his hand, flushed, glistening at the tip, twitching every time he squeezes himself. The sight makes your fingers move faster, rubbing quick circles over your swollen, needy clit, occasionally dipping down to spread your wetness over yourself.

He keeps watching the way your fingers move, eyes dark and hungry. "Just like that, baby," he murmurs, low and hot against your ear. "Doin' so good."

You whimper at the praise; the way his voice only adds to the pleasure.

"You're fuckin' perfect," he praises again, seeing the effect it has on you. His eyes are locked on you like you're the only thing in the universe. "God, I wanna taste you so bad…" he admits, jaw tight. "But seein' you like this? All needy, touchin' yourself while I jerk off to the thought of bein' inside you?"

You moan softly as your body reacts to every word from his mouth, clinging to every filthy word like oxygen.

"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice rough next to your ear, his hand sliding over his cock in long, steady strokes, each one timed to match the rhythm of your fingers. "You'd like that, huh, baby? My mouth on you, makin' you come on my tongue? Or my dick stretchin' you open, fillin' you up 'til you're cryin' for it?"

Your breath hitches, heat pooling between your legs at the thought. The vivid imagery of him doing exactly that has you trembling, your fingers faltering for a moment, your body aching, needing him in a way you can't explain. Your lips part with a quiet gasp as your chest rises and falls.

His lips brush your temple, his voice low and gravelly, as if he can't quite control the words spilling from his mouth. "Thought about it so much," he admits. "Bet you'd be so fuckin' sweet on my tongue," he growls, his voice thick with desire, his breath catching at the thought of it. "Bet I could get you screamin' for me, couldn't I, baby? Fuckin' squirmin' under my mouth while I eat that pretty little pussy like it's the last thing I'll ever taste. Bet I'd have to hold you down. Put an arm across your hips to keep you still, huh?"

You can't help the way your hips jerk forward, desperate for the attention he's teasing you with. "Dean," you whimper.

"Bet you'd make the prettiest fuckin' sounds," he continues, watching the way your body trembles for him. "Soakin' my sheets while I fuck you slow... Bet you'd beg for me to fuck you harder, deeper—until you can't walk, and the only thing you feel is me. Inside and out."

Your back arches, an involuntary gasp spilling from your lips at the thought. You can feel your wetness spreading between your legs, your fingers working faster now, chasing more pleasure, wanting to feel every little thing he's describing. 

You feel yourself slipping, but you're too captivated by the way his hand works over himself, so slow and deliberate—each stroke pulls a soft groan from his lips, the muscles in his forearm flexing with every movement.

"You're gonna come for me, baby," he tells you. "Right fuckin' now. Wanna see what that pretty face looks like when you do."

Your heart pounds in your chest, your body shaking from the pressure, and you nod, unable to form words, your mouth hanging open in desperate anticipation. Each circle your fingers make brings you closer and closer to the edge, your body pleading with you to reach it.

Your thighs clench as the first wave of pleasure washes over you, hot and dizzying, and you let out a faint little moan. Your body tenses, arching into his, your breath coming in shallow gasps as your fingers work you through the intense orgasm. Your legs tremble from the sheer force of the release as your fingers push you closer to the line between pleasure and overstimulation.

"Fuck—baby—that's it, that's fuckin' it—" His voice breaks as he follows, head tipping back with a deep, raw groan that rips from his chest, echoing off the walls—his body shuddering, muscles tensing as his release takes over. His body locks up, muscles straining, veins standing out in his arms as his fist tightens around his cock. You watch, captivated, as his hips jerk, stuttering into his hand, thick ropes of cum spilling hot across his knuckles and stomach, each spasm pulling another helpless sound from his throat.

The way his cock throbs in his grip—uncontrolled, demanding—sends another pulse of heat straight through you. Your body, still humming from your own release, trembles all over again at the sight of him falling apart like that, just for you.

His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and hazy, and he catches you watching him with wide, breathless awe. You're still panting, trying to collect yourself, your skin flushed and tingling.

"Yeah," he breathes, chest still heaving, his body still trembling from the force of his release. "Next time? Just watchin'? Ain't gonna fuckin' cut it."

if you enjoyed, a reblog would be much appreciated!

feedback is always welcome, as are asks/requests!

[muwapsturniolo]

FreshLove For The Fit 2 (rewrite) ˚.🎀༘⋆ C. Sturniolo

"But I do have a proposition for you."

⟢ nothing crazy tbh. mention of boners, nipple piercings and hate from fans.

divider cred @bernardsbendystraws

He fucked up, He fucked up bad.

It only took fans three days to notice his following had gone up on Instagram, the parasocial people looking through the list and trying to see who the new person is. It didn't take long for them to find the new account, immediately blasting it on all socials.

"Chris following a cam girl who wears Fresh Love? Oh, he's a freak!

"No because she's so smart! Let me put on some Fresh Love and get to work!"

Those were just a few of the things that were said in so many words. However, it seemed like on her end, all she was receiving was hate. He went through her comments on Instagram and Twitter; it was brutal, nasty, even a bit scary.

He began to feel bad; after all, this was his fault. He knew how some of his fans were; he knew how much they wanted to 'protect him'. He should have been more careful and avoided following her on Instagram.

He wants to DM her and profusely apologize for any harm he may have caused, but something was holding him back. So instead of messaging her and apologizing, he simply unfollowed her on the app, hoping that would calm everything down.

However, when he got a dm from her on his unrecognizable Twitter account, he knew things were taking a turn.

Your fans are getting a bit crazy in my comments and dm's. You need to tell them to leave me the fuck alone.

Chris's heart drops at the DM, his mouth running dry. There were multiple thoughts running through his head. How did she know this account was his? Would she expose him?

He licks his lips and takes a deep breath before responding, his hands shaky as he types out a message.

I feel like complete shit, i'm so sorry for all of this. Seriously. I should have been more careful with what I was doing.

lmao, i'm just playing with you. I really don't give af about what they are saying. They're just mad you jerked your shit to me, if anything i'm winning in life.

He exhales and closes his eyes reading that she wasn't actually upset with what was currently going on.

Fuck, you had me scared for a second. I've been freaking out about this shit all day. I'm glad you are handling this well though.

I can handle myself very well, thank you very much.

Chris bites his lip as his fingers hesitate over the keyboard, a war raging inside his mind as he debates sending his next response. Eventually he says fuck it, and sends it.

I like the way you handle yourself.

He waits anxiously for a response, worried that he may have overstepped a boundary.

So I take it you like my content then?

Love it actually, was it not obvious?

Chris knew this conversation was taking a turn, and he was curious yet excited to see how far it would go. He stands up from the couch and quickly makes his way to his bedroom, softly closing the door and locking it.

Tell me what you love about it then, I'm curious.

Chris flops down on to his bed, his dick sturring as he thinks about the content he has consumed from her, and what aspects of it he loved.

I think the most obvious thing would be you wearing my brand. That's what made me notice you. I also love the way you sound, the way you try to hold your moans in when you're close, only to let them out in a way that makes my head spin. Don't get me started on your thighs, I could spend all day between them if you let me.

Both adults were staring at their phones with heavy breaths, their hearts beating rapidly in their chests.

Before she could respond to him, Chris sent another message.

What would you say if I wanted you to call me?

I'd tell you to check my prices.

Chris immediately goes to her account, looking at her pinned post and analyzing the prices. He loads up his Cash App and sends her two hundred dollars, leaving a message saying "ft, wear freshlove" with his phone number attached.

A few minutes later, his phone begins to ring, his thumb quickly hitting the accept button.

It takes a second for both of their screens to load, but when it does, they both suck in a harsh breath.

They looked good.

Chris was wearing a pink hoodie that was making her clench her thighs. It was her favorite color, and she loved seeing it on men. His eyes were low as he remained tired, a toothpick in his mouth, and a silver chain adorning his neck.

She was, in fact, wearing Fresh Love, her pink shirt to be exact. He could tell it was a size too small by the way it hugged her chest, her nipples adorned by piercings peeking through the material.

"Hi," she says softly, her soft voice shocking Chris. He didn't know what he was expecting, but he wasn't expecting his dick to jump at the sound of her voice.

"Hey," Chris responds, his eyes darting all over her body. She smirks softly and lies down on her stomach, kicking her feet up as she begins to speak once again.

"So what did you want to call me for?" Chris finds himself suddenly being shy. How was he supposed to tell her he wanted to call her in hopes she would grab her pink dildo and get off for him and with him? It was so easy to be bold behind a screen, but now that he's technically face to face with her, it's different.

"I don't know..."

"Mmm, I think you do know, you're just too scared to admit it." she taunts, a smirk on her face as she teasingly tilts her head.

Chris doesn't like it.

"I'm not scared to admit anything. I just figured you wouldn't appreciate me demanding you grab that sparkly pink dildo and fuck yourself for me. I was raised to be a gentleman after all." His cocky demanor comes back full throttle, a smirk on his face as he takes the toothpick from his mouth. Despite her brown skin, he could tell she was blushing, the way her eyes looked away from the screen and she bit her lip was a dead giveaway.

"Don't act all shy, you post yourself doing the same things I would be requesting....but I'm not going to have you do that. Not yet at least. I want to get to know you first."

He could see the surprise in her eyes. He figured this was something new to her. She was a cam girl, an OnlyFans girl, she was used to men and possibly women using her, demanding things from her, degrading her.

Chris wasn't really that different; he wanted the same things and was objectifying her the same way as others, but there was something about her that was pulling him in and had him wanting this to be something more than transactional.

The call continues with both chatter and laughter, the two adults getting to know each other better for hours on end. The conversation jumped from topic to topic, jokes being dropped and stories being told.

Suddenly, she decides to ask a question that's been bothering her since the start of the call.

"So why did you send me two hundred when my FaceTime price is only one hundred and thirty?"

"Because I wanted to."

His quick and nonchalant response was surprising and confusing to the girl. She squints as she looks at him through the screen, "But you didn't have to, especially if we didn't even do anything sexual." A devious smirk makes its way across Chris's face.

"Well, I did request that you wear Fresh Love, I think that deserved an extra few dollars....But I do have a proposition for you."

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |15|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Fifteen: Reel Around the Fountain

warnings: physical violence (choking), highly suggestive content (off-screen smut with a build up), psychological trauma and grief, references to pregnancy loss, manipulation, trauma, and references to death.

note(s): you're officially caught up with my wattpad and ao3.

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson @serendippindots

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

One week since your return, and the cabin still feels like hostile territory. Conversation dies when you enter a room. Glances follow your movements, some curious, some wary, some outright hostile. You've become accustomed to the weight of their judgment, have learned to move beneath it like carrying a physical burden.

Natalie is the worst, her anger manifesting in cutting remarks and pointed silences. This morning, as you reach for a cup by the makeshift stove, she deliberately moves it out of your grasp.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says, voice dripping with false sweetness. "Did you want this? Weird, it's almost like objects just disappear sometimes without explanation. Must be confusing."

You say nothing, reaching for a different cup instead. Her metaphor isn't exactly subtle.

"Nothing to say?" Natalie presses, leaning against the counter. "No witty comeback? No explanation for why you let us think you were fucking dead for weeks?"

"Not this morning, Nat," you mutter, pouring yourself water from the pot.

"Not this morning, not yesterday, not the day before." She makes a show of checking an imaginary watch. "When exactly is a good time for you? Should I pencil something in for next month? Or are you planning another wilderness retreat before then?"

You take a deliberate sip of your water, using the moment to gather your patience. "I've already apologized."

"No," Natalie corrects, her voice harder now. "You said 'sorry' once when you first got back. That's not an apology, that's a fucking placeholder."

Before you can respond, Shauna enters the cabin, arms laden with freshly washed clothing. Her eyes flick between you and Natalie, assessing the tension with a single glance.

"Everything okay?" she asks, the question directed at neither of you specifically.

"Peachy," Natalie replies, pushing away from the counter. "Just catching up with our resident ghost. Did you know they can actually speak? Rarely, but she  can."

She brushes past Shauna on her way out, leaving you alone with the one person you've been most diligently avoiding.

The silence between you stretches uncomfortably as Shauna begins sorting the laundry, separating items into neat piles on one of the bunks. You watch her hands—steady, methodical, familiar in their movements. How many times had you seen those same hands sort through supplies, tend wounds, stroke hair away from your face when nightmares pulled you gasping from sleep?

The memory makes something twist in your chest, a sharp ache of longing for what's been lost. Before your departure, after Jackie's death, you and Shauna had become inseparable—grief and guilt binding you together in ways you couldn't articulate. Nights spent huddled for warmth that became something else, something deeper—her fingers tracing circles on your back as you finally surrendered to sleep, your arms around her when sobs would wrack her body in the dark hours before dawn.

Now, she won't even look at you directly.

"Need help?" you offer, gesturing to the clothing.

"I've got it," she replies, voice neutral but distant.

You nod, taking another sip of water to hide your disappointment. "Sure."

She continues working in silence, and you should leave—give her the space she clearly wants—but your feet remain rooted to the spot. There's something almost magnetic about her presence, drawing you in despite the clear boundaries she's established since your return.

"How are you feeling?" The question slips out before you can reconsider it.

Shauna's hands pause briefly over a shirt—Travis's, from the size of it—before resuming their task. "Fine."

"You look..." You hesitate, unsure how to complete the sentence without touching on subjects she's made clear are off-limits. Thinner. Sadder. Different. "...tired."

She glances up then, meeting your eyes for the first time in days. Something flashes across her face—anger? Pain? Longing? It's gone too quickly to identify.

"We're all tired," she says flatly. "It's kind of a prerequisite for being stranded in the wilderness."

The dismissal stings, but you push forward anyway. "Shauna, I—"

"Don't." She cuts you off, her voice suddenly sharp. "Whatever you're about to say, just... don't."

The cabin door opens before you can respond, saving you from whatever ill-advised words might have escaped. Lottie enters, her movements graceful despite the bulky winter clothing she wears. Her eyes find you immediately, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"There you are," she says, as if she's been searching for you specifically. "I was hoping you could help me gather some herbs today. I found a patch growing near the southern clearing, but it's too much for one person to carry."

You glance between Lottie and Shauna, caught in the sudden tension that seems to fill the small space. Shauna's expression has closed off completely, her focus returned to the laundry with almost aggressive intensity.

"Sure," you finally agree, seeing no graceful way to decline. "Just let me grab my jacket."

As you move to retrieve your things from your sleeping area, you catch the look that passes between the two women—Lottie's expression serene but somehow challenging, Shauna's a flash of something that might be irritation, might be jealousy. The exchange lasts only a second, but it settles like a weight in your stomach, a complication you're not equipped to navigate.

Outside, the air is sharp with cold, the sky a brilliant, merciless blue above the skeletal trees. Lottie leads the way into the forest, her steps confident despite the unmarked path. You follow silently, grateful for the physical activity, the chance to escape the stifling atmosphere of the cabin.

"She doesn't like when I talk to you," Lottie says suddenly, without turning around.

The observation catches you off guard. "Who?"

Lottie glances over her shoulder, her smile knowing. "Shauna."

You focus on the uneven ground, careful not to slip on patches of ice hidden beneath the snow. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do." Lottie slows her pace until you're walking beside her. "She watches you when you're not looking. Gets tense whenever I'm near you. It was the same with Jackie."

The casual mention of Jackie's name makes your breath catch. "Don't."

"Don't what? Speak the truth?" Lottie's voice is gentle, almost sympathetic. "Jackie knew it too. Why do you think she was so angry that night? The night she..."

"I said don't," you snap, harsher than intended.

Lottie falls silent, but there's no offense in her expression, only that same eerie patience she's displayed since the crash, as if she's operating on a different timeline than the rest of you, privy to outcomes you can't yet see.

You walk in silence for several minutes, following a path that seems to exist only in Lottie's mind. The forest around you is hushed, dormant, waiting for a spring that feels impossibly distant.

"Here," Lottie finally says, stopping at the edge of a small clearing. She points to a cluster of plants growing improbably through the snow, their leaves dark green against the white backdrop. "Winter herbs. They have properties that help with... dreams."

You kneel beside the plants, recognizing them from Lottie's previous foraging expeditions. "Bad dreams?"

"Dreams can't be categorized that simply," Lottie says, kneeling next to you, close enough that your shoulders touch. "They're messages. Sometimes warnings, sometimes... invitations."

Something in her tone makes you look up, finding her gaze fixed on you with unsettling intensity. "What kind of dreams have you been having, Lottie?"

Her smile deepens, a private amusement playing across her features. "I told you. Dreams about you."

Before you can question her further, her hand comes to rest on yours—a deliberate touch, skin against skin. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through you, a reminder of how long it's been since anyone has touched you with anything resembling gentleness.

"You've been hungry," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not just for food."

You should pull away. Should put distance between yourself and whatever strange energy radiates from Lottie in this moment. Instead, you remain frozen, caught between the desire to retreat and the desperate ache for connection that's been building since your return.

"We should get back," you finally manage, withdrawing your hand with an effort that feels physical.

Lottie allows the retreat, but her eyes never leave your face. "Of course."

You gather the herbs quickly, stuffing them into the makeshift sacks you've brought. The task gives you something to focus on besides Lottie's proximity, the knowing way she watches you, as if seeing beneath your skin to the turmoil beneath.

The walk back to the cabin passes in tense silence, broken only by the crunch of snow beneath your boots and the occasional call of winter birds overhead. By the time the clearing comes into view, you've almost managed to convince yourself you imagined the strange intensity of the moment in the forest.

Then Lottie's hand brushes against yours as she takes some of the herbs from your arms—a touch too deliberate to be accidental, too brief to acknowledge without seeming paranoid. She smiles at your startled glance, then moves ahead toward the cabin, leaving you to follow in her wake.

Inside, the others have gathered for the midday meal—a thin stew that stretches their dwindling supplies, supplemented by whatever protein the morning's hunting has provided. You take your usual place at the edge of the group, aware of Natalie's pointed silence, Van's sympathetic glances, Tai's barely contained disapproval.

Shauna sits across from you, her eyes carefully averted, focused on her bowl with an intensity the watery soup hardly deserves. You try not to stare, but your gaze keeps drifting back to her—to the sharp line of her jaw, the way her hair falls in front of her face when she leans forward, the restless movement of her fingers against the rim of her bowl.

It's pathetic how much you miss her. Miss the quiet conversations in the dark, the way she'd seek out your hand under blankets when the others were talking around the fire, the soft sound of her breathing as she fell asleep beside you. Miss how after Jackie's death, you'd become each other's anchors in a sea of grief and guilt—holding each other through nightmares, whispering confessions too dark for daylight, finding moments of impossible tenderness amid the horror of your situation.

"You're staring," Lottie murmurs beside you, her voice low enough that only you can hear.

You look away quickly, focusing on your own barely-touched meal. "No, I wasn't."

"It's okay," Lottie continues, as if you hadn't denied it. "I understand hunger."

The way she says the word—hunger—makes it sound like something sacred, something primal. You shift uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how close she's sitting, how her knee occasionally brushes against yours beneath the crowded table.

"I'm not hungry," you lie, pushing your bowl away for emphasis.

Lottie's smile suggests she knows exactly what kind of hunger you're denying. "If you say so."

The meal concludes with the usual distribution of afternoon tasks. You volunteer for wood gathering, hoping for some time alone, but Tai assigns you to inventory instead—a deliberate move to keep you within sight of the cabin, you suspect. The others disperse to their duties, leaving you to sort through their meager supplies, counting and recounting items that barely sustain survival.

You're halfway through tallying their dwindling medical supplies when Shauna approaches, her expression unreadable.

"We need to talk," she says without preamble.

Your heart lurches at the words, equal parts hope and dread flooding your system. "Okay."

She gestures toward the door. "Not here."

You follow her outside, past the immediate clearing to a fallen log that's become an unofficial meeting spot when privacy is needed. She sits, leaving enough space beside her that you can join without touching, a calculated distance that speaks volumes.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You watch her profile, the way she chews slightly on her lower lip—a nervous habit you've always found endearing.

"What are you doing with Lottie?" she finally asks, still not looking at you.

The question is not what you expected. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb," Shauna says, an edge to her voice now. "The herbs, the touching, the little private conversations. What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you reply, genuinely confused by her apparent concern. "She asked for help gathering herbs. That's it."

Shauna finally turns to face you, her expression tight with something that might be anger, might be fear. "Lottie isn't... she's not who she was before all this. Talking about dreams and visions and things that—" She breaks off, shaking her head. "Just be careful."

"Careful of what? Lottie's always been a little weird, but she's harmless."

"Is she?" Shauna's voice has dropped nearly to a whisper. "Are you sure about that?"

The question hangs between you, loaded with implications you're not sure you understand. Before you can press for clarification, Shauna continues.

"You left." The words come out flat, accusatory. "After everything—after Jackie, after... after everything else we've been through. You just disappeared."

There it is—the conversation you've been avoiding since your return. "I needed space."

"Space," Shauna repeats, the word dripping with disdain. "So you faked your death? Let us mourn you? Let me think—" She stops abruptly, swallowing whatever she'd been about to say.

"Let you think what?" you press, turning to face her fully.

"Nothing. It doesn't matter now." She starts to stand, but you catch her wrist, an instinctive gesture you immediately regret when she flinches.

"Shauna, please," you say, releasing her immediately. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I was messed up. I couldn't handle being here, seeing you every day, knowing what—"

"Don't," she cuts you off harshly. "Don't pretend this was about Jackie, or about us. This was about you being a coward."

The accusation lands like a physical blow. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" Shauna laughs, a brittle sound that bears no resemblance to happiness. "Was it fair to make me think you were dead? To leave your blood on Jackie's jacket where we would find it? Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

"I wasn't thinking clearly," you admit, the closest you've come to a genuine explanation since your return.

"Clearly," she agrees coldly. "And now what? You're back, you're saying nothing about where you've been or what you did, and suddenly you're spending all your time with Lottie of all people?"

There's something in her tone—possessiveness? Jealousy?—that makes your pulse quicken. "I told you, she asked for help. It's not like I'm seeking her out."

"No?" Shauna's eyes narrow. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're replacing one fucked-up relationship with another."

The implication sends a flash of anger through you. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you have a pattern," Shauna says, her voice rising slightly. "Jackie, me, now Lottie. You just can't help yourself, can you? Always gravitating toward whatever's most likely to blow up in your face."

"That's bullshit," you snap, standing now too. "Jackie and I were—that was different. And you and I were never—we didn't—"

"Didn't what?" Shauna challenges, stepping closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, close enough to smell the pine soap she uses to wash her hair. "Didn't hold each other every night? Didn't whisper things we'd never tell anyone else? Didn't cross every line except the one we were both too scared to acknowledge?"

Her words leave you breathless, confronting truths you've kept buried beneath grief and guilt and the consuming task of survival. "Shauna..."

"And then you left," she continues, relentless now that the dam has broken. "After everything we shared, after I told you about the baby, about my fears, after I held you through your nightmares and you promised—you promised—you wouldn't leave me alone out here. You just disappeared."

"I'm sorry," you repeat, the words woefully inadequate against the tide of her anger.

"Sorry doesn't bring back the weeks I spent thinking you were dead," Shauna says, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "It doesn't erase the nightmares. It doesn't change the fact that when I needed you most, you weren't there."

The accusation hangs between you, heavy with unstated losses. You think of her pregnant belly, now flat again, the question you've been afraid to ask.

"What happened to the baby?" you finally manage, your voice barely audible.

Shauna steps back as if struck, her expression shuttering completely. "You don't get to ask me that. Not now. Not after—" She shakes her head, arms wrapping around her middle in a protective gesture that makes your heart ache. "Stay away from me. And for god's sake, be careful with Lottie."

She turns and walks away before you can respond, her posture rigid with anger or pain or both. You watch her go, the distance between you widening with each step, a chasm of your own creation.

You remain by the fallen log long after Shauna has disappeared back into the cabin, trying to process the confrontation, the revelations it contained. The admission that what existed between you wasn't just grief or convenience or the desperate need for human contact in the face of tragedy—it was something deeper, something neither of you had been brave enough to name.

And now it's broken, possibly beyond repair.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls you from your thoughts. You look up, expecting—hoping, perhaps—to see Shauna returning. Instead, Lottie emerges from between the trees, her expression serene as always.

"I saw her come back alone," she says by way of explanation. "Thought you might want company."

"I don't," you reply, harsher than intended.

If Lottie is offended by your tone, she doesn't show it. Instead, she sits beside you on the log, closer than Shauna had, her thigh pressing against yours despite the ample space available.

"She's angry," Lottie observes, her voice light. "But anger isn't the opposite of love. It's just another form of it."

"Don't," you warn, echoing your earlier response to her mentions of Jackie. "I'm not in the mood for cryptic bullshit right now."

"Not cryptic," Lottie corrects gently. "Just true. Shauna loves you. Has since before. Will after."

"Before what? After what?" You turn to face her, frustration building. "Can you, for once, just say what you mean instead of playing mystic?"

Lottie studies you for a moment, head tilted slightly. "Before the crash. After you leave this place." She gestures to the wilderness around you. "Time isn't linear here. I've seen it—how threads connect, overlap, double back. Your threads and Shauna's are... entangled. Always have been."

"You don't know what you're talking about," you mutter, but there's less conviction in your voice now.

"I do," Lottie insists, her hand finding yours on the log between you. "Just as I know about the hunger. The emptiness inside you that nothing seems to fill."

Your head snaps up at that, meeting her gaze with shock. Those were your exact thoughts during your self-imposed exile, words you've never spoken aloud to anyone.

"You—"

"I told you," she says simply. "I dream about you."

Something cold slithers down your spine—fear or anticipation, you're not sure which. "What exactly do you dream about, Lottie?"

Her smile deepens, something predatory entering her expression. "This," she says, and before you can react, her free hand is at the back of your neck, pulling you toward her, her lips meeting yours with surprising force.

For a split second, you're too shocked to respond. Then instinct takes over—anger, confusion, and weeks of isolation converging into a surge of adrenaline that has you shoving her away violently. Lottie tumbles backwards off the log, landing in the snow with a soft thud.

"What the fuck?" you demand, standing, fists clenched at your sides.

Lottie makes no move to get up, simply looks up at you from where she's fallen, that same knowing smile playing at her lips. "You're not angry because I kissed you," she says calmly. "You're angry because you wanted me to."

"That's bullshit," you snap, but even as you say it, you're aware of a treacherous heat in your blood, a response your body had no right to have.

"Is it?" Lottie sits up slowly, making no attempt to stand. "You've been starving for weeks. I can see it in the way you watch her, the way you flinch when anyone comes near you. It's eating you alive."

You take a step toward her, fury building at her presumption, her ability to see through defenses you thought impenetrable. "Shut up."

"Make me," she challenges, still seated in the snow, looking up at you with an expression that borders on anticipation.

Something snaps inside you—control, reason, restraint, whatever thin veneer of civilization has survived the months in this wilderness. You move without conscious thought, dropping to your knees in front of her, one hand coming to her throat, pushing her back until she's pinned against the ground.

"Is this what you wanted?" you growl, your face inches from hers, fingers pressing just firmly enough against her windpipe to be felt, not enough to truly restrict her breathing. "Is this what you dreamed about?"

You expect fear, resistance, perhaps even tears. What you don't expect is the slow smile that spreads across Lottie's face, the deliberate way she arches her neck against your grip.

"Yes," she breathes, the word barely audible.                                                                                                           

The admission should repulse you, should make you recoil and retreat. Instead, it ignites something dark and hungry within you, a need that's been growing since Jackie's death, since your isolation, since Shauna's rejection.

Before you can reconsider, your mouth crashes down on hers, the kiss nothing like the gentle exchanges you shared with Jackie, nothing like the hesitant, tender moments with Shauna. This is raw, almost violent, teeth and tongue and desperation.

Lottie responds with equal ferocity, her hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer. You're dimly aware of the cold seeping through your clothes from the snow beneath you, but it's distant, irrelevant against the heat building between your bodies.

When you finally break apart, gasping for breath, Lottie looks up at you with pupils blown wide, lips swollen from your assault. "Take me," she whispers, the command clear despite the breathlessness of her voice.

You should stop. Should pull away, apologize, retreat to the safety of distance and denial. Should remember Shauna's warning about Lottie being different, dangerous perhaps.

Instead, you surrender to the hunger that's been consuming you for weeks—for touch, for connection, for oblivion however briefly it might be found. Your hands move to the fastening of her coat, pushing it open to access the warmth beneath, and Lottie's triumphant smile is the last thing you register before giving yourself over completely to the primal need that's been building inside you since the moment the plane crashed, stranding you all in this wilderness where normal rules and restraints have long since ceased to apply.

In the back of your mind, a voice whispers warning—that this is a mistake, that Lottie is not what she seems, that there will be consequences you can't foresee. But the hunger drowns it out, silences caution and reason alike as you lose yourself in the temporary escape of skin against skin, of pleasure sharp enough to eclipse grief, of connection however fleeting or false it might prove to be.

[thirteenheavens]

Mingyu request where reader has been mean to him all day despite him being such a sweet heart regardless and she starts feeling bad and they have soft sex?🤲🥺

So much better than yelling|| Mingyu

Notes: also can I just say I can’t believe the ice bucket challenge has come back I’m scared fr also enjoy!!

You're still in a bad mood, your anger directed at Mingyu now. His sweetness and gentle touches only seem to make you more frustrated, and you snap at him. "Why are you being so nice to me when I'm clearly in a bad mood?" you ask coldly, crossing your arms. Mingyu's face falls, his expression hurt. "I'm trying to make you feel better," he says quietly. "But I guess I'm just making things worse."

He moves away from you, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back turned. His shoulders slump, and you can see the pout on his face even from behind. You soften slightly at his sad demeanor, feeling a pang of guilt for being mean to him. But your anger still bubbles beneath the surface, and you find yourself speaking harshly again.

"Maybe you should just leave me alone," you say, regretting the words as soon as they leave your mouth. Mingyu's body tenses, and for a moment you think he might actually get up and leave. Mingyu turns back to face you, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. "No," he says firmly, though his voice trembles. "I'm not going anywhere." He scoots closer to you, despite your harsh tone. "I know you're upset, but I care about you too much to just walk away."

His pout deepens as he reaches for your hand, holding it tightly in his own. "You can yell at me all you want, but I'm not leaving your side." Despite your anger, you can feel your heart melting at his determination. His sweetness and stubbornness are a deadly combination, and you can't help but feel guilty for being so mean to him.

You look away, unable to meet his eyes as you mutter, "Fine, do whatever you want." Mingyu looks at you with his big puppy eyes, his lower lip quivering slightly. "Please stop being mean to me," he says softly, his voice pleading. "I just want to help you feel better."

His expression is so sincere and vulnerable that it tugs at your heartstrings. You know you've been treating him unfairly, but your anger still simmers just below the surface. You look at him for a long moment, torn between wanting to apologize and holding onto your anger. Finally, you sigh heavily and say, "I'm sorry. I know I've been awful today."

Mingyu's face lights up with a small smile, and he squeezes your hand. "It's okay," he says, his voice gentle. "I forgive you." He leans in and kisses your forehead, wrapping his arms around you in a comforting embrace. Despite everything, you can't help but melt into his warmth and kindness.

Mingyu makes cute kissy faces at you, his pout now replaced by a playful grin. "Give me attention," he whines, giving you his best puppy dog eyes. You can't help but chuckle at his antics, your anger slowly dissipating. "You're such a needy baby," you tease, ruffling his hair affectionately.

He leans in closer, his lips hovering just above yours. "But I'm your needy baby," he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. Unable to resist any longer, you close the distance between you, capturing his lips in a soft kiss. He hums happily against your mouth, wrapping his arms around you to pull you closer.

"See? This is much better than yelling at me," he murmurs between kisses, his hands roaming over your body with renewed confidence. The kiss deepens as Mingyu's hands slide under your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. You can feel his desire growing as he presses against you, his body responding to your touch. He breaks the kiss for a moment, his eyes dark with need. "I want you," he says huskily, his voice low and rough. "I want to make you forget about everything else."

You nod, your earlier anger forgotten as desire takes over. Mingyu pulls off your shirt, revealing your skin to his hungry gaze. He kisses a path down your neck and chest, pausing to tease your nipples with his tongue. His hands work on removing the rest of your clothes, his movements becoming more urgent. As he undresses himself, you can see the evidence of his arousal, his cock already hard and throbbing.

"Let me take care of you," you whisper, your hands running down his chest and abs. "Let me show you how sorry I am." Mingyu's breath hitches as you touch him, his body responding to your words. "Y-you don't have to..." he starts, but you cut him off with a gentle kiss.

"I want to," you insist, pushing him down onto the bed and straddling his waist. "Let me make you feel good." You can see the surprise and desire in his eyes as you take control, your earlier anger now transformed into passion. He grips your hips, watching intently as you grind against him.

"Show me how sorry you are," he says, his voice husky with anticipation. "Show me how much you want me." You position yourself above Mingyu, feeling his hard cock pressing against your entrance. He groans as you tease him, sliding the tip through your folds but not letting him enter just yet.

"Please," he begs, his fingers digging into your hips. "Don't tease me." You smirk down at him, enjoying the way he's falling apart beneath you. "But I like seeing you desperate," you say, circling your hips in a slow, torturous motion.

Mingyu's eyes roll back in his head as you continue to tease him, his body trembling with need. "You're going to be the death of me," he gasps, his hands moving to cup your breasts. Finally, you take pity on him and slowly sink down onto his cock, inch by inch. The feeling of being filled is intense, and you let out a low moan as you adjust to his size.

Mingyu grins up at you, a hint of smugness in his expression despite his desperate state. "Did you forget how big I am, baby?" he asks, his hands moving to grip your thighs. You nod, biting your lip as you adjust to his girth. "I always do," you admit, starting to move slowly on top of him.

He watches you with dark eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "You're so tight," he groans, thrusting up to meet your movements. "So perfect for me." The feeling of him filling you completely is overwhelming, and you lean down to capture his lips in a heated kiss. Your bodies move together in a slow, sensual rhythm, both of you savoring the moment after the earlier tension.

The room is filled with the sounds of soft moans and whispered praises as you and Mingyu make love. His hands roam your body gently, mapping every curve and dip as if committing you to memory. You ride him slowly, savoring the way his cock stretches you open with each thrust. His fingers tangle in your hair as he pulls you down for another kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a tenderness that makes your heart swell.

"I love you," he murmurs against your lips, his eyes full of adoration. "No matter how mad you get, I'll always love you." You smile at his words, feeling a sense of warmth spread through your chest. "I love you too," you whisper back, your movements becoming more urgent as your orgasm builds. "So much." Mingyu's hands grip your hips tighter as he senses your approaching climax, his own body tensing with the need to release. "Cum for me," he urges, his voice low and rough. "Let go."

You lean down to kiss and suck on Mingyu's neck, knowing how sensitive he is there. He lets out a low moan, tilting his head to give you better access. His fingers dig into your back as you continue to mark him, his hips thrusting up faster now. "You're going to leave a mark," he says breathlessly, but there's no protest in his tone.

"Good," you reply, nipping at his earlobe before whispering, "I want everyone to know you're mine." Mingyu's eyes darken at your possessive words, his grip on you tightening. "I am yours," he growls, his hips bucking up harder. "Always." You can feel him getting close, his cock twitching inside you as he struggles to hold back his release. "Let go for me, baby," you encourage, reaching down to rub your clit. "Cum with me."

Mingyu's body tenses as he feels your fingers on your clit, his breathing becoming erratic. "Fuck, I'm so close," he gasps, his eyes squeezing shut. You ride him faster, your movements becoming more frantic as you chase your own release. The feeling of his cock pulsing inside you combined with the sensation of his hands on your body pushes you over the edge.

"Mingyu," you cry out, your orgasm crashing over you in waves. Your body clenches around him, milking his cock as he spills deep inside you. He groans your name, his hips jerking up as he empties himself completely. His arms wrap around you tightly, holding you close as you both come down from your highs.

For a moment, there's only the sound of heavy breathing and the feeling of sweat-slicked skin pressed together. Mingyu presses gentle kisses to your forehead, whispering sweet words of love and devotion. Mingyu continues to hold you close, his cock still inside you as you both bask in the afterglow. He runs his fingers through your hair, his touch gentle and loving.

"That was amazing," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "You always know how to make me feel better." You smile against his chest, feeling content and happy in his arms. "You're the one who makes me forget about everything else," you say, nuzzling closer to him. He chuckles softly, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back. "Well, I'm glad I could help you relax," he says. "But next time, maybe we can avoid the angry part and just skip to the sexy part."

You laugh at his comment, playfully swatting his chest. "You're impossible," you tease, but there's no denying the warmth in your voice. Mingyu grins and pulls you in for another kiss, holding you tight as if he never wants to let go. "Only for you," he whispers against your lips.

[bread--quest]

oh hey! this news finally reached my dash, several months after it happened

yeah so as an update the government is following through on those threats and the head of social security publicly admitted to fucking with maine families ability to register their kids for social security at the hospital specifically out of spite and the state got its funding for free lunches for kids revoked and governor mills said this:

"Let today serve as warning to all states: Maine might be among the first to draw the ire of the Federal government in this way, but we will not be the last."

and like, i get it if you don't care about maine, there's a lot of other shit going on and it's a small state and all, but like. you could be next. might be worth keeping an eye on

also, the state's not backing down: the maine department of education, just yesterday, sent a notice to the U.S. department of education saying they refuse to sign a document saying they have removed DEI programs from schools, because they are already in compliance with federal laws and title VI of the civil rights act and they will not follow federal orders that are not backed by actual law. which i think is pretty fucking badass. and maybe deserves a bit more attention.

the maine attorney general stated "Trans girls are trans girls, and they deserve to play on a team of their identity, which would be a girls team". which is cool

also, by the way, the department of justice's "investigation" into maine's "violation" of title ix? yeah total sham. it only lasted a few days and they didn't actually talk to any state officials. doj investigations are supposed to take months and be, y'know, thorough.

and so like all of this is cool and i'm super proud of maine don't get me wrong. but also. losing federal funding would kind of be a huge deal and being in limbo (we already got a bunch of funding revoked and then sued the usda and then i think got that funding back but i'm not sure???) is scary. maine is not a particularly affluent state and there's a lot of kids who need the support from federal funds.

so, like. sorry for the long post but i just wanted to get more information out there.

TRUMP: The NCAA has complied immediately. That’s good. But I understand Maine — is the governor of Maine here? 

MILLS: Yeah, I’m here.

TRUMP: Are you not gonna comply? 

MILLS: I’m going to comply with state and federal law. 

TRUMP: We are the federal law. You better do it because you’re not gonna get any federal funding at all…

MILLS: I’ll see you in court.

TRUMP: Good, I’ll see you in court. That should be a real easy one. And enjoy your life afterward because you won’t be in elected politics ever again.

Trump threatens to cut off all federal spending to the State of Maine over trans student athletes, and proclaims himself the law, is met with a definite "I'll see you in court" from Democratic Maine Governor Janet Mills.

[swappedandtrapped]

Swapping Research - Part 1

Starting to try and use AI for translations to English. I don't like it, but writing in English is exhausting.

Part 2 here

Marcus Chen gripped the bathroom sink, staring at his reflection in the fluorescent-lit mirror. "Trapezium, trapezoid, scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform…" The naming of hand bones did little to slow his racing heart. Organic chemistry in thirty minutes. Dr. Zhang's infamous molecular mechanisms exam.

The bathroom door banged open. Tyler Reeves filled the doorframe, six-foot-three of basketball glory in team outfit, a crumpled paper in his hand.

"Thought I'd find you in here." Tyler's voice echoed against the tiles. "Pre-exam ritual?"

"I was trying to make sure I remember everything for the exam," Marcus said, straightening and adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "Some of us can't coast through life on jump shots."

Tyler's smile disappeared. He held out the paper: a formal notice from the university. "They said I'm on academic probation. One semester to get my GPA above a 2.0 or I lose my scholarship."

Marcus scanned the notice. "I told you to drop Evolutionary Biology. You needed to start with—"

"Not the point, Marcus." Tyler ran a hand through his too-long hair, his usual confidence replaced by a mild sense of desperation. "I need help. Not tutoring. Something… different."

"I have an exam in 30 minutes, and my med school interview next week. Whatever this is—"

"My cousin Alex," Tyler interrupted, lowering his voice as someone entered a bathroom stall behind them. "She's doing this neuroscience PhD thing. Consciousness… transfer. Temporarily."

Marcus stared at him. "You're describing science fiction."

"It's real. She's been mapping neural pathways, testing it on rats. They're… they're switching brains, Marcus. She needs human subjects." Tyler leaned closer, voice urgent. "Twenty-four hours. That's all. I just need to know what it feels like."

"What what feels like?"

"To have a brain that works right." The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. Tyler glanced around, then continued quieter: "I don't really like to talk about it. I'm dyslexic. Bad. Words swim around, flip backwards. Dad refused to get me tested.

Marcus remembered high school, Tyler recording lectures instead of taking notes, always asking to study together but never reading aloud. The pieces clicked into place.

"Tyler, I'm sorry, but consciousness transfer? It's just not possible."

"It's real. She's proven it. Just twenty-four hours in your body. To read and prepare without feeling like drowning, so I can maybe actually get something into this thick skull" Tyler's eyes held a desperation Marcus had never seen. "Please. I'm out of options."

Marcus thought of his carefully planned week, his interview preparation, his parents' expectations. "This is insane."

"One day. Then everything goes back to normal. I promise.

---

Alex Nguyen's "lab" was a repurposed storage room in the neuroscience department basement, filled with humming equipment that looked cobbled together from different decades. Monitors displayed brain scans in pulsing colors..

"The procedure is non-invasive," Alex explained, her undercut hairstyle severe under the fluorescent lighting. She adjusted electrodes on a strange helmet apparatus. "Consciousness mapping uses quantum entanglement principles to create a temporary neural signature exchange."

Marcus eyed the setup skeptically. "This can't possibly have IRB approval."

Alex's eyes flicked to Tyler, then back to Marcus. "We're in the theoretical testing phase."

"She means 'no,'" Tyler translated.

"The risks are minimal," Alex continued, typing rapidly on a keyboard. "Temporary disorientation, mild synesthesia, possible dream disturbances. The transfer nullifies and reverses naturally after approximately twenty-four hours."

"Has anyone done this before? Human subjects?" Marcus asked.

Alex's slight hesitation told him everything. "You'd be the first complete transfer. But the animal studies are promising. Rats with trained maze behaviors maintained those memories in their new bodies."

"This is crazy," Marcus muttered, but didn't leave. Something in Tyler's desperation had touched him. The vulnerability beneath the confident facade.

"Please. I wouldn't ask if there was another way." Tyler said quietly.

Marcus thought of their childhood: Tyler defending him from bullies in elementary school, the effortless way he navigated social situations that left Marcus paralyzed with anxiety. Maybe he owed him this.

"Twenty-four hours," Marcus said firmly. "Then we switch back, no matter what. I have that interview next week."

Alex gestured them toward two reclined chairs. "You'll be unconscious for approximately thirty minutes during the transfer. When you wake, you'll be in each other's bodies."

As Alex attached electrodes to his temples, Marcus felt panic rising. "Wait. How will we prove this actually worked? That it's not suggestion or—"

"Tell me something only you would know," Alex suggested. "Something you can repeat back afterward."

Marcus thought for a moment, then leaned over to Alex and whispered, "I secretly watch 'RuPaul' when I'm stressed."

Alex grinned. "The drag show? Seriously?"

"Don't judge. Tyler, it's your turn."

Tyler hesitated, then whispered something that made Alex's eyebrows rise.

"Didn't expect that," Alex said. "Ok, now that that's done, are you Ready?" Alex asked, hovering by the switch.

"No," Marcus admitted.

"Do it anyway," Tyler said.

The electricity began as a gentle hum at the base of Marcus's skull, spreading outward. Panic fluttered in his chest as the room blurred. His last thought was a desperate recitation—trapezium, trapezoid, scaphoid, lunate—before darkness pulled him under.

---

Marcues' consciousness returning felt like being yanked from deep water. He gasped, his body feeling impossibly wrong: longer limbs, different center of gravity, a dull ache in the right knee. His stomach heaved, and he barely managed to turn before vomiting on the floor.

"Easy," came Alex's voice. "Disorientation is normal."

Marcus looked up, vision swimming, and felt a primal horror unlike anything he'd experienced. Across the room, his own body was sitting up, looking at its hands with wonder. His face, but not his expressions, not his movements.

"Holy shit," his voice said from his body, Tyler's inflections all wrong in Marcus's mouth. "It worked. It actually worked."

Marcus tried to stand and staggered, unfamiliar muscles responding differently than expected. He reached up to adjust glasses that weren't there, fingers touching unfamiliar features. Tyler's features. His new nose, his soft lips, his beard scruff…

The violation went deeper than he'd imagined. Not just wearing someone else's skin, but inhabiting their flesh completely, feeling their physical pain, seeing through their eyes.

"Twenty-four hours," he managed to say, Tyler's voice emerging from his throat. "Not a minute more."

His own face looked back at him, wearing Tyler's crooked smile. It was real. Marcus wasn't in his own body anymore. And the raw, visceral wrongness of that fact threatened to drown him completely.

[fairestwriting]

Hii!!!!!^^ I hope ur doing well!!

May I req Riddle and Epel with a gn!s/o that plays piano and sometimes plays the piano just for them (if that doesn't make sense I'm sorry I'm actually so horrible at explaining </3)

Have a nice day!! :D

you have a nice day too <3 and don’t worry it totally makes sense!!

𐙚 Riddle Rosehearts

Yeah, his mom was definitely was the type to make him take piano lessons as a little kid… They never really went anywhere, she didn’t want them to — because god forbid Riddle ended up wanting to be a musician or something — and it’s been a long time since his last lesson, but Riddle still holds some feelings for the instrument…

…Which are, basically, just a secret, mild distaste. He doesn’t dislike the way it sounds or anything like that, and it’s not something he mentions to anyone. Especially not to you, right after you reveal to him that you can play with that proud smile on your face. He’s not about to rain on your parade just because he didn’t want to play as a small child.

Riddle is kind of expecting it to feel some type of stressful when you offer to play something for him, he’s remembering the pieces he had to practice all those years ago, over and over again… But as soon as the first few notes come in, he feels the very opposite feeling starts to settle in his chest.

He blinks, watching you as you play. There’s a decent chance he’ll recognize the music, if it’s anything classical, perking up with a soft ”Oh, I didn’t know you could play that one.” Riddle is surprised at himself in how pleasant it feels to talk to you about the music, sharing small comments between stretches of wordless melody. It kind of flusters him, thinking you want to play for him specifically, but it’s overpowered by how comfortable it feels, too.

𐙚 Epel Felmier

Epel never really went anywhere near most musical instruments… Of course it’s not like he doesn’t even know what a piano is or anything like that, but the places he went to for elementary and middle school didn’t really have the budget to get a ton of music equipment…

He knew you played the piano because it came up in one of your conversations. He’s still kind of excited to finally be around more people his age even though it’s been months since he enrolled, so he always ends up asking people about what they do for fun — And he immediately thought of you when he found out one of the Pomefiore dorm’s many practice rooms was a music one.

”So, you said you missed playing the piano, right? I got a surprise for you.” He comes up to you one day, his excitement radiating through his words as he’s already dragging you towards the dorm. He didn’t ask Vil for permission to use it or anything, but… well, there’s no way that just letting you play for a little bit would harm anyone, right? It should be fine.

He hypes you up if you get hesitant over it. Then hypes you up again when your fingers are on the keys. He sits nearby, watching how you jump from one to the other all graceful-looking, he’s really starting to understand why some people go crazy over pianists— His eyes are twinkling with awe, even if you’re just warming up with something simple, even if you end up making a mistake. Ends up always asking you to play when you come over to the dorm… You’re basically the second coming of Mozart to him. Nothing you say will make him change his mind.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Hey its me, The Swayze Dean request anon. In the wise words of SpongeBob..."Mr.Kraaaabssss, I have an ideeaaaa"

Sam who's with someone who doesn't moan/make noise easily. Like he'd get desperate and wear himself out just to hear a whine- ya dig?

Helloooo again Swayze Anon (can I call you Swayze Anon?), thank you for coming back with another delicious ask after your lovely request that turned into The Swayze Method ! ❤️ I appreciate you thinking of both brothers, though. Bless. 🙏

Little spontaneous Sam fic below the cut!

The Highest Note - a mini Sam Winchester fic

CWs: 986 words. Sam's bruised ego. Just a touch of smut. Communication.

Sam Winchester likes to think he doesn't have much of an ego.

He's wrong, of course, but that's beside the point. He keeps it in check, somewhat. Doesn't flinch at low-brow insults. He's long gotten past wanting to be liked and is fine with being tolerated. He's not afraid to ask for help, at least not with some things, such as: "sorry, where do you keep the frozen burritos?" or, "you're right, officer, we were speeding, yes, he'll be careful from now on, have a great day."

But getting you to make certain noises when it's just the two of you? Well, it seems he met his match.

It gnaws at him, and that's what surprises him most. He knows sex is a duet, it's about forging a connection. And if you just happen to be quiet, that should be totally fine. But he's... well, Sam has a few tricks. Probably not the amount his brother has, but stuff that's tried and true. And he knows everyone's different, he knows that, he really does. But what does he have to do to get you to make that sound?

That high, voice-cracking moan. An involuntary whimper. Sam loves these noises in his partners. The knowledge that he's made them check out of their body, has given someone that floating feeling, that factory reset. It's sometimes better than the actual coming, though he's not about to verbalize that to anyone.

And he loves sex with you. The chemistry between you two is unreal. Your kisses are the sweetest he's ever felt. Your touches, God, they undo him. There's just something between you that's right. It's only this thing. He wishes he could just not care. But he does. He just does.

Like now. He's been between your legs for a good long while. He loves it there. The softness of your thighs, the way your adorable toes rub along his side, because you're eager to stay in touch. Your smell, your taste. And he knows what he's doing is working, because the way you twitch and tense he's pretty sure is real.

He looks up at you, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip pressed between teeth. Chest rising and falling as you suck in breath. But not a sound to be heard.

"Just let it out, baby," he says, softly stroking you through the aftershocks. But then your body goes slack, your lip released from its toothy prison, your head rolling to the side. You look beautiful like this, exhausted, elated, and Sam did that. Still, he finds himself suppressing a sigh. Then he crawls up your body, plops down next to you.

You roll towards him, arm going around him as you press your cheek against his chest, hum a little. Sam swallows, then wraps his arm around you too. Gently strokes your hair with his fingers.

"Did you," he asks, feeling insanely self-conscious immediately, embarrassed that he'd ask like this. "Did you like that?"

You turn your head a little, kiss his skin where you can reach it.

"I loved it," you say, voice low. "That was amazing, Sam." Sam chews on the corner of his lip. He shouldn't bring it up, right? The last thing in the world he wants is that you think you're doing something wrong. Just cause he needs his damn ego stroked.

"It's just," he says, taking a strand of your hair, running it between his fingers. "You don't really make, you know, a lot of, I mean, noises, I guess, so I'm just wondering."

Oh, that sounds so much worse than it did in his head. Why couldn't he just say it outright, simply ask, instead has to make it this little game where he pretends he's just casually inquiring.

He's sure he's fucked up, but then you raise your head, look at him and Sam needs to swallow, forces a smile on his face, which probably makes it all worse. You study him, in that unreadable way you have.

"Do you think," you say, voice neutral, but your hand is slowly running along his back, so maybe you're not mad? "Do you think that I don't like what you're doing because I don't scream and moan and, I don't know, holler?"

Sam can't help but huff at that last word.

"No, not at all, just..." he says, then stops. "It, it might have crossed my mind."

You blink up at him, then untangle your arm from him, making Sam's heart drop for a second, but it's only to bring up your hand and brush some of his hair away from his face.

"Sam," you say in that super reasonable tone Sam has come to love so much. "Have you ever considered that you make me feel so good that I just completely lose the function to make any noise?"

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it. Looks at you, trying to read your expression.

"Is that," he says, feeling a tickle of pride inside himself, "is that what it is?" You shrug.

"That," you reply, "and also I just don't make a lot of noises. Always been that way. It has nothing to do with you."

You don't say it unkindly, but Sam still feels dumb. He made this entirely about himself. But of course it's not. He clears his throat.

"I'm sorry," he says, feeling awkward. "I didn't want to make it a thing." To his surprise, you smile softly.

"You didn't," you say. "I mean, I can try being louder. I just can't guarantee, you know." Sam nods quickly.

"Of course," he says. He looks down at you. "Thank you."

You chuckle, and then you're pressing closer to him, your hand wandering from his face down his chest and lower.

"Now," you say as your fingers find him, begin drawing soft circles on him and Sam needs to close his eyes. "Let's see what noises you can make."

Thank you again for the lovely ask, this was so fun! ❤️

[bored-trans-orchidsexual]

Funnily enough, I ALSO hate DnD beyond and have since day 1, but for completely different reasons and overall stand differently on this.

"but it's useful to remember my abilities and spells" Yes, it is... and in no way uniquely. It's more descriptive than an official character sheet, but it has ZERO advantage over a blank sheet of paper or even a notes app, except that the words are all there for you without having to copy anything. and if the goal is to remember... copying things down is a GREAT way to build memory, it's literally a popular exercise for children to study. "there's so much text I can't keep track of it all" It's literally ... the same amount of information. On paper, on an official sheet, on dnd beyond... the app is not some TARDIS that makes the many words, less words. either you have all the info and have to keep track of it or it has less info and we're back to point #1. "but how will my DM see my sheets and keep track of my damage" literally don't fucking worry about it. If you're such a novice to DnD you don't understand how DMs operate, you do not need to worry about it, and if you are in the know... for any DM who *wants* to track your sheets and damage they already are. For my playgroup as the DM I'm practically the only one actually working with the sheets we use, offering reminders and tracking HP, spell slots, ect. Yes the other players are a well but I keep track for myself because I'm RUNNING THE GAME and it's a good idea to be aware of how it's going, it's like the HUD gages of DMing. If a player thinks they have more (or less) HP or spell slots or something, if I voice it's different they don't even question it because they play with me and know I'm tracking every spell, point of damage, ect and will even remind them when they have something situationally useful. Maybe you don't play that way but whatever your way of play, your DM (unless they entirely rely on dnD beyond) will have thier own methods of tracking everything. we have screens for a reason. and my main issue with DnD beyond? it's so RESTRICTIVE. What's stopping me from adding additional skills to be proficient with in DnD? for everything else, *nothing* I can write them in. for dnD Beyond? BZZT this engine wasn't designed to be changed that way. You want to refresh a single feature with a custom item or change how a class feature works in your games? Sorry, that's not how you play dnd, according to this app. yo restore through long resting or spells only, and features are thier official versions, or nothing. For how popular homebrew classes are I'm shocked DnD Beyond was as popular as it was, I literally use word documents I make and edit myself for each player and it works so much better because you aren't arbitrarily limited.

I may not be openly vocal about it but I am a certified dndbeyond hater. Have been since day one. Log the fuck off, cancel your account, and stop paying hasbro rent on your imagination. I'm serious.

"OH but it's so useful to help remember all my character abilities and spells"

No it's not. You've only been tricked into thinking it's easy because you're a fucking Ipad baby who's let your brain be sandpapered smooth by corprorate UI design. The moment the wifi cuts out or your app fails to load you're going to forget how to play your character and you're going to eat up precious session time looking it up on your phone.

"but there's so much text, I could never keep track of it all!"

PAPER, motherfucker. Read your abilities and either transcribe them into a word doc to print out or grab a notebook from the dollarstore. Writing them out this way will not only keep them on hand but help you learn how they work in the first place. Doodle in the margins, apply cute stickers, and spill things on them like god intended.

"But how will my DM be able to see my stats and track my damage?"

Why the fuck does your DM need to manage your character sheet? That's your job. Keeping track of your abilities and doing minor math is part of the fun of the game, and the moment you let a computer do the gruntwork you've put up another barrier between you and the character you've created.

Don't even get me started on people who pay for digital dice skins when real dice are right there. Real life illustration of Plato's cave.

[dreamer2503]

Finally, after almost two years, I found what really works for me.

I finally learned and understood what truly helps me manifest everything I want. I'm sharing this because it might help someone who is in the same situation I was in—until yesterday. So, here’s my story with manifestation.

First, during the pandemic, I was a Law of Attraction girl. I tried a lot of methods and techniques, stayed positive every second of the day, but nothing seemed to work. I also discovered shifting during that time, so I've known about shifting since 2020. I tried everything, but nothing worked. I had a lucid dream here and there, but never experienced a real shift to a different reality. For a long time, I believed nothing would ever work.

Years later, I discovered non-dualism, which actually made things worse because I didn’t understand it and thought I was failing. Then, I learned about the Law of Assumption, which I felt much more comfortable with and found easier to understand than non-dualism. But again, I tried everything, and nothing seemed to work. I even felt anxious using techniques like robotic affirmations—but I kept doing them over and over.

I realized I was stuck in a very specific cycle: I’d start trying to manifest something, already thinking it would take forever to show up in the 3D—or maybe not show up at all. By the third or fourth day, I’d start to feel demotivated, anxious, frustrated, and sad because I wasn’t seeing results in the 3D.

This week was tough. I felt frustrated with manifestation and shifting again, and I also got a bad grade in college. Out of desperation, I went back to robotic affirmations. But then I stopped. Yesterday, I took a moment to reflect and asked myself: what actually helps me?

That’s when I realized that every time I had manifested something almost instantly, it was because I used just one affirmation and then let it go. I completely forgot about it. That’s how I manifested my brother (yes, I manifested my younger brother), that’s how I manifested my dog, and yesterday, that’s how I manifested a message I had been waiting for.

Now I understand what the bloggers mean when they say it’s only up to you—that YOU are the key. I finally see how unique each of our journeys is. I was so focused on what worked for others that I didn’t even consider what worked for me. I wanted to be like those people who affirm all day and get everything they want, or those who completely ignore the 3D. But in reality, the 3D actually helps me manifest, because it helps me let go—it distracts me, and then the manifestation shows up (like the message I wanted, which came the same day).

So, my advice is: look within. Forget about the techniques, the methods, the meditations. Focus on yourself. Focus on what works for you, on what has worked in the past. That helped me so much. I feel such relief knowing what works for me—I finally know exactly what to do now.

I hope this helps someone out there. Please keep going. Don’t give up. You have so much to do in this universe, and you deserve everything you want.

P.S.: Sorry if anything is still off—English is my second language.

[saetiate]

augh omega-presenting beta reader you move me. thinking about being almost good enough. wishing it was more obvious that you were a beta so people wouldn't feel deceived. how people have even turned away from dating you once they find out you're not what they thought you were. and then meeting someone who does not care and how they overwhelm you with all that they are