#im obsessed how he learned this pose and then never looked back like he became one with the kitty ear heart..

[hyunpic]

where the.. where the FUCK is it [the camera]

[billys-hard-grove]

Can you give us more tiny dick Steve? I think I'm obsessed because of your writing. I just love it! It can be short but I need more of your ideas about insecure Steve and full of love Billy. ❤

Aaah, thank you so much for your message @pretendimstraight that im definitely still planning on finishing one day. 

--

Steve had never felt sexy in high school.

Sure, he was nice to look at; he was in shape and he made sure his hair was always on point. Girls ogled him all the time, practically opening their legs for him, for King Steve. And he definitely knew what to do in bed, he knew how to make girls scream out his name in pleasure when he ate them out and he even knew how to do it when they actually had sex. He knew what positions worked for him, positions that made the vagina feel tighter around his less than impressive girth.

He was good at sex, but he never felt sexy. Once they got undressed, he never missed the look of disappointment that flashed over his partner’s face when they eyed his little package. It made him feel inadequate, less than the alpha man he was supposed to be according to the other high school boys. It was that look of disappointment that made him chicken out of auditioning for basketball, even though he was quite good at it in middle school. The same look that made him think twice about using the urinals when there were other people around. His entire high school life was covered in a layer of discomfort and embarrassment. 

It wasn’t until he was in college, far away from the stifling, close-minded people in Hawkins, that he got to be himself. He joined the drama club and quickly became friends with the right kind of people. He learned that being King Steve wasn’t the only way to be sexy.

He could be sexy the way he wanted to be sexy.

-

‘Stevie! Hey, wait up!’

Steve looked up to see Katie walk up to him. Katie was one of the first friends he made in college, they met at the fresher’s fair where they immediately got along and signed up for drama club together.

‘I got something for you!’ Katie rummaged through her bag before digging up a small bundle of black fabric that she casually tossed over.

Steve unfolded the material and his eyes widened when he realised it was a pair of lacy panties. He could feel his face heating up as he fumbled with the delicate piece of clothing.

‘I uh- I got them on sale, but they don’t fit me and they obviously won’t let me return them. So I thought... I thought you might like them?’ She posed it as a question, but Steve knew she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

He could feel his face heating up as he peeked up at her, but Katie smiled back reassuringly like she knew something he didn’t. And maybe she did because Steve felt the weight of nervous anticipation heavy in his stomach as he stuffed the panties in his pocket.

-

That night he felt it for the first time as he pulled the tiny, lacy panties over his hips. The material slid smoothly over his skin and when he tucked in his cocklet the fabric covered the small bulge perfectly.  A shiver had run over his spine when he had looked at himself in the mirror, the black lace stark against his pale skin. He ran his fingers over the material, his heart beating in his chest as he explored.

For the first time, he had felt truly sexy. His breathing had quickened and he realised he was hard when he ran his fingers over his crotch and felt the familiar stiffness protruding nub. It didn’t take him long to come, rubbing the front of his panties in fast, frantic circles while his other hand ran over his smooth chest, flicking his nipples. He came with a gasp, watching in awe how his cum seeped through the lace, soiling the soft material. And fuck if his reflection didn’t make him feel so fucking hot. He could definitely get used to this look.

-

During the course of his freshman year, Steve became more confident in who he was. He started experimenting with crop tops and high socks, started painting his nails and glossing his lips. He had built up quite a collection of panties and even on his more masculine days, he would always wear a pair. They made him feel cute, sexy.

Over time, Steve could look at himself in the mirror and truly admire what he saw. His tiny dick, tucked away in lace or silk, was no longer something he felt ashamed of. It was a part of him and he quickly came to love the way it bounced up and down between his legs when he rode a guy or the way it slid perfectly between a girl’s lips, slicking it up before he pushed in. It was fucking hot. He was fucking hot.

[bba-sae]

The Painter’s Muse

OMG ANON THANK YOU! I always love getting requests, they’re so fun. I hope you like it anon! Tbh, I never considered writing a Minghao imagine, but I like how it ended up(:

Pairing: Minghao/Reader

Genre: Soulmate!AU

Word Count: 3K

Summary: You’ve sworn you seen the girl in the painting, staring contently at you, you just don’t remember ever posing for the picture centuries before. 

Author’s note: I never really thought of writing a soulmate AU, but I decided that a reincarnation one was the only one that makes sense. I read soulmate AU’s a lot, and I love them, it’s just sometimes things don’t add up. Thats why Minghao’s names are different in his past life times, because I feel like that makes the most sense, also I just FINISHED GOBLIN. Which plays with the same idea and I will forever be obsessed with the grim reaper and sunny. THEY WERE SO DAMN CUTE. Someone hold me, I’m still recovering from the drama. 

You were exploring the numerous corridors of the art museum, the still life that surrounded you brought a sense of serenity and peace of mind. A hand grazed the empty walls, the engraved name plates, the open air in which you would let your fingers trace the outline of each painting from afar. You closed one eye to focus on the pieces, your hand slowly raising, trying to replicate every stroke that fabricated the scenery before you.

Your interest in art always came naturally, an affinity towards paintings manifested in your early years, and you followed it blindly towards an entire education based around the major. It was almost as if you were destined to pursue the world of art. 

The group you had visited the museum with huddled in front of a piece, whispers growing louder as you walked closer. Heads peeked up above the crowd, as if looking out for a certain person. It came to your surprise when the pair of eyes landed on you, another student stepping out of the crowd and raising an arm to point at your figure. 

“You, that’s you.” He proclaimed, his other hand steadily pointing at the painting to the right of him. You tilted your head in confusion, unsure what the exact topic the boy was referring to. He sighed, a groan in frustration really, as he continued, “the girl in this painting, it’s you. It is the spitting image of you.” He said slowly, the group beside him dispersing so you could make your way toward the painting.

You walked closer, the painting still not catching your eyes as you focused more on the student. “The painting? It can’t be, all these paintings are decades, centuries old. There’s no way that it could look that much like me, you guys suck at these things anyways. Just because they have the same skin tone and vaguely similar eyes doesn’t mean they're the same person.” You laughed before continuing, not believing their claims one bit, “That would be im- holy shit thats me.” Your eyes fell on the painting for the first time. Your mouth fell open, as if unable to comprehend the situation at hand. 

There was no way you could look at this painting and not believe the girl in the painting was you. You traced every contour and curve of her face with your eyes, the action feeling brutally familiar to you. In fact, you had done this a thousand times before, whenever you took the time to analyze your own face in the mirror. It was the same, anyway you looked at it. 

“It gets better.” The same student commented, directing your vision to the rest of the walls, adorned with five more paintings, with the same spitting image of you as the subject. “read the name plates.” You nodded, as you walked down the exhibition, reading each and every gold plate beneath the piece. The first four, you discovered, were painted by the same individual, a fact that did not surprise you. It was the last one, a solemn portrait of you, a faint trace of sadness laced within the strokes of paints, in which the artist had surprised you. It was different. A name you had not known but differed from the previous ones before. 

“So what? The second artist must really admire the others work.” You replied with disbelief, shaking your head at the prospect. Another female student spoke up to disagree. 

“That can’t be, I did research, the first painter’s pieces weren’t discovered until the late 20th century and the family who had them kept them locked up before they were found. The last painting was from the later 19th century. There’s no way he would have seen those paintings.” You laughed, because that’s the only thing you could think to do at that point. The coincidence making you nervous. 

“Okay, well people look alike all the time, I must have a doppelgänger from the past.” You tried to argue, only to be shot down once again by the same student.

“No doppelgängers look that similar. None are the exact, spitting image of each other. That just doesn’t happen.” The girl replied, trying to help you understand what was happening. She lifted her phone, a picture of a boy displayed on the screen. “This is the second artist. Apparently, he spent his entire life painting pieces exactly like that one. He said he was the reincarnation of another artist, and he had lost his love. He painted that girl, well, you, even though he had never met her. His peers said they had never seen the girl, he just painted from memories, from his ‘past life’” she put air quotes around the last two words. “Eventually he was locked up because everyone thought he was insane, because he was obsessed with finding you, his soulmate.”

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold on right there. Why do you keep saying me? It’s not like I am that girl. I’m here, in the 21st century, I am not some chick from the past.” You waved your hands in disapproval, feeling a strange surge of anxiety shoot through you. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but a piece of suddenly felt as if it was missing. You felt in your chest, burning through your heart. 

“I’m not saying it’s you completely, I’m saying it’s who you used to be.” She said calmly, as if feeling your nervousness between the few feet that separated the two of you. “Just, look at this portrait of the artist. Maybe it will trigger something in you.” She reached her arm out, holding the phone for you to grab. You walked slowly towards your peer, reaching for the phone and holding it to your face, scared of what might happen.

You knew him. 

But you didn’t.

But oh god did it feel like you did.

Suddenly, the pain in your heart felt stronger than ever. You grasped the skin on your chest, trying to relieve some of the pain. You felt empty, unable to hold back the overwhelming sadness that beat on your insides. You were crying. But why were you crying. You had no idea who this person was, yet you felt like you had just lost the most important person in your life. Your breath became heavier and you felt your body go limp. All at once you were on the floor, students flooding to accompany you. One student held up your body while the female student you spoke to before crouched in front of you, grabbing the phone from you.

“Do you believe in reincarnation, y/n? Soulmates? Fate?”  She looked at you, much more concerned for your wellbeing than to hear your answer. You wiped a tear from your face, trying to steady your breathing as much as you could.

“No.” You said weakly, and quite unconvincingly at that.

“Maybe you should start.” Was all she said in reply.

A week passed since you visited the museum, your peers began treating you like glass, as if you were deathly ill. Everyday, a new student turned to you and quietly whispered to you as if their voice alone would make you shatter into a thousand pieces, “Do you remember?”

You always shook your head in reply because you really didn’t remember. But oh god did you desperately want to. You studied the painter’s face every night since that day, researching every fact about his life and the other artist’s life. Though there wasn’t much about either of them, you took in as much as you could. 

The first artist. Lu Chao. Son of wealthy merchant during early Qing Dynasty. Qing Dynasty: a period in which many Ming loyalists lived in self-enforced retirement. Often lacking access to important collections of old masters, loyalist artists drew inspiration from natural beauty.

Second artist. Li Ming. Born: 1864 Died: 1891. Often wrote stories about what he believed to be his past life, when he was a wealthy merchant and wrote many letters to his lost love. Painted and sketched hundreds of portraits of the same woman, unable to identify. Died in mental asylum from malnourishment in 1891.

He was only 27 when he died- you thought often. For some reason, your heart hurt at that fact. The throbbing feeling had you gasping for air, and a heavy weight on your shoulders seemed to have pressed onto you further. You analyzed a picture of Ming every night, almost going mad at the sight. It’s as if the memories would flood your mind at every moment, and you no longer had to pick apart the details of his face. 

“Do you remember?” A familiar voice peeked your interest. It was the girl from the other day, you had learned her name in the days she prodded at you for answers. Hana. A peculiar girl, far more interest in the idea of reincarnation than you were, that is, until now. 

“No, I don’t.” You said curtly, the routine was blasé by now. Hana shook her head, as if you had the choice to remember or not. 

“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”

“What does that even mean? We don’t even know if that’s actually me! Everyone is just overreacting about everything.” 

She looked at you as if you were the crazy one and crossed her arms in front of her chest, “Impossible. No one starts sobbing at the sight of someone they have absolutely no association to.”

“It could have been heart burn. I’m getting old after all.” That earned a snort from the girl beside you. 

“You and I both know that’s a lie. You felt something, and you still feel something. I can tell, just try a little harder.” Your gaze shifted from Hana to the ground, your entire being feeling empty once again.

“How do I do that.” You replied meekly, earning a sympathetic look from Hana. After all, you were trying, desperately, completely and boldly trying to remember.

Her hand rested on your shoulder, circling the surface in an act of comfort,“Look at the paintings again.” she suggested. You laughed before looking at her. 

“I do. Every night.” 

“No, the real paintings. They’re doing a whole show about it at another art museum, ‘the phenomenon of another life’ is what they’re calling it. They plan on bringing in Li Ming’s other sketches and Lu Chao’s paintings too. It’s a different museum, and it’s a little farther but it might help y-”

“I’m going. When is it?” Hana smiled at you before squeezing your shoulder lightly.

“This weekend.”

The days leading up to the weekend felt slower than they should have. It was only two days, yet they felt more like centuries. You had took the long commute to the museum off a whim that maybe, just maybe you could sort your whole life out. Whole lives out, to be correct. 

The museum was busy, other spectators and fanatics browsed the gallery, amazed at the coincidence. You walked through the corridors, observing each sketch and reading each plate about the artists. Each placard had facts you knew, you had read them a thousand times before. 

It didn’t take long for someone to mention your uncanny similarity to the girl the whole gallery seemed to be based on. In fact, as soon as you were greeted at the door, an employee had paused mid sentence and pointed a finger at your figure.

“Y-you. You’re, you are the girl in the paintings.” The young employee looked amazed, catching the attention of many bystanders Soon, a whole crowd surrounded you, commenting about your appearance. You let out a laugh and smiled at them.

“I believe I’m just confused as you are. Trust me, I’m only a college student, not from the Qing dynasty or 19th century at all.” 

Though you had explained yourself, you had felt the stares wherever you went feeling more uncomfortable the longer you were there. You tried to shrug off the attention, expecting everyone to want answers as much as you did. 

It was further into the gallery, where you were no longer surrounded by painted canvases or messy sketches of your face. Instead, you were surrounded by letters, hundreds of them. The writing scribbled and frantic looking. Each one beginning in the same way; my love, I’ve missed you. 

You walked further, to one letter that rested neatly in a display case. A letter written by the same artist, days before he had died. He had wrote them until his death, relentlessly chasing after the girl he never met, you.  The writing was large, in bold characters. It began like all the others.

My love, I’ve missed you.

I believe I’ll miss you everyday, and everyday after I die, and everyday in my new lifetime if I am not lucky enough to have you again. The people tell me I’m crazy, but I know I’m not. Whatever life I may be cursed in, I will remember you despite the circumstance. You are my love, you are my life, and I will always run to you in every century I am given. I am sorry I could not find you. Any pain or sorrow you shall feel, please give them to me for I only want you to feel the eternal love and happiness the world showered you with in the past life. This is all I can hope for you.

Until the next,

Ming

It hurt. Everything hurt at once. Your hand laid flat against the glass, fingers beginning to curl at the cruel pain that threatened your sanity. You were sobbing, uncontrollably and all you wanted to do was know why. You left your love, and this fact hurt more than ever. He had waited for you, he had remembered you, and you couldn’t. What kind of monster were you that you would forget the man who remember you through lifetimes. You wanted to scream, you wanted to apologize, you wanted him. 

“Tragic, isn’t it?” A voice spoke behind you, you had hoped this is what he said as you couldn’t clearly hear him over your loud sobs. You hadn’t looked up yet when you replied.

“Completely.” Was all you could muster up. The boy behind you paused before introducing himself.

“I’m Minghao.” He said, as if waiting for a reaction. You shrugged off the name, too sad to even listen. You gave him your name, the sound of it making him smile almost instantly.

Your eyes traced the signature, engraving it into your mind to remember forever. For that was all you could do, remember his past now, as if you never forgot. “He must have been furious, she never found him, she forgot all about him, and now there’s nothing left.”

“Well, not quite,” The voice spoke again from behind you, “Maybe he knew he would find her again. The time he was without her, it was temporary, a test from the universe to force them find each other again after a lifetime apart. Of course, he remembered her through all of his lifetimes, but he couldn’t be angry that she didn’t. Fate is cruel, it’s merciless, but in the end it’s beautiful. He knew this fact, he still knows this fact and he definitely still loves her.” Your breath paused, the voice behind seeming louder in your mind than it should have. 

“Still?” 

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” You stood up straight, hands gliding over the glass as you turned. 

The portrait, the face you had memorized, the one you had forgotten, he was there. He was actually there. The boy saluted at you, a smile on his lip despite the tears that were falling down his cheeks. 

It was then, when you looked into his eyes, everything had blasted through you. A gust of memories, swirling around you and invading your mind completely. You had known him, you had seen him, you had loved him. You remembered a son of a wealthy merchant, one who painted you often, one who had smiled at you brightly in the late years of your life. Then you remembered the lifetime after that, memories of the previous life were carried with you yet the face of the man you had loved didn’t quite stick like yours did to his. But you remember his voice, a sweet melody that kept you company in the lonely days of your life. You remembered how sad you remained during that lifetime, hopelessly trying to find something that was a thousand miles away from you. You had died alone, of old age, no family or children to remember you. 

Both of you were crying now, the scene being observed from guests who recognized each of your faces. They knew. They knew exactly what they were witnessing, two lifetimes of love and a third being manifested right before their eyes.

It didn’t take long before one of you moved, you don’t know who but maybe you both came crashing towards each other at the same time. A pair of arms hastily wrapped around your waist, holding you as close to his body as possible. He separated from you for a split second to look at your face, eventually leaving trails of kisses everywhere he could. It was when he kissed your lips when you finally felt complete.

“My love, I’ve missed you.”